In French, they call such a person by a very
long name--the improvisator.
These poets have sharp tongues and often say hard things about people
whom they do not like. If they used whetstones, or stropped their
tongues on leather, as men do their razors, to give them a keener
edge, their words could not cut more terribly.
Now, on one occasion, Morgan had offended one of these bards. It was
while the poetic gentleman was passing by Taffy's house. He heard the
jolly fellow inside singing, first at the top and then at the bottom
of the scale. He would drop his voice down on the low notes and then
again rise to the highest until it ended in a screech.
Someone on the street asked the poet how he liked the music which he
had heard inside.
"Music?" replied the bard with a sneer. "Is that what Morgan is
trying? Why! I thought it was first the lowing of an aged cow, and
then the yelping of a blind dog, unable to find its way. Do you call
that music?"
The truth was that when the soloist had so filled himself with strong
ale that his brain was fuddled, then it was hard to tell just what
kind of a noise he was making.
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