Part 2 — AFTER STEPHEN PHILLIPS

Littlé Jack Horner sát in án anglé Meditating. Before we go farther, Please clearly understand this is blank verse. If it reads strangely, and the accent falls In unexpected places, do not dare To criticise. Remember once for all, That I and Milton judge questións like that— Vide my letters to the daily press. As for my critics—wholesale ignorance Were a term far too mild to paint their gross Unintellectuality. So much said, I start again. In a cornér he sat, Remote from comrades. Resolutely his hand Clutched a delicious pie. Anon his thumb From thé pasty depth próduced á curránt. (Excuse another interruption, but Observe the beauty of that ultimate line! With equal ease I might have written it "Produced a currant from the pasty depth," But I—and Milton in his better moments— Prefer to be original.) In his soul The obsession of his own superior virtue Grew and prevailed, till at the last he cried: "I am a Paragon of Excellence!" Happy Jack Horner, thus fully convinced Of his remarkable superiority! And happy readers, who peruse his tale Retold in such magnificent blank verse! Anthony C. Deane.