It was at the very next meeting that the President of the club gave the members another Limerick for their consideration. The Limerick was anonymous, but the Re-Echoes were not. Here they are:

THE LIMERICK:

A scholarly person named Finck Went mad in the effort to think Which were graver misplaced, To dip pen in his paste, Or dip his paste-brush in the ink.

OMAR KHAYYAM'S VERSION:

Stay, fellow traveller, let us stop and think, Pause and reflect on the abysmal brink; Say would you rather thrust your pen in paste, Or dip your paste-brush carelessly in ink?

RUDYARD KIPLING'S VERSION:

Here is a theme that is worthy of our cognizance, A theme of great importance and a question for your ken; Would you rather—stop and think well— Dip your paste-brush in your ink-well, Or in your pesky pasting-pot immerse your inky pen?

WALT WHITMAN'S VERSION:

Hail, Camerados! I salute you, Also I salute the sewing-machine, and the flour-barrel, and the feather duster. What is an aborigine, anyhow? I see a paste-pot. Ay, and a well of ink. Well, well! Which shall I do? Ah, the immortal fog! What am I myself But a meteor In a fog?

CHAUCER'S VERSION:

A mayde ther ben, a wordy one and wyse, Who wore a paire of gogles on her eyes. O'er theemes of depest thogt her braine she werked, Nor ever any knoty problemme sherked. Yette when they askt her if she'd rather sinke Her penne in payste, or eke her brushe in inke, "Ah," quo' the canny mayde, "now wit ye wel, I'm wyse enow to know—too wyse to tel."

HENRY JAMES'S VERSION:

She luminously wavered, and I tentatively inferred that she would soon perfectly reconsider her not altogether unobvious course. Furiously, tho' with a tender, ebbing similitude, across her mental consciousness stole a reculmination of all the truths she had ever known concerning, or even remotely relating to, the not easily fathomed qualities of paste and ink. So she stood, focused in an intensity of soul-quivers, and I, all unrelenting, waited, though of a dim uncertainty whether, after all, it might not be only a dubitant problem.

SWINBURNE'S VERSION:

Shall I dip, shall I dip it, Dolores, This luminous paste-brush of thine? Shall I sully its white-breasted glories, Its fair, foam-flecked figure divine? O shall I—abstracted, unheeding— Swish swirling this pen in my haste, And, deaf to thy pitiful pleading, Just jab it in paste?

STEPHEN CRANE'S VERSION:

I stood upon a church spire, A slender, pointed spire, And I saw Ranged in solemn row before me, A paste-pot and an ink-pot. I held in my either hand A pen and a brush. Ay, a pen and a brush. Now this is the strange part; I stood upon a church spire, A slender, pointed spire, Glad, exultant, Because The choice was mine! Ay, mine! As I stood upon a church spire, A slender, pointed spire.

Perhaps one of the most enjoyable occasions was the night when the members of the Re-Echo Club discussed the merits of the classic poem:

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, Had a wife and couldn't keep her; Put her in a pumpkin shell, And there he kept her very well.

In many ways this historic narrative called forth admiration. One must admit Peter's great strength of character, his power of quick decision, and immediate achievement. Some held that his inability to retain the lady's affection in the first place argued a defect in his nature; but remembering the lady's youth and beauty (implied by the spirit of the whole poem), they could only reiterate their appreciation of the way he conquered circumstances, and proved himself master of his fate, and captain of his soul! Truly, the Pumpkin-Eaters must have been a forceful race, able to defend their rights and rule their people.

The Poets at their symposium unanimously felt that the style of the poem, though hardly to be called crude, was a little bare, and they took up with pleasure the somewhat arduous task of rewriting it.

Mr. Ed Poe opined that there was lack of atmosphere, and that the facts of the narrative called for a more impressive setting. He therefore offered:

The skies, they were ashen and sober, The lady was shivering with fear; Her shoulders were shud'ring with fear, On a dark night in dismal October, Of his most Matrimonial Year. It was hard by the cornfield of Auber, In the musty Mud Meadows of Weir, Down by the dank frog-pond of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted cornfield of Weir. Now, his wife had a temper Satanic, And when Peter roamed here with his Soul, Through the corn with his conjugal Soul, He spied a huge pumpkin Titanic, And he popped her right in through a hole. Then solemnly sealed up the hole. And thus Peter Peter has kept her Immured in Mausoleum gloom, A moist, humid, damp sort of gloom. And, though there's no doubt he bewept her, She is still in her yellow-hued tomb, Her unhallowed, Hallowe'en tomb And ever since Peter side-stepped her, He calls her his lost Lulalume, His Pumpkin-entombed Lulalume.

This was received with acclaim, but many objected to the mortuary theory.

Mrs. Robert Browning was sure that Peter's love for his wife, though perhaps that of a primitive man, was of the true Portuguese stamp, and with this view composed the following pleasing Sonnet:

How do I keep thee? Let me count the ways. I bar up every breadth and depth and height My hands can reach, while feeling out of sight For bolts that stick and hasps that will not raise. I keep thee from the public's idle gaze, I keep thee in, by sun or candle light. I keep thee, rude, as women strive for Right. I keep thee boldly, as they seek for praise, I keep thee with more effort than I'd use To keep a dry-goods shop or big hotel. I keep thee with a power I seemed to lose With that last cook. I'll keep thee down the well, Or up the chimney-place! Or if I choose, I shall but keep thee in a Pumpkin shell.

This was, of course, meritorious, though somewhat suggestive of the cave-men, who, we have never been told, were Pumpkin Eaters.

Austin Dobson's version was really more lady-like:

BALLADE OF A PUMPKIN:

Golden-skinned, delicate, bright, Wondrous of texture and hue, Bathed in a soft, sunny light, Pearled with a silvery dew. Fair as a flower to the view, Ripened by summer's soft heat, Basking beneath Heaven's blue,— This is the Pumpkin of Pete. Peter consumed day and night, Pumpkin in pie or in stew; Hinted to Cook that she might Can it for winter use, too. Pumpkin croquettes, not a few, Peter would happily eat; Knowing content would ensue,— This is the Pumpkin of Pete. Everything went along right, Just as all things ought to do; Till Peter,—unfortunate wight,— Married a girl that he knew. Each day he had to pursue His runaway Bride down the street,— So her into prison he threw,— This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

L'ENVOI

Lady, a sad lot, 'tis true, Staying your wandering feet; But 'tis the best place for you,— This is the Pumpkin of Pete.

Like the other women present Dinah Craik felt the pathos of the situation, and gave vent to her feelings in this tender burst of song:

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