In the cold, cold parlormy mother laid out Arthurbeneath the chromographs:
Edward,
Prince of Wales,with Princess Alexandra,and King George with Queen Mary.
Below them on the tablestood a stuffed loonshot and stuffed by
Arthur,
Arthur's father.
Since Uncle Arthur fireda bullet into him,he hadn't said a word.
He kept his own counselon his white, frozen lake,the marble-topped table.
His breast was deep and white,cold and caressable;his eyes were red glass,much to be desired."Come," said my mother,"Come and say good-byeto your little cousin Arthur."I was lifted up and givenone lily of the valleyto put in Arthur's hand.
Arthur's coffin wasa little frosted cake,and the red-eyed loon eyed itfrom his white, frozen lake.
Arthur was very small.
He was all white, like a dollthat hadn't been painted yet.
Jack Frost had started to paint himthe way he always paintedthe Maple Leaf (Forever).
He had just begun on his hair,a few red strokes, and
Jack Frost had dropped the brushand left him white, forever.
The gracious royal coupleswere warm in red and ermine;their feet were well wrapped upin the ladies' ermine trains.
They invited Arthur to bethe smallest page at court.
But how could Arthur go,clutching his tiny lily,with his eyes shut up so tightand the roads deep in snow?
