In response to yesterday's post about sonnets and rhyme facility, novelist Tom Rayfiel sent me this funny-sad anecdote:

A propos your last post about wordy kids having a facility for rhymes, Ned Rorem tells a great story about Cocteau. A very young girl, Minnie Drouet, wrote all these complexly rhymed and perfectly metrical poems to the Virgin Mary. They were taken up by teachers and priests. "Is Minnie Drouet A Genius?" one magazine proposed and canvassed various artists. Cocteau replied, "All children are geniuses. Except Minnie Drouet."

Poor Minnie.

Outside today it is a little bit rainy and a little bit sunny, which creates very odd light at 7 a.m. in early spring. Yesterday I installed a new bed of asparagus and started digging ground for pea planting, until the rooster flew over the fence to investigate and the poodle rediscovered the days of her idiot youth and chased him down the road. During my pursuit through the swampy woods, I discovered several new holes in my boots and lost my taste for both poodles and gardening. Today, however, I need to drive a kid to the orthodontist and pay two car-repair bills, which will surely improve the poodle's ranking on the Scale of Aggravations.

By the way, as I was reading Gordon Haight's biography of George Eliot, it suddenly occurred to me that I've never read any of Benjamin Disraeli's novels. What could the bestselling potboilers of an ex-Jewish, Victorian-era, British prime minister and fancy dresser be like? I think I need to find out.