Applause followed the quotation. "The song! the song!" cried others, impatiently. "Composed by himself; mark that, gentlemen," said Mr. Parnassus. "A
brother poet! Hear, hear!" The company then drew themselves eagerly round the table, while our
artist filled the human goblet to the brim, and after taking a sip from
it, stood up, and holding it aloft, sang in a clear rich voice the
following words:--


LINES TO A SKULL. Stern relic of a bygone age,
        What changes hast thou seen ere now? Wert thou a warrior or a sage,
        And did the laurel deck thy brow? Wert of Imperial Cæsar's line,
    Or poet inspired with art divine? Whate'er thou wert in days of old,
        Whate'er the deeds they sing of thee,
      Though ne'er so great and manifold,
        Thy crown as a cup shall serve for me. Here from they soul's deep-vaulted shrine,
    Quaff I the blood of thy native vine. And while it braces every nerve,
        Hail! to Bacchus and Venus, too,
      The gods that thou wert wont to serve,
        In days of yore, to me be true,
    As I lie 'neath the shade of the clustering vine,
    Merrily quaffing the red, red wine. Wast thy hand steeped in blood Achæan,
        Whilst fighting for thy purple land,
      Wert thou patrician or plebeian,
        Or fell thou by th' assassin's hand,
    Did'st thou in arms thy foes outshine,
    Or did thy foe's arm conquer thine? Or in the crowded Colosseum,
        Did'st fall to glut the beasts of prey? Wert thou reared in the athenæum,
        Or were thy haunts among the gay? Now from thy skull on the Palatine,
    I drink to thee and the muses nine. On the banks of the Tiber's yellow tide,
        In the mighty days of ancient Rome,
      Perchance thou ruled'st in all thy pride,
        O'erlooking thy seven-hilled home. Thus I muse as at noonday I recline,
    Quaffing the juice of the Roman vine. Now, peace to thy Manes and farewell,
        This toast to the quiet of thy remains,
      I quaff from out thy hollow shell,
        That once was filled with Roman brains. In the land of the cypress and the pine,
    Some future bard may drink from mine. *       *       *       *       *

At the end of our artist's song he was unanimously cheered by the
members of the club, and highly complimented upon his poetical skill,
especially by Mr. Parnassus, who voted that he should be crowned with
laurel. Mr. Oldstone eagerly seconded the proposal, but McGuilp modestly
declined the honour. However, our worthy host, Jack Hearty, was sent out
once more in the snow to gather laurel for the brow of the new poet
laureate, in spite of our artist's modest protestations. He returned
shortly afterwards with a branch of laurel, off which he first shook the
snow, and then deposited upon the table. Mr. Oldstone quickly converted
it into a wreath, and decreed it should be placed upon the songster's
head by the fair hands of the pretty Helen. The decree was greeted with
cheers, and Helen, blushing deeply and smiling, placed it on the head of
the newly-discovered poet, our artist receiving it on bended knee amid
the cheering of the club. McGuilp having risen from his knees, took his
seat again at the table by the side of our host's pretty daughter, then
rising to his feet and raising the skull aloft, he proposed the
following toast in these words:--

"Gentlemen, I propose the health of the 'Wonder Club,' and that of our
worthy host and his fair daughter, our guest, to be drunk by every
member present solemnly and devoutly from this goblet." More cheering, during which McGuilp took a sip at the funereal chalice,
and then passed it on to his neighbour, who did the same, each member in
his turn sipping and nodding round to the rest. When the skull had been the round of the table, it was then passed on to
our host, who hoped that the company would excuse him, but that his
lips had never yet been contaminated by dead men's bones, and he hoped
they never would be. Persuasions and remonstrances from the members were alike vain, for
neither our host nor his daughter could be persuaded to touch the
sacrilegious relic. In order not to give offence to the company, our host proclaimed his
willingness to drink the toast out of a clean glass. This was at length
agreed to, and the worthy man rose, and in a short bluff speech, thanked
the company present for having drunk his health and that of his
daughter. A clapping of hands followed our host's speech, and then Mr.
Crucible, being the eldest member, returned thanks on the part of the
club. At that moment the hooting of an owl was heard outside. Helen turned
pale, and instinctively drew nearer to our artist. "Why, Helen my girl!" cried the doctor, "how pale you are. What are you
frightened at?" "Do you not hear?" said the girl. "It is the cry of the owl; they say it
is a sign of death in the house." "Come, Helen," said Hardcase, "you must not be superstitious; those
things are all nonsense." "Oh, no, I can assure you----" began the girl, when Mr. Oldstone broke
in. "I say, Mr. Poet Laureate, look how your fair companion trembles at your
side. Cannot you think of some lay that might cheer her spirits and
dispel her fears? Just try." "Well," answered he of the laurel crown, "talking about owls, I once
kept a pet owl myself, that I captured one night in a nook under the
arches of the Colosseum. He was a great favourite of mine, and used to
perch on the top of my easel when I was at work, and watch every
movement I made. I composed an ode to him. If you would like to hear
it----"

"Oh, by all means," promptly answered Oldstone. "In that case, Jack," said McGuilp, addressing our host, "you will
oblige me by getting my mandoline. I mean that musical instrument that
you will find in the corner of my room upstairs, just by way of
accompaniment." Jack Hearty left the room, and returned soon with the instrument. "Ah, now we shall hear some music," said Oldstone rubbing his hands, and
by this time Helen seemed to have forgotten her fears, and her eyes
glistened in anticipation. Our artist then ran his fingers lightly over the instrument by way of
prelude and began the following ditty. ODE TO AN OWL. Grim bird of Pallas old,
    For what purpose yet untold
    Wert thou cast in such a mould? Speak, declare! Though thou utterest not a word
    As thou gazest on the herd,
    I scarce can deem thee bird,
                          Such thy air. There thou stand'st, a ghastly sight,
    Sworn enemy of light,
    Thou ill-omened bird of night,
                          'Neath the moon. The charnel's dusky hue
    Is lovelier to thy view
    Than the clear cerulean blue
                          Of the noon. As my task I daily ply,
    Every movement thou dost spy,
    From my easel perched on high
                          Gazing down. Thou look'st so wondrous wise,
    With those round mysterious eyes. What unearthly glitter lies
                          In thy frown.