"Na," said Jean, sternly.

"Hyacinth," said Jones, sarcastically, "give them your verses, perhaps
that will soften them."

Hyacinth gave his verses, descriptive of herself, to Christie. This
youngster was one of those who mind other people's business.

_Alienis studiis delectatus contempsit suum._

His destiny was to be a bad painter, so he wanted to be an execrable
poet.

All this morning he had been doggreling, when he ought to have been
daubing; and now he will have to sup off a colored print, if he sups at
all.

Christie read, blushed, and put the verses in her bosom.

"Come awa, Custy," said Jean.

"Hets," said Christie, "gie the puir lads twarree oysters, what the waur
will we be?"

So they opened the oysters for them; and Hyacinth the long-haired looked
down on the others with sarcastico-benignant superiority. He had
conducted a sister art to the aid of his brother brushes.

"The poet's empire, all our hearts allow; But doggrel's power was never
known till now."