MY Bookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set. I was not there — I say it to my very great regret. For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I saw Was followed as implicitly as one obeys the law.
“’ Twill open,” he observed to me, “with quatrains on the half. They go down easy; then for soup”— it really made me laugh — “The poems of old Johnny Gay”— his words were rather rough — “They’ ll do quite well, for, after all, soup’ s thin and sloppy stuff.
“For fish, old Izaak Walton; and to serve as an entrée, I think some fixed-up morsel, say from James, or from Daudet; The roast will be Charles Kingsley — there’ s a deal of beef in him. For sherbet, T. B. Aldrich is just suited to my whim.
“For game I’ ll have Boccaccio — he’ s quite the proper one; He certainly is gamey, and a trifle underdone; And for the salad, Addison, so fresh and crisp is he, With just a touch of Pope to give a tang to him, you see.
“And then for cheese, Max Nordau, for I think you’ ll find right there Some things as strong and mushy as the best of Camembert; And for dessert let Thackeray and O. Khayyám be brought, The which completes a dinner of most wondrous richness fraught.
“For olives and for almonds we can take the jokes of Punch — They’ re good enough for us, I think, to casually munch; And through it all we’ ll quaff the wines that flow forever clear From Avon’ s vineyards in the heart of Will of Warwickshire.”
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