“Why, the English ones.”

“Not all of them?”

“W-why yes.  We’re learning all of European Literature this year.  The club gets such a nice magazine, Culture Hints, and we follow its programs.  Last year our subject was Men and Women of the Bible, and next year we’ll probably take up Furnishings and China.  My, it does make a body hustle to keep up with all these new culture subjects, but it is improving.  So will you help us with the discussion today?”

On her way over Carol had decided to use the Thanatopsis as the tool with which to liberalize the town.  She had immediately conceived enormous enthusiasm; she had chanted, “These are the real people.  When the housewives, who bear the burdens, are interested in poetry, it means something.  I’ll work with them—­for them—­anything!”

Her enthusiasm had become watery even before thirteen women resolutely removed their overshoes, sat down meatily, ate peppermints, dusted their fingers, folded their hands, composed their lower thoughts, and invited the naked muse of poetry to deliver her most improving message.  They had greeted Carol affectionately, and she tried to be a daughter to them.  But she felt insecure.  Her chair was out in the open, exposed to their gaze, and it was a hard-slatted, quivery, slippery church-parlor chair, likely to collapse publicly and without warning.  It was impossible to sit on it without folding the hands and listening piously.

She wanted to kick the chair and run.  It would make a magnificent clatter.

She saw that Vida Sherwin was watching her.  She pinched her wrist, as though she were a noisy child in church, and when she was decent and cramped again, she listened.

Mrs. Dawson opened the meeting by sighing, “I’m sure I’m glad to see you all here today, and I understand that the ladies have prepared a number of very interesting papers, this is such an interesting subject, the poets, they have been an inspiration for higher thought, in fact wasn’t it Reverend Benlick who said that some of the poets have been as much an inspiration as a good many of the ministers, and so we shall be glad to hear——­”

The poor lady smiled neuralgically, panted with fright, scrabbled about the small oak table to find her eye-glasses, and continued, “We will first have the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Jenson on the subject ‘Shakespeare and Milton.’”

Mrs. Ole Jenson said that Shakespeare was born in 1564 and died 1616.  He lived in London, England, and in Stratford-on-Avon, which many American tourists loved to visit, a lovely town with many curios and old houses well worth examination.  Many people believed that Shakespeare was the greatest play-wright who ever lived, also a fine poet.  Not much was known about his life, but after all that did not really make so much difference, because they loved to read his numerous plays, several of the best known of which she would now criticize.