Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. ’ Melusine did not forget. It might prove rewarding. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures. Melusine came back to the present to discover that tears were rolling down her cheeks. Only au revoir. “Why, I do not know.
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