The Two Poets of Saffron Park

The suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset. It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any are. The stranger who looked for the first time at the quaint red houses could only think how very oddly shaped the people must be who could fit into them. Even if the people were not artists, the whole was nevertheless artistic. A young man was not really a poet, but surely he was a poem. That old gentleman had no real right to the heirs of science that he assumed. He had not discovered anything new in biology, but what biological creature could have