Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea
Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes,
And for ten thousand ages, day and night,
The human race should write, and write, and write,
Till all the pens and paper were used up,
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,
Still would the scribblers clustered round its brim
Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.




V

"Dolce, ma non troppo dolce," said the Professor to the Mistress, who was
sweetening his tea. She always sweetens his and mine for us. He has
been attending a series of concerts, and borrowed the form of the
directions to the orchestra. "Sweet, but not too sweet," he said,
translating the Italian for the benefit of any of the company who might
not be linguists or musical experts.

"Do you go to those musical hullabaloos?" called out Number Seven. There
was something very much like rudeness in this question and the tone in
which it was asked. But we are used to the outbursts, and extravagances,
and oddities of Number Seven, and do not take offence at his rough
speeches as we should if any other of the company uttered them.

"If you mean the concerts that have been going on this season, yes, I
do," said the Professor, in a bland, good-humored way.