ASSONDALE

Written by PATIENT NUMBER NINE MILLION, NINE
HUNDRED AND NINETY-NINE THOUSAND NINE
HUNDRED AND NINETY-NINE.

E had reached cell number nine million, nine hundred and
ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight in the
home for addled artists. The warden pressed the key to his

forehead, while a tear teetered off his eyebrows and truckled gently
down the back of his neck. “‘Alas!’’ he whispered, ““T’he poor prune
is yet didding it.
Coyly smirking through the key-hole. I saw patient number nine
million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and
ninety-eight, cavorting around the cell on two fours gibbering and
groaning and now and then gubbering in heart-broken glubs.
“Only one more, if I only had one more, what wouldn't I did!”
Didn’t you would what?” I chirruped synthetically.

Pricking up his eyes he listened in my direction, when snarling a
smirky snarl he leapt at me gnashing his teeth and gurpling, “Rubber
heels! Rubber heels!”

Howling heinously he hauled me through the bars, tying me in three
thousand, seven hundred and seventy-one knots, churcking as he
chewed my ears.

‘Heh! Heh!’”’ snickered the warden as he undone the last knot and
snapped my thirty-third vertebrate into place.

Also yet he is looking for the other thumb tack.

LAMENT

Once Mary had a pencil,
A rubber and some ink,

A canvas and a palette.
Some thumb-tacks too, I think.

A T-square and some set squares,
A note book and some glue.

Ten brushes and a pen knife, -
A box of charcoal too. '

Then, too, she had a drawing board,
Also a dainty smock,

A set of drawing instruments,
A locker—but no lock.

Some mixing pans, some chamois skins,
A quart or so of paint.

‘Where are they now? I ask you.”

‘“‘Where are they now?”’

THEY AIN’T.

[53]