The Wallypug in London

“I can’t stop,” we heard him shout; and a moment later he charged straight at a large stone and half a brick which lay in the middle of the roadway.

Poor Wallypug! The sudden impact threw him right over the handle-bars, and he landed in a huddled heap on his hands and knees in the gutter. The machine flew in half, and the front portion careered madly away by itself till stopped by the kerb.

We hurried up to his Majesty to discover if he was much hurt, but, with the exception of a few scratches on his hands and knees and a thorough shaking, he seemed to have come off pretty well.

“I suppose we can’t stick it together again?” he inquired, gazing ruefully at the broken bicycle, and I was obliged to tell him that there was not much chance of our doing so. The boy to whom it belonged bravely made the best of the matter, especially when I told him that the next half-holiday he had I would take him to Holborn to choose another one in its place.

And when I discovered that he had a half-holiday that very afternoon, it was arranged that General Mary Jane should order a carriage at the livery stable, and that we should all drive to the city after luncheon.

The Wallypug, after a good wash and a hearty breakfast, went to his room to lie down for an hour or two to recover from the effects of his accident, and I was just answering my morning letters when there was a knock at the study door, and the Rhymester entered.

“I sat up most of the night writing poetry,” he remarked, “and I have just brought you one or two specimens. The first one is called ‘The Ode of a Toad.’ Perhaps I had better read it to you. My writing is rather peculiar,” and he began as follows:

THE ODE OF A TOADThere was once an old toad who lived under a tree,Hippety hop – Flippety flop,And his head was as bald as bald could be,He was deaf as a post and could hardly see,But a giddy and frivolous toad was he,With his hippety-hoppety-plop.And he gambolled and danced on the village green,Hippety hop – Flippety flop,In a way that had never before been seen,Tho’ he wasn’t so young as once he had been,And the people all wondered whate’er he could mean,With his hippety-hoppety-plop.But the old chap kept bobbing about just the same,Hippety hop – Flippety flop,Till everyone thought he must make himself lame,And not a soul ever could find out his aim,In keeping up such a ridiculous game,As his hippety-hoppety-plop.Some said he was mad, tho’ as mild as a dove,Hippety hop – Flippety flop,And as the result of a push or a shove,Was a little bit cracked in the storey above,But I fancy myself the old boy was in love,With his hippety-hoppety-plop.

“There! What do you think of it?” he asked when he had finished.

“Well, candidly, I’m afraid not very much,” I replied; “and what on earth do you call it an ode for?”

“Why, you see, ode went so well with the word toad. I was going to call it ‘Ode to a Toad,’ but it isn’t to a toad at all, though it’s about a toad. Ah! by the bye, I might call it ‘A Toad’s Ode,’ mightn’t I? I think that sounds very jolly.” He altered the title in pencil.

“I have another which I think you will say is very touching.” And after getting his handkerchief out in case he should be moved to tears, he began:

THE BALLADE OF A BUNDon’t talk to me of “Sally Lunn,”Or toasted tea-cake nice and hot,I do not care for either oneA single solitary jot;My heart is fixed and changeth not,In all the world – whate’er I see,And rich or poor – whate’er my lot —Oh! penny bun, I love but thee.For thy dear sake all cakes I shunSmeared o’er with jam. No apricotOr greengage tart my heart hath won;Their sweetness doth but cloy and clot.What marmalade in fancy potOr cream meringue, though fair it be,Thine image e’er can mar or blot?Oh! penny bun, I love but thee.I vowed to cherish thee, or none(Such love thy simple charms begot),When first I saw thee, precious one;And now to some sweet lonely spot,Some shady dell or mossy grot,Come let us hasten, you and me,And I will eat you like a shot;Oh! penny bun, I love but thee.EnvoySmall boys or girls that homeward trotFrom school in time for early tea,This moral ne’er must be forgot:“Love penny buns, and they’ll love thee.”

“Isn’t it affecting?” he inquired, wiping his eyes when he had finished.

“Well, perhaps I didn’t quite appreciate the pathos of it as I might have done,” I answered, trying hard not to laugh. “You see I was paying so much attention to the scansion. I find that you have altered the refrain in the Envoy. Surely that’s not correct, is it?”

“Oh, you are a great deal too particular,” remarked the Rhymester crossly. “Why, I should think from the Doctor-in-Law’s description of a critic that you must be one.”

“What did he say a critic was?” I asked.

“Why, he said a critic was a person who found fault with another, for not doing what he was unable to do himself. And he charged me fourpence three-farthings for the information, and as I only had fourpence halfpenny I have to pay him the odd farthing when I sell some of my poems. Can you tell me how I can set to work about it?”

“Well, I hardly know,” I replied, “unless you send them to the editors of the various magazines. They may take them, but you must not be disappointed if some of them are rejected. You see they cannot possibly print everything that is sent to them.”

There were several magazines in the study, and I suggested that the Rhymester should make a list of the addresses of the various editors, and he was busy about that till luncheon time.

At half-past two the carriage came to the door, and goodness only knows what General Mary Jane must have told the livery stable people about the Wallypug, for, evidently anxious to send an equipage worthy of royalty, they had painted an enormous monogram in gold on the sides of the carriage, while the coachman was resplendent in blue plush and gold lace, with silk stockings and a powdered wig.

The Wallypug was delighted when he saw this elaborate turn-out, and so were the others, for I overheard One-and-Nine murmuring something about “equipageous grandiosity,” as he climbed up to the seat beside the coachman. When the Wallypug, the Doctor-in-Law, A. Fish, Esq., and the Rhymester, were seated, there was no room left for the boy and myself, so we followed behind in a modest dog-cart, which was hurriedly procured from the livery stable. Many were the wondering glances bestowed upon the carriage, with its somewhat remarkable burden, as we drove along through Kensington to the Gardens. And everywhere our appearance was hailed with enthusiasm, people being evidently under the impression that the Wallypug was one of the royal guests invited to the Jubilee festivities. Who could he be? That was decidedly the question which everyone was asking, and I could not quite determine who was causing the greater sensation, the Wallypug or A. Fish, Esq. These two individuals, however, comported themselves with the calmest dignity, only the Doctor-in-Law seemed flurried by the attention which they attracted, and smiled and bowed right and left, whether the people took any notice of him or not.

As we approached Hyde-Park corner attention was diverted from the Wallypug’s carriage by the fact that another royal equipage had entered the Park gates; and as the Princess passed us, an amused glance and a whispered conversation with the other occupant of the carriage showed that the Wallypug’s extraordinary party had not escaped Her Royal Highness’s attention.

After going once round the Park we went out at the Marble Arch and along Oxford Street to Holborn, our progress through the crowded streets everywhere attracting the most excited interest. And when we stopped before one of the large bicycle depôts in Holborn the crowd around the carriage was so large that the policeman had quite a difficulty in preventing a block in the traffic. Our business was soon transacted, and, having secured an excellent machine for the boy in place of the one which his Majesty had damaged in the morning, we drove back to Kensington without further adventure.

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