"Inspiration!" the poet mused, and looked once more abstracted.
Charles dealt again. The poet watched the deal with boiled-fishy
eyes. His thoughts were far away. His lips moved audibly. "Myrtle,
and kirtle, and hurtle," he muttered. "They'll do for three. Then
there's turtle, meaning dove; and that finishes the possible. Laurel
and coral make a very bad rhyme. Try myrtle; don't you think so?"
"Do you stake?" Charles asked, severely, interrupting his reverie.
The poet started. "No, pass," he replied, looking down at his card,
and subsided into muttering. We caught a tremor of his lips again,
and heard something like this: "Not less but more republican than
thou, Half-hearted watcher by the Western sea, After long years I
come to visit thee, And test thy fealty to that maiden vow, That
bound thee in thy budding prime For Freedom's bride--"
"Stake?" Charles interrupted, inquiringly, again.
"Yes, five thousand," the poet answered dreamily, pushing forward
his pile of notes, and never ceasing from his murmur: "For Freedom's
bride to all succeeding time. Succeeding; succeeding; weak word,
succeeding. Couldn't go five dollars on it."
Charles turned his card once more. The poet had won again. Charles
passed over his notes. The poet raked them in with a far-away air,
as one who looks at infinity, and asked if he could borrow a pencil
and paper.
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