“That’s very nice,” said King, condescendingly; “go ahead, my boy.”

So Cousin Jack recited this poem: 

    “THE WAYS OF THE WILD

    “There’s nothing quite so nice to do
    As pay a visit to the zoo,
    And see beasts that, at different times,
    Were brought from strange and distant climes. 
    I love to watch the tapirs tape;
    I stand intent, with mouth agape. 
    Then I observe the vipers vipe;
    They’re a most interesting type. 
    I love to see the beavers beave;
    Indeed, you scarcely would believe
    That they can beave so cleverly,
    Almost as well as you or me. 
    And then I pass along, and lo! 
    Panthers are panthing to and fro. 
    And in the next cage I can see
    The badgers badging merrily. 
    Oh, the dear beasties at the zoo,
    What entertaining things they do!”

“That’s fine!” exclaimed Midget.  “I didn’t know we were going to have a real entertainment!”

“Very good, Jacky!” pronounced King.  “I shall mark you ten in declamation.  You’re a good declaimer.  Now, Teddy Maynard, it’s your turn.”

“Mine is real oratory,” declared Mr. Maynard, as he rose from his seat.  “But I find that so many fine oratorical pieces fizzle out after their first lines, that I just pick out the best lines and use them for declamation.  Now, you can see how well my plan works.”

He struck an attitude, bowed to each of his audience separately, cleared his throat impressively, and then began to declaim in a stilted, stagey voice, and with absurd dramatic gestures: 

    “THE ART OF ELOCUTION

    “The noble songs of noble deeds of bravery or glory
    Are much enhanced if they’re declaimed with stirring oratory. 
    I love sonorous words that roll like billows o’er the seas;
    These I recite like Cicero or like Demosthenes.

    “And so, from every poem what is worthy I select;
    I use the phrases I like best, the others I reject;
    And thus, I claim, that I have found the logical solution
    Of difficulties that attend the art of elocution.

    “Whence come these shrieks so wild and shrill?  Across the
        sands o’ Dee? 
    Lo, I will stand at thy right hand and keep the bridge with thee! 
    For this was Tell a hero?  For this did Gessler die? 
    ‘The curse is come upon me!’ said the Spider to the Fly.

    “When Britain first at Heaven’s command said, ’Boatswain,
        do not tarry;
    The despot’s heel is on thy shore, and while ye may, go marry.’ 
    Let dogs delight to bark and bite the British Grenadiers,
    Lars Porsena of Clusium lay dying in Algiers!

    “Old Grimes is dead!  Ring out, wild bells!  And shall Trelawney die? 
    Then twenty thousand Cornishmen are comin’ thro’ the rye! 
    The Blessed Damozel leaned out,—­she was eight years old she said! 
    Lord Lovel stood at his castle gate, whence all but him had fled.