The Prize Poem

Some quarter of a century before the period with which this story deals, a rich,
misanthropic young man wanted people to remember him after his death. So he
instituted a prize. A certain portion of his wealth was set aside for the best poem.
The member will be in the sixth Form of St. Austin's college. 

The subject of the poem was to be selected by the Headmaster. And he added, -
one seems to hear him chuckling to himself, - every member of the sixth Form
must compete. Then he died. But the evil that men do, lives after them, and each
year saw a fresh band of unwilling bards goaded to despair by his bequest. 

One or two were capable of writing good poem. But a majority were able to rhyme
'dove' with 'love'.
                              
But changes were brought in the mode of competition. Reynolds of the Remove
was behind it. He was in the infirmary after an attack of German measles. Smith of
the Sixth Form visited him in the hospital.

By Jove' remarked that gentleman, gazing enviously round the sick-room, 'they
seem to do you pretty well here'
                                
'Yes, not bad, is it? Take a seat. Anything been happening lately?
                                
‘Nothing much. I suppose you know we beat the M.C.C. by a wicket? 'Yes, so I
heard Anything else? Prize Poem', said Smith without enthusiasm. He was not a
poet. Reynolds became interested at once. His great ambition was to see himself in
print.
                                
'What's the subject this year?' he asked "The college - of all idiotic things'.
"Couldn't have a better subject for an ode. By Jove, I wish I was in the Sixth'.
                 
Wish I was in the infirmary', said Smith.
                 
Reynolds was struck with an idea. "Look here, Smith', he said, 'if you like I'll do
you a poem, and you can send it up. If it gets the prize______’.
                 
Oh, it won't get the prize, Smith put it eagerly. 'Rogers is sure to knock off the
prize’. 
'If it gets the prize', repeated Reynolds, with harshness, 'You'll have to tell the Old
man all about it. How's this for a beginning?
                                
"Imposing pile, reared up 'midst pleasant grourds,
                 
The scene of many a battle, lost or won,
                 
At cricket or at football; whose red walls
                 
Full many a sun has kissed ere day is done". 'Grand. Couldn't you get in something
about the M.C.C. match? You could make cricket rhyme with wicket'.
                  
Smith sat filled with emotion and delight because of his skill and cleverness, but
the other treated a the suggestion with scorn.
                                  
'Well’, said Smith, 'I must go now. We've got a house - match on. Thanks awfully
about the poem'.
                                  
Left to himself, Reynolds set himself seriously to compose an ode that is to say, he
drew up a chair and table to open window, wrote down the lines he had already
composed and began chewing a pen. 

After a few minutes he wrote another four lines, crossed them out and selected a
fresh piece of paper. He then copied out his four lines again. After seating his pen
to a stump, he jotted down the two words "boys' and joys' at the end of separate
lines. This led him to select a third piece of paper on which he produced a sort of
edition de luxe in his best handwriting, with the title “An Ode to the college' in
printed letters at the top.
                  
The door opened suddenly and violently when he was admiring the effect of his
ode. Mrs. Lee, a lady of advanced years and energtie habits, came in to look after
the needs of the sick - room. 

The result was that what is commonly called 'a through drought' was established.
The air was thick with flying papers. When calm at length succeeded storm, two
editions of 'An ode to the college' were lying on the grass outside.
                                    
Poetry writing was the passion of Reynold's life. He argued with himself, he
remembered all that had written, and could easily write it our again. So, as far as he
was concerned, those three sheets of paper were a finished piece of work.
                                    
Later on in the afternoon, Montegomery of the sixth happened to pass by the
Infirmary. At that time Fate aided by a sudden gust of wind, blew a piece of paper
at him, his eye fell on the words, 'An ode to the college'. Montgomery, like Smith,
was not good at writing poetry. 

He had spent an afternoon trying to compose a poem that would enable him to
participate in the poem competition. But he failed miserably. There were four lines
on the paper. Two more, and it would be a poem, and capable of being entered for
the prize as such. The fragment in his hand began with the words 'imposing pile'.
These words took his fancy immensely. A poetic inspiration seized him. In less
than three hours he added the necessary couplet,
                                    
"How truly sweet it is for such as me
                                    
To gaze on thee"
  
‘And dashed neat, too' he said, with satisfaction, as he threw the manuscript into
his drawer. Then he strolled off to a neighbour's study to borrow a book.
                                  
Two nights afterwards, Morrison, also of the sixth, was enjoying his usual siesta in
his study. A tap at the door roused him. Hastily seizing a dictionary, he assumed
the attitude of the seeker after knowledge and said, 'come in'. It was Evans,
Morrison's fag who entered with pride on his face and a piece of paper in his hand.
                 
'I say, he began, 'you remember you told me to hunt up some tags for the poem.
Will this do? On it were the words:                           
                 
"Imposing pile, reared up 'midst
                             
pleasant grounds,

                                  
The scene of many a battle, lost or won,

                                  
At cricket or at football;
                                                        
 whose red walls.

Full many a sun has kissed ere day is done"

"That's ripping, as far as it goes' said Morrison. I don't believe you made all this up
yourself. Did you?'
                 
"Well", said Evans' I didn't exactly. You see you only told me to get the tags. You
didn't say how'. 'But how did you get hold of this? Whose is it?'
                                
'I don't know. I found it in the field between the pavilion and the infirmary'.
                 
‘Oh well, it doesn't matter much. They're just what I wanted. Thanks. Shut the
door, will you? Whereupon Evans retired and Morrison resumed his siesta at the
point where he had left off. 'Got that poem done yet?' said Smith Reynolds,
pouring out a cup of tea for the invalid on the following Sunday.
                 
‘No, not quite 
                 
'When'll be ready? It's to go tomorrow'.
                                
'Only the first verse is done. But, look here, you aren't keen on getting the prize.
Why not send it only the one verse? It makes fairly a last poem'. 'Hum! Think the
old 'Un'll pass it?" He'll have to. There is nothing in the rules about length. Here it
is if you want it"
                                
"Thanks. I suppose it'll be all right? So long! I must be off'.
                                
The Headmaster, known to the world as the Rev. Arthur James Perceval. M.A., and
to the school as the old 'Un, was sitting at breakfast. He took a sip of coffee.
                 
"My dear, this is a very extraordinary communication. Exceedingly so. Yes, very',
Mr. Perceval said to his wife. "Who is it from?
                 
'It is from Mr. Wells, a great college friend of mine. I submitted to him for the
examination of the poems sent in for the sixth from prize. This is his letter: Dear
Jimmy, The poems to hand. I have them, and am writing this from my sick - fed. 
The doctor tells me I may pull through even yet. The only good performance was
that of Rogers. But the most taking part of the whole programme was afforded by
the three comedians, whose efforts I enclose. You will notice that each begins with
exactly the four lines. There is a reckless daring about it which is simply
fascinating'.
                                    
‘James! How extraordinary'.
                                    
‘Um, yes. I suspect collusion. There can be no doubt. No doubt at all - No'.
                                    
‘Now, for what purpose did I summon you three boys?' asked Mr. Perceval, of
Smith, Montgomery and Morrison in his room after morning school that day.
                                    
'For what purpose?" repeated the Headmaster, fixing Smith with a glittering eye.
                                    
'I will tell you', continued Mr. Perceval. 'It was because I desired information,
which none but you can supply. How comes it that each of your composition for
the poetry prize commences with the same four lines?'. 

The three poets looked one another in speechless astonishment 'Here', he resumed,
`are the three papers. Compare them. Now, - after the inspection was over, - 'What
explanation have you to offer? Smith, are these your lines?'
                                
‘I wrote them, sir'. 

'Are you the author of these lines?'

                                
 'No, sir'.
                                
'Ah! very good, Montgomery?'
                 
'No, sir'.
                                
‘Very good. Then you, Morrison, are exonerated from all blame. The first fruit of
your brain has been plucked by others who toiled not. You can go, Morrison!
                
‘But sir, 
                                
'Well, Morrison?'
                                
'I didn't write them, sir'.
                
'I don't quit understand you, Morrison. You say that you are indebted to another for
these lines. May I ask to whom you are indebted?
                                
'I found them in the field on a piece of paper, sir'. He claimed the discovery
himself. because he thought that Evans might possibly prefer to remain outside this
tangle. So did I, sir. This is from Montgomery.

Mr. Perceval looked bewildered, as indeed he was.

                                
‘And did you, Smith, also find this poem on piece of paper in the field?'
                                
'No sir'.
                                
‘Ah! Then to what circumstances were you indebted for the lines?'
                
'I got Reynolds to do them for me, sir'.

Montgomery spoke. It was near the infirmary that I found the paper, and Reynolds
is in there'.
                                
‘So did I, sir, said Morrison. 'Then am I to understand, Smith, that to gain the prize
you resorted to such underhand means as this?' 'No sir, we agreed that there was no
danger of my getting the prize. If I had got it, I should have told you everything.
Reynolds will tell you that, sir'.
                
Then what object had you in pursuing this deception?'

‘Well, sir, the rules say everyone must send in something, and I can't write poetry
at all, and Reynolds likes it, so I asked him to do it'.
                 
Smith thought that Perceval would get angry. But he did not get angry. Far down in
Mr. Perceval's system lurked a quite sense of humor.
                 
‘You may go', he said, and the three went.
                                
In the next Board Meeting it was decided to alter the rules for the sixth Form
Poetry Prize. Only those students having the poetic gift need compete from thence
onward.