'Count,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
'Mrs. Hunt,' replied the count.
'This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick's, and a poet.'
'Stop,' exclaimed the count, bringing out the tablets once
more. 'Head, potry--chapter, literary friends--name, Snowgrass;
ver good. Introduced to Snowgrass--great poet, friend of Peek
Weeks--by Mrs. Hunt, which wrote other sweet poem--what is
that name?--Fog--Perspiring Fog--ver good--ver good
indeed.' And the count put up his tablets, and with sundry bows
and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that he
had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock
of information.
'Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
'Sound philosopher,' said Mr. Pott.
'Clear-headed, strong-minded person,' added Mr. Snodgrass.
A chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count Smorltork's
praise, shook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried, 'Very!'
As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork's favour ran very high,
his praises might have been sung until the end of the festivities,
if the four something-ean singers had not ranged themselves in
front of a small apple-tree, to look picturesque, and commenced
singing their national songs, which appeared by no means
difficult of execution, inasmuch as the grand secret seemed to be,
that three of the something-ean singers should grunt, while the
fourth howled.
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