Years and years ago -- actually during my senior year of high school -- I was introduced to the writings of H. H. Munro (1870-1916), who wrote under the penname Saki. A wonderful writer of very funny stories, Munro lived far too short a life. During World War One he enlisted in the British Army as an ordinary trooper, even though he was already in his mid-forties and certainly would have been offered an officer's commission. Sadly, like so many of the UK's most promising young men, Munro did not survive the war. He died in November 1916 after being shot by a German sniper during the Battle of Ancre.
Anyway, my initial introduction to Munro's work back in 1961 consisted primarily of his stories featuring a rather odd, young Edwardian named Reginald. I went on to read almost everything Munro wrote, but especially loved the Reginald stories. Reginald was a clever, affected, witty, and sometimes heartless young man who nevertheless caused me to laugh out loud as I turned the pages of Munro's brief stories.
I can't say why, but occasionally, very occasionally, certain phrases become cemented into my rather unreliable memory. Among these is a phrase that appeared in a Munro story, Reginald's Rubaiyat. For some reason, the phrase -- "Where the wounded wombats wail" -- simply never left my regularly accessible brain cells. I suppose its retention stems from the oddity of it all. At the time, I realized only that a wombat was some sort of strange Australian marsupial, but I couldn't have described this odd critter even under torture. In truth, I know little more about wombats today.
But if you need an occasional laugh -- and these days, who doesn't? -- read Saki's stories. As a New Year's gift, I thought I'd share the following opening words of the brief story mentioned above, describing a typical event in young Reginald's life, as he injects wounded wombats into a less than promising poem.
The other day (confided Reginald), when I was killing time in the bathroom and making bad resolutions for the New Year, it occurred to me that I would like to be a poet. The chief qualification, I understand, is that you must be born. Well, I hunted up my birth certificate, and found that I was all right on that score, and then I got to work on a Hymn to the New Year, which struck me as having possibilities. It suggested extremely unusual things to absolutely unlikely people, which I believe is the art of first-class catering in any department. Quite the best verse in it went something like this —
“Have you heard the groan of a gravelled grouse,
Or the snarl of a snaffled snail
(Husband or mother, like me, or spouse),
Have you lain a-creep in the darkened house
Where the wounded wombats wail?”
What does it all mean? Your guess is as good as mine...or Reginald's.
Happy New Year to my small but select group of loyal readers...
