THE POET WHOSE HANDWRITING WAS AWFUL.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 78, 2 April 1932, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE POET WHOSE HANDWRITING WAS AWFUL.

(By NORMAN HUNTER.)

The poet to the Court of Rhymolania wrote awfully badly. In fact, his handwriting was s'o niggly and so difficult to read that the King had to appoint a special page-in-waiting to copy out what he wrote nicely and plainly so that people could read it. That will just show you how bad his writing was. Still poets are special sort of people and .you have to let them write badly if they like. So the Poet of Rhymolania went on writing his poems in worse and positively worse handwriting, so that nobody at all could make out what it was all about except the page-in-waiting, and he had got so used to copying out the poet's bad writing that he could read anything no matter how shockingly squiggly it was. One day the Prime Minister called the Poet to him and said: "Next Saturday will be His Majesty's birthday, and I want you to write an extra nice poem wishing him many happy returns and all that sort of thing." "Yes," said the Poet dreamily, "all right, of course, much oblig. :1, don't mention it," and he went away muttering happy returns, burns, urns, churns and king, ting-a.ling, sing to see what rhymes he could think of. He went away to his Poet's room, dipped his pen by mistake in the cup of cocoa the maid had brought him and wondered why it wouldn't mark very well. "Many liapy returns of the day to Your Majesty," he wrote, but as he couldn't think of a rhyme for majesty, he scratched it out and started again. "To Your Majesty birthday greetings we do send," he wrote, and then stopped and scratched his head. "That doesn't go right unless you say Gree-tings and nobody will know about that," he said, so he scr itched out that bit too, and after a lot more thinking and scratching his head, he drank some of his cocoa, wished it wasn't so hot and i-ribbled down: "Upon your royal birthday we our loyal greetings send," which sounded quite poetry-ish and -exciting only he couldn't for the life of him think how to go on. "Oh dear," he groaned, scribbling Wnggly lines on the paper and throwing the pen down in despair. "I wish I wasn't a ; oet. I'd much rather be an engine-driver or a milkman. They don't have to make things rhyme." And he went out for a walk to see if he could think of a poem that way. While the Poet was going for his walk the Page-in-Waiting came in. "Hm," he said, picking up the paper the Poet had been scribbling on. "This must be the King's Birthday Poem," so he took it away to copy out. And the Page had grown so used to reading the Poet's most awfully squiggly scribbly writing, that do you know what he did? Why he read the poem that the Poet hadn't written! Yes, he read the hits of scribble on the paper and copied out a poem from them. He wrote it out on parchment, he coloured all the capital lettres in red and blue and touched them up with gold, and when he had finished he rolled up the parchment, tied it with silk ribbon and gave it to the Prime Minister.

Soon'it was the King's birthday, and r e me Minister handed the poem to the King with a bow. . "Ta," said His Majesty, and he read it right through.

"Send"for the Ceurt Poet," he commanded, and the Poet who still hadn't been able to think of a poem was brought before the throne ever so nervous and worried and expecting to be punhhed for not doing the poem. "This," said the King, pointing to the poem, "is the best poem I have ever read. Splendid. Delightful. Congratulations." And he made the Poet on the spot. "Well, now did you ever," xid the Poet when he found out what had really happened. And he was so pleased with the Page for copying out the poem he hadn't been able to 1 hink of that he gave him two bright new sixpences and a new scooter, which pleased the Page ever so much.