Frank Libby Stanton.



A VAGUE STORY

Perchance it was her eyes of blue, Her cheeks that might the rose have shamed, Her figure in proportion true To all the rules by artists framed; Perhaps it was her mental worth That made her lover love her so, Perhaps her name, or wealth, or birth— I cannot tell—I do not know.

He may have had a rival, who Did fiercely gage him to a duel, And, being luckier of the two, Defeated him with triumph cruel; Then she may have proved false, and turned To welcome to her arms his foe, Left him despairing, conquered, spurned— I cannot tell—I do not know.

So oft such woes will counteract The thousand ecstacies of love, That you may fix on base of fact The story hinted at above; But all on earth so doubtful is, Man knows so little here below, That, if you ask for proof of this, I cannot tell—I do not know.

Walter Parke.



HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW

He stood on his head by the wild seashore, And danced on his hands a jig; In all his emotions, as never before, A wildly hilarious grig.

And why? In that ship just crossing the bay His mother-in-law had sailed For a tropical country far away, Where tigers and fever prevailed.

Oh, now he might hope for a peaceful life And even be happy yet, Though owning no end of neuralgic wife, And up to his collar in debt.

He had borne the old lady through thick and thin, And she lectured him out of breath; And now as he looked at the ship she was in He howled for her violent death.

He watched as the good ship cut the sea, And bumpishly up-and-downed, And thought if already she qualmish might be, He'd consider his happiness crowned.

He watched till beneath the horizon's edge The ship was passing from view; And he sprang to the top of a rocky ledge And pranced like a kangaroo.

He watched till the vessel became a speck That was lost in the wandering sea; And then, at the risk of breaking his neck, Turned somersaults home to tea.

Walter Parke.



ON A DEAF HOUSEKEEPER

Of all life's plagues I recommend to no man To hire as a domestic a deaf woman. I've got one who my orders does not hear, Mishears them rather, and keeps blundering near. Thirsty and hot, I asked her for a drink; She bustled out, and brought me back some ink. Eating a good rump-steak, I called for mustard; Away she went, and whipped me up a custard. I wanted with my chicken to have ham; Blundering once more, she brought a pot of jam. I wished in season for a cut of salmon; And what she brought me was a huge fat gammon. I can't my voice raise higher and still higher, As if I were a herald or town-crier. 'T would better be if she were deaf outright; But anyhow she quits my house this night.

Unknown.



HOM[OE]OPATHIC SOUP

Take a robin's leg (Mind, the drumstick merely); Put it in a tub Filled with water nearly; Set it out of doors, In a place that's shady; Let it stand a week (Three days if for a lady); Drop a spoonful of it In a five-pail kettle, Which may be made of tin Or any baser metal; Fill the kettle up, Set it on a boiling, Strain the liquor well, To prevent its oiling; One atom add of salt, For the thickening one rice kernel, And use to light the fire "The Hom[oe]opathic Journal." Let the liquor boil Half an hour, no longer, (If 'tis for a man Of course you'll make it stronger). Should you now desire That the soup be flavoury, Stir it once around, With a stalk of savoury. When the broth is made, Nothing can excell it: Then three times a day Let the patient smell it. If he chance to die, Say 'twas Nature did it: If he chance to live, Give the soup the credit.

Unknown.



SOME LITTLE BUG

In these days of indigestion It is oftentimes a question As to what to eat and what to leave alone; For each microbe and bacillus Has a different way to kill us, And in time they always claim us for their own. There are germs of every kind In any food that you can find In the market or upon the bill of fare. Drinking water's just as risky As the so-called deadly whiskey, And it's often a mistake to breathe the air.

Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, Then he'll send for his bug friends And all your earthly trouble ends; Some little bug is going to find you some day.

The inviting green cucumber Gets most everybody's number, While the green corn has a system of its own; Though a radish seems nutritious Its behaviour is quite vicious, And a doctor will be coming to your home. Eating lobster cooked or plain Is only flirting with ptomaine, While an oyster sometimes has a lot to say, But the clams we cat in chowder Make the angels chant the louder, For they know that we'll be with them right away.

Take a slice of nice fried onion And you're fit for Dr. Munyon, Apple dumplings kill you quicker than a train. Chew a cheesy midnight "rabbit" And a grave you'll soon inhabit— Ah, to eat at all is such a foolish game. Eating huckleberry pie Is a pleasing way to die, While sauerkraut brings on softening of the brain. When you eat banana fritters Every undertaker titters, And the casket makers nearly go insane.

Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, With a nervous little quiver He'll give cirrhosis of the liver; Some little bug is going to find you some day.

When cold storage vaults I visit I can only say what is it Makes poor mortals fill their systems with such stuff? Now, for breakfast, prunes are dandy If a stomach pump is handy And your doctor can be found quite soon enough. Eat a plate of fine pigs' knuckles And the headstone cutter chuckles, While the grave digger makes a note upon his cuff. Eat that lovely red bologna And you'll wear a wooden kimona, As your relatives start scrappin 'bout your stuff.

Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, Eating juicy sliced pineapple Makes the sexton dust the chapel; Some little bug is going to find you some day.

All those crazy foods they mix Will float us 'cross the River Styx, Or they'll start us climbing up the milky way. And the meals we eat in courses Mean a hearse and two black horses So before a meal some people always pray. Luscious grapes breed 'pendicitis, And the juice leads to gastritis, So there's only death to greet us either way; And fried liver's nice, but, mind you, Friends will soon ride slow behind you And the papers then will have nice things to say.

Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day Eat some sauce, they call it chili, On your breast they'll place a lily; Some little bug is going to find you some day.

Roy Atwell.



ON THE DOWNTOWN SIDE OF AN UPTOWN STREET

On the downtown side of an uptown street Is the home of a girl that I'd like to meet, But I'm on the uptown, And she's on the downtown, On the downtown side of an uptown street. On the uptown side of the crowded old "L," I see her so often I know her quite well, But I'm on the downtown When she's on the uptown, On the uptown side of the crowded old "L."

On the uptown side of a downtown street This girl is employed that I'd like to meet, But I work on the downtown And she on the uptown, The uptown side of a downtown street.

On a downtown car of the Broadway line Often I see her for whom I repine, But when I'm on a uptown She's on a downtown, On a downtown car of the Broadway line.

Oh, to be downtown when I am uptown, Oh, to be uptown when I am downtown, I work at night time, She in the daytime, Never the right time for us to meet, Uptown or downtown, in "L," car or street.

William Johnston.



WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS

If, in the month of dark December, Leander, who was nightly wont (What maid will not the tale remember?) To cross thy stream broad Hellespont.

If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd, He sped to Hero nothing loth, And thus of old thy current pour'd, Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For me, degenerate, modern wretch, Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, And think I've done a feat to-day.

But since he crossed the rapid tide, According to the doubtful story, To woo—and—Lord knows what beside, And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

'T were hard to say who fared the best: Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you! He lost his labor, I my jest; For he was drowned, and I've the ague.

Lord Byron.



THE FISHERMAN'S CHANT

Oh, the fisherman is a happy wight! He dibbles by day, and he sniggles by night. He trolls for fish, and he trolls his lay— He sniggles by night, and he dibbles by day. Oh, who so merry as he! On the river or the sea! Sniggling, Wriggling Eels, and higgling Over the price Of a nice Slice Of fish, twice As much as it ought to be.

Oh, the fisherman is a happy man! He dibbles, and sniggles, and fills his can! With a sharpened hook, and a sharper eye, He sniggles and dibbles for what comes by, Oh, who so merry as he! On the river or the sea! Dibbling Nibbling Chub, and quibbling Over the price Of a nice Slice Of fish, twice As much as it ought to be.

F. C. Burnand.



REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE

NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, The spectacles set them unhappily wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always to wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the court— Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then!

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes; But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or but— That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight—Eyes should be shut!

William Cowper.



PREHISTORIC SMITH

QUATERNARY EPOCH—POST-PLIOCENE PERIOD

A man sat on a rock and sought Refreshment from his thumb; A dinotherium wandered by And scared him some.

His name was Smith. The kind of rock He sat upon was shale. One feature quite distinguished him— He had a tail.

The danger past, he fell into A revery austere; While with his tail he whisked a fly From off his ear.

"Mankind deteriorates," he said, "Grows weak and incomplete; And each new generation seems Yet more effete.

"Nature abhors imperfect work, And on it lays her ban; And all creation must despise A tailless man.

"But fashion's dictates rule supreme, Ignoring common sense; And fashion says, to dock your tail Is just immense.

"And children now come in the world With half a tail or less; Too stumpy to convey a thought, And meaningless.

"It kills expression. How can one Set forth, in words that drag, The best emotions of the soul, Without a wag?"

Sadly he mused upon the world, Its follies and its woes; Then wiped the moisture from his eyes, And blew his nose.

But clothed in earrings, Mrs. Smith Came wandering down the dale; And, smiling, Mr. Smith arose, And wagged his tail.

David Law Proudfit.



SONG

OF ONE ELEVEN YEARS IN PRISON

I

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—

II

Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in!— Alas! Matilda then was true! At least I thought so at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

[At the repetition of this line he clanks his chains in cadence.

III

Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew, Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languish'd at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

IV

This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in, My years are many—they were few When first I entered at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

V

There first for thee my passion grew, Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottengen! Thou wast the daughter of my tu tor, law professor at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

VI

Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in; Here doom'd to starve on water gru el, never shall I see the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

[During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.

George Canning.



LYING

I do confess, in many a sigh, My lips have breath'd you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two?

Nay—look not thus, with brow reproving: Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving! If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying's bright illusion, The world would be in strange confusion! If ladies' eyes were, every one, As lovers swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes! Oh no!—believe me, lovely girl, When nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can heaven decree, That you should live for only me, Or I for you, as night and morn, We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth, whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures; And while he lies, his heart is yours: But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth!

Thomas Moore.



STRICTLY GERM-PROOF

The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup Were playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled up; They looked upon the Creature with a loathing undisguised;— It wasn't Disinfected and it wasn't Sterilized.

They said it was a Microbe and a Hotbed of Disease; They steamed it in a vapor of a thousand-odd degrees; They froze it in a freezer that was cold as Banished Hope And washed it in permanganate with carbolated soap.

In sulphureted hydrogen they steeped its wiggly ears; They trimmed its frisky whiskers with a pair of hard-boiled shears; They donned their rubber mittens and they took it by the hand And 'lected it a member of the Fumigated Band.

There's not a Micrococcus in the garden where they play; They bathe in pure iodoform a dozen times a day; And each imbibes his rations from a Hygienic Cup— The Bunny and the Baby and the Prophylactic Pup.

Arthur Guiterman.



THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND

Air "The days we went a-gipsying."

I would all womankind were dead, Or banished o'er the sea; For they have been a bitter plague These last six weeks to me: It is not that I'm touched myself, For that I do not fear; No female face hath shown me grace For many a bygone year. But 'tis the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider cup, And feed on fish and fun; Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air: Then, for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair. Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz; His sole reply's a burning sigh, And "What a mind it is!" O Lord! it is the greatest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

I've heard her thoroughly described A hundred times, I'm sure; And all the while I've tried to smile, And patiently endure; He waxes strong upon his pangs, And potters o'er his grog; And still I say, in a playful way— "Why you're a lucky dog!" But oh! it is the heaviest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

I really wish he'd do like me When I was young and strong; I formed a passion every week, But never kept it long. But he has not the sportive mood That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o'er the sea. For 'tis the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

William E. Aytoun.



MAN'S PLACE IN NATURE

DEDICATED TO DARWIN AND HUXLEY

They told him gently he was made Of nicely tempered mud, That man no lengthened part had played Anterior to the Flood. 'Twas all in vain; he heeded not, Referring plant and worm, Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot, To one primordial germ.

They asked him whether he could bear To think his kind allied To all those brutal forms which were In structure Pithecoid; Whether he thought the apes and us Homologous in form; He said, "Homo and Pithecus Came from one common germ."

They called him "atheistical," "Sceptic," and "infidel." They swore his doctrines without fail Would plunge him into hell. But he with proofs in no way lame, Made this deduction firm, That all organic beings came From one primordial germ.

That as for the Noachian flood, 'Twas long ago disproved, That as for man being made of mud, All by whom truth is loved Accept as fact what, malgre strife, Research tends to confirm— That man, and everything with life, Came from one common germ.

Unknown.



THE NEW VERSION

A soldier of the Russians Lay japanned at Tschrtzvkjskivitch, There was lack of woman's nursing And other comforts which Might add to his last moments And smooth the final way;— But a comrade stood beside him To hear what he might say. The japanned Russian faltered As he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see My own, my native land; Take a message and a token To some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Smnlxzrskgqrxzski, Fair Smnlxzrskgqrxzski on the Irkztrvzkimnov."

W. J. Lampton.



AMAZING FACTS ABOUT FOOD

The Food Scientist tells us: "A deficiency of iron, phosphorus, potassium, calcium and the other mineral salts, colloids and vitamines of vegetable origin leads to numerous forms of physical disorder."

I yearn to bite on a Colloid With phosphorus, iron and Beans; I want to be filled with Calcium, grilled, And Veg'table Vitamines!

I yearn to bite on a Colloid (Though I don't know what it means) To line my inside with Potassium, fried, And Veg'table Vitamines.

I would sate my soul with spinach And dandelion greens. No eggs, nor ham, nor hard-boiled clam, But Veg'table Vitamines.

Hi, Waiter! Coddle the Colloids With phosphorus, iron and Beans; Though Mineral Salts may have some faults, Bring on the Vitamines.

Unknown.



TRANSCENDENTALISM

It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic schools, There are rules. By observing which, when mundane labor irks One can simulate quiescence By a timely evanescence From his Active Mortal Essence, (Or his Works.)

The particular procedure leaves research In the lurch, But, apparently, this matter-moulded form Is a kind of outer plaster, Which a well-instructed Master Can remove without disaster When he's warm.

And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Clime At its prime 'Twere a thesis most immeasurably fit, So expansively elastic, And so plausibly fantastic, That one gets enthusiastic For a bit.

Unknown.



A "CAUDAL" LECTURE

Philosophy shows us 'twixt monkey and man One simious line in unbroken extendage; Development only since first it began— And chiefly in losing the caudal appendage.

Our ancestors' holding was wholly in tail, And the loss of this feature we claim as a merit; But though often at tale-bearing people we rail, 'Tis rather a loss than a gain we inherit.

The tail was a rudder—a capital thing To a man who was half—or a quarter—seas over; And as for a sailor, by that he could cling, And use for his hands and his feet both discover.

In the Arts it would quickly have found out a place; The painter would use it to steady his pencil; In music, how handy to pound at the bass! And then one could write by its coilings prehensile.

The Army had gained had the fashion endured— 'Twould carry a sword, or be good in saluting; If the foe should turn tail, they'd be quickly secured; Or, used as a lasso, 'twould help in recruiting.

To the Force 'twould add force—they could "run 'em in" so That one to three culprits would find himself equal; He could collar the two, have the other in tow— A very good form of the Tale and its Sequel.

In life many uses 'twould serve we should see— A man with no bed could hang cosily snoozing; 'Twould hold an umbrella, hand cups round at tea, Or a candle support while our novel perusing.

In fact, when one thinks of our loss from of old, It makes us regret that we can't go in for it, or Wish, like the Dane, we a tail could unfold, Instead of remaining each one a stump orator.

William Sawyer.



SALAD

To make this condiment, your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs; Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give; Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half-suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt. And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce. Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! 'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl! Serenely full, the epicure would say, Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day!

Sydney Smith.



NEMESIS

The man who invented the women's waists that button down behind, And the man who invented the cans with keys and the strips that will never wind, Were put to sea in a leaky boat and with never a bite to eat But a couple of dozen of patent cans in which was their only meat.

And they sailed and sailed o'er the ocean wide and never they had a taste Of aught to eat, for the cans stayed shut, and a peek-a-boo shirtwaist Was all they had to bale the brine that came in the leaky boat; And their tongues were thick and their throats were dry, and they barely kept afloat.

They came at last to an island fair, and a man stood on the shore. So they flew a signal of distress and their hopes rose high once more, And they called to him to fetch a boat, for their craft was sinking fast, And a couple of hours at best they knew was all their boat would last.

So he called to them a cheery call and he said he would make haste, But first he must go back to his wife and button up her waist, Which would only take him an hour or so and then he would fetch a boat. And the man who invented the backstairs waist, he groaned in his swollen throat.

The hours passed by on leaden wings and they saw another man In the window of a bungalow, and he held a tin meat can In his bleeding hands, and they called to him, not once but twice and thrice, And he said: "Just wait till I open this and I'll be there in a trice!"

And the man who invented the patent cans he knew what the promise meant, So he leaped in air with a horrid cry and into the sea he went, And the bubbles rose where he sank and sank and a groan choked in the throat Of the man who invented the backstairs waist and he sank with the leaky boat!

J. W. Foley.



"MONA LISA"

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa! Have you gone? Great Julius Caesar! Who's the Chap so bold and pinchey Thus to swipe the great da Vinci, Taking France's first Chef d'oeuvre Squarely from old Mr. Louvre, Easy as some pocket-picker Would remove our handkerchicker As we ride in careless folly On some gaily bounding trolley?

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Who's your Captor? Doubtless he's a Crafty sort of treasure-seeker— Ne'er a Turpin e'er was sleeker— But, alas, if he can win you Easily as I could chin you, What is safe in all the nations From his dreadful depredations? He's the style of Chap, I'm thinkin', Who will drive us all to drinkin'!

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Next he'll swipe the Tower of Pisa, Pulling it from out its socket For to hide it in his pocket; Or perhaps he'll up and steal, O, Madame Venus, late of Milo; Or maybe while on the grab he Will annex Westminster Abbey, And elope with that distinguished Heap of Ashes long extinguished.

Maybe too, O Mona Lisa, He will come across the seas a— Searching for the style of treasure That we have in richest measure. Sunset Cox's brazen statue, Have a care lest he shall catch you! Or maybe he'll set his eye on Hammerstein's, or the Flatiron, Or some bit of White Wash done By those lads at Washington—

Truly he's a crafty geezer, Is your Captor, Mona Lisa!

John Kendrick Bangs.



THE SIEGE OF DJKLXPRWBZ

Before a Turkish town The Russians came. And with huge cannon Did bombard the same.

They got up close And rained fat bombshells down, And blew out every Vowel in the town.

And then the Turks, Becoming somewhat sad, Surrendered every Consonant they had.

Eugene Fitch Ware.



RURAL BLISS

The poet is, or ought to be, a hater of the city, And so, when happiness is mine, and Maud becomes my wife, We'll look on town inhabitants with sympathetic pity, For we shall lead a peaceful and serene Arcadian life.

Then shall I sing in eloquent and most effective phrases, The grandeur of geraniums and the beauty of the rose; Immortalise in deathless strains the buttercups and daisies— For even I can hardly be mistaken as to those.

The music of the nightingale will ring from leafy hollow, And fill us with a rapture indescribable in words; And we shall also listen to the robin and the swallow (I wonder if a swallow sings?) and ... well, the other birds.

Too long I dwelt in ignorance of all the countless treasures Which dwellers in the country have in such abundant store; To give a single instance of the multitude of pleasures— The music of the nighting—oh, I mentioned that before.

And shall I prune potato-trees and artichokes, I wonder, And cultivate the silo-plant, which springs (I hope it springs?) In graceful foliage overhead?—Excuse me if I blunder, It's really inconvenient not to know the name of things!

No matter; in the future, when I celebrate the beauty Of country life in glowing terms, and "build the lofty rhyme" Aware that every Englishman is bound to do his duty, I'll learn to give the stupid things their proper names in time!

Meanwhile, you needn't wonder at the view I've indicated, The country life appears to me indubitably blest, For, even if its other charms are somewhat overstated, As long as Maud is there, you see,—what matters all the rest?

Anthony C. Deane.



AN OLD BACHELOR

'Twas raw, and chill, and cold outside, With a boisterous wind untamed, But I was sitting snug within, Where my good log-fire flamed. As my clock ticked, My cat purred, And my kettle sang.

I read me a tale of war and love, Brave knights and their ladies fair; And I brewed a brew of stiff hot-scotch To drive away dull care. As my clock ticked, My cat purred, And my kettle sang.

At last the candles sputtered out, But the embers still were bright, When I turned my tumbler upside down, An' bade m'self g' night! As th' ket'l t-hic-ked, The clock purred, And the cat (hic) sang!

Tudor Jenks.



SONG

Three score and ten by common calculation The years of man amount to; but we'll say He turns four-score, yet, in my estimation, In all those years he has not lived a day.

Out of the eighty you must first remember The hours of night you pass asleep in bed; And, counting from December to December, Just half your life you'll find you have been dead.

To forty years at once by this reduction We come; and sure, the first five from your birth, While cutting teeth and living upon suction, You're not alive to what this life is worth.

From thirty-five next take for education Fifteen at least at college and at school; When, notwithstanding all your application, The chances are you may turn out a fool.

Still twenty we have left us to dispose of, But during them your fortune you've to make; And granting, with the luck of some one knows of, 'Tis made in ten—that's ten from life to take.

Out of the ten yet left you must allow for The time for shaving, tooth and other aches, Say four—and that leaves, six, too short, I vow, for Regretting past and making fresh mistakes.

Meanwhile each hour dispels some fond illusion; Until at length, sans eyes, sans teeth, you may Have scarcely sense to come to this conclusion— You've reached four-score, but haven't lived a day!

J. R. Planche.



THE QUEST OF THE PURPLE COW

He girded on his shining sword, He clad him in his suit of mail, He gave his friends the parting word, With high resolve his face was pale. They said, "You've kissed the Papal Toe, To great Moguls you've made your bow, Why will you thus world-wandering go?" "I never saw a purple cow!"

"I never saw a purple cow! Oh, hinder not my wild emprise— Let me depart! For even now Perhaps, before some yokel's eyes The purpling creature dashes by, Bending its noble, horned brow. They see its glowing charms, but I— I never saw a purple cow!"

"But other cows there be," they said, "Both cows of high and low degree, Suffolk and Devon, brown, black, red, The Ayrshire and the Alderney. Content yourself with these." "No, no," He cried, "Not these! Not these! For how Can common kine bring comfort? Oh! I never saw a purple cow!"

He flung him to his charger's back, He left his kindred limp and weak, They cried: "He goes, alack! alack! The unattainable to seek." But westward still he rode—pardee! The West! Where such freaks be; I vow, I'd not be much surprised if he Should some day see A Purple Cow!

Hilda Johnson.



ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR!

A fig for St. Denis of France— He's a trumpery fellow to brag on; A fig for St. George and his lance, Which spitted a heathenish dragon; And the saints of the Welshman or Scot Are a couple of pitiful pipers, Both of whom may just travel to pot, Compared with that patron of swipers— St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear!

He came to the Emerald Isle On a lump of a paving-stone mounted; The steamboat he beat by a mile, Which mighty good sailing was counted. Says he, "The salt water, I think, Has made me most bloodily thirsty; So bring me a flagon of drink To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye! Of drink that is fit for a saint!"

He preached, then, with wonderful force, The ignorant natives a-teaching; With a pint he washed down his discourse, "For," says he, "I detest your dry preaching." The people, with wonderment struck At a pastor so pious and civil, Exclaimed—"We're for you, my old buck! And we pitch our blind gods to the devil, Who dwells in hot water below!"

This ended, our worshipful spoon Went to visit an elegant fellow, Whose practice, each cool afternoon, Was to get most delightfully mellow. That day with a black-jack of beer, It chanced he was treating a party; Says the saint—"This good day, do you hear, I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty! So give me a pull at the pot!"

The pewter he lifted in sport (Believe me, I tell you no fable); A gallon he drank from the quart, And then placed it full on the table. "A miracle!" every one said— And they all took a haul at the stingo; They were capital hands at the trade, And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo, The pot still frothed over the brim.

Next day, quoth his host, "'Tis a fast, And I've nought in my larder but mutton; And on Fridays who'd made such repast, Except an unchristian-like glutton?" Says Pat, "Cease your nonsense, I beg— What you tell me is nothing but gammon; Take my compliments down to the leg, And bid it come hither a salmon!" And the leg most politely complied.

You've heard, I suppose, long ago, How the snakes, in a manner most antic, He marched to the county Mayo, And trundled them into th' Atlantic. Hence, not to use water for drink, The people of Ireland determine— With mighty good reason, I think, Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin And vipers, and other such stuff!

Oh, he was an elegant blade As you'd meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper; And though under the sod he is laid, Yet here goes his health in a bumper! I wish he was here, that my glass He might by art magic replenish; But since he is not—why, alas! My ditty must come to a finish,— Because all the liquor is out!

William Maginn.



THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER

"Come here, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, Sir; Jist tell me who King David was— Now tell me if you can, Sir." "King David was a mighty man, And he was King of Spain, Sir; His eldest daughter 'Jessie' was The 'Flower of Dunblane,' Sir."

"You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, Sir; Sir Isaac Newton—who was he? Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Sir Isaac Newton was the boy That climbed the apple-tree, Sir; He then fell down and broke his crown, And lost his gravity, Sir."

"You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, Sir; Jist tell me who ould Marmion was— Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Ould Marmion was a soldier bold, But he went all to pot, Sir; He was hanged upon the gallows tree, For killing Sir Walter Scott, Sir."

"You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, Sir; Jist tell me who Sir Rob Roy was; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Sir Rob Roy was a tailor to The King of the Cannibal Islands; He spoiled a pair of breeches, and Was banished to the Highlands."

"You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, Sir; Then, Bonaparte—say, who was he? Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Ould Bonaparte was King of France Before the Revolution; But he was kilt at Waterloo, Which ruined his constitution."

"You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, Sir; Jist tell me who King Jonah was; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "King Jonah was the strangest man That ever wore a crown, Sir; For though the whale did swallow him, It couldn't keep him down, Sir."

"You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, Sir; Jist tell me who that Moses was; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Shure Moses was the Christian name Of good King Pharaoh's daughter; She was a milkmaid, and she took A profit from the water."

"You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, Sir; Jist tell me now where Dublin is; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Och, Dublin is a town in Cork, And built on the equator; It's close to Mount Vesuvius, And watered by the 'craythur.'"

"You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintleman, Sir; Jist tell me now where London is; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Och, London is a town in Spain; 'Twas lost in the earthquake, Sir; The cockneys murther English there, Whenever they do spake, Sir."

"You're right, my boy; hould up your head, Ye're now a jintleman, Sir; For in history and geography I've taught you all I can, Sir. And if any one should ask you now, Where you got all your knowledge, Jist tell them 'twas from Paddy Blake, Of Bally Blarney College."

James A. Sidey.



REFLECTIONS ON CLEOPATHERA'S NEEDLE

So that's Cleopathera's Needle, bedad, An' a quare lookin' needle it is, I'll be bound; What a powerful muscle the queen must have had That could grasp such a weapon an' wind it around!

Imagine her sittin' there stitchin' like mad Wid a needle like that in her hand! I declare It's as big as the Round Tower of Slane, an', bedad, It would pass for a round tower, only it's square!

The taste of her, ordherin' a needle of granite! Begorra, the sight of it sthrikes me quite dumb! An' look at the quare sort of figures upon it; I wondher can these be the thracks of her thumb!

I once was astonished to hear of the faste Cleopathera made upon pearls; but now I declare, I would not be surprised in the laste If ye told me the woman had swallowed a cow!

It's aisy to see why bould Caesar should quail In her presence, an' meekly submit to her rule; Wid a weapon like that in her fist I'll go bail She could frighten the sowl out of big Finn MacCool!

But, Lord, what poor pigmies the women are now, Compared with the monsthers they must have been then! Whin the darlin's in those days would kick up a row, Holy smoke, but it must have been hot for the men!

Just think how a chap that goes courtin' would start If his girl was to prod him wid that in the shins! I have often seen needles, but bouldly assart That the needle in front of me there takes the pins!

O, sweet Cleopathera! I'm sorry you're dead; An' whin lavin' this wondherful needle behind Had ye thought of bequathin' a spool of your thread An' yer thimble an' scissors, it would have been kind.

But pace to your ashes, ye plague of great men, Yer strength is departed, yer glory is past; Ye'll never wield sceptre or needle again, An' a poor little asp did yer bizzness at last!

Cormac O'Leary.



THE ORIGIN OF IRELAND

With due condescension, I'd call your attention To what I shall mention of Erin so green, And without hesitation I will show how that nation Became of creation the gem and the queen.

'Twas early one morning, without any warning, That Vanus was born in the beautiful say, And by the same token, and sure 'twas provoking, Her pinions were soaking and wouldn't give play.

Old Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her, In order to woo her—the wicked old Jew— And almost had caught her atop of the water— Great Jupiter's daughter!—which never would do.

But Jove, the great janius, looked down and saw Vanus, And Neptune so heinous pursuing her wild, And he spoke out in thunder, he'd rend him asunder— And sure 'twas no wonder—for tazing his child.

A star that was flying hard by him espying, He caught with small trying, and down let it snap; It fell quick as winking, on Neptune a-sinking, And gave him, I'm thinking, a bit of a rap.

That star it was dry land, both low land and high land, And formed a sweet island, the land of my birth; Thus plain is the story, that sent down from glory, Old Erin asthore as the gem of the earth!

Upon Erin nately jumped Vanus so stately, But fainted, kase lately so hard she was pressed— Which much did bewilder, but ere it had killed her Her father distilled her a drop of the best.

That sup was victorious, it made her feel glorious— A little uproarious, I fear it might prove— So how can you blame us that Ireland's so famous For drinking and beauty, for fighting and love?

Unknown.



AS TO THE WEATHER

I remember, I remember, Ere my childhood flitted by, It was cold then in December, And was warmer in July. In the winter there were freezings— In the summer there were thaws; But the weather isn't now at all Like what it used to was!

Unknown.



THE TWINS

In form and feature, face and limb, I grew so like my brother, That folks got taking me for him, And each for one another. It puzzled all our kith and kin, It reach'd an awful pitch; For one of us was born a twin, Yet not a soul knew which.

One day (to make the matter worse), Before our names were fix'd, As we were being wash'd by nurse We got completely mix'd; And thus, you see, by Fate's decree, (Or rather nurse's whim), My brother John got christen'd me, And I got christen'd him.

This fatal likeness even dogg'd My footsteps when at school, And I was always getting flogg'd, For John turned out a fool. I put this question hopelessly To every one I knew— What would you do, if you were me, To prove that you were you?

Our close resemblance turn'd the tide Of my domestic life; For somehow my intended bride Became my brother's wife. In short, year after year the same Absurd mistakes went on; And when I died—the neighbors came And buried brother John!

Henry S. Leigh.



II

THE ETERNAL FEMININE



HE AND SHE

When I am dead you'll find it hard, Said he, To ever find another man Like me.

What makes you think, as I suppose You do, I'd ever want another man Like you?

Eugene Fitch Ware.



THE KISS

"What other men have dared, I dare," He said. "I'm daring, too: And tho' they told me to beware, One kiss I'll take from you.

"Did I say one? Forgive me, dear; That was a grave mistake, For when I've taken one, I fear, One hundred more I'll take.

"'Tis sweet one kiss from you to win, But to stop there? Oh, no! One kiss is only to begin; There is no end, you know."

The maiden rose from where she sat And gently raised her head: "No man has ever talked like that— You may begin," she said.

Tom Masson.



THE COURTIN'

God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in— There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's-arm that Gran'ther Young Fetched back f'om Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur; A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clear grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells— All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple; The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upun it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper— All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle; His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal ... no ... I come dasignin'—" "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals act so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebbe to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin"; Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

James Russell Lowell.



HIRAM HOVER

A BALLAD OF NEW ENGLAND LIFE

Where the Moosatockmaguntic Pours its waters in the Skuntic, Met, along the forest side Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.

She, a maiden fair and dapper, He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper, Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk In the woodlands of Squeedunk.

She, Pentucket's pensive daughter, Walked beside the Skuntic water Gathering, in her apron wet, Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet.

"Why," he murmured, loth to leave her, "Gather yarbs for chills and fever, When a lovyer bold and true, Only waits to gather you?"

"Go," she answered, "I'm not hasty, I prefer a man more tasty; Leastways, one to please me well Should not have a beasty smell."

"Haughty Huldah!" Hiram answered, "Mind and heart alike are cancered; Jest look here! these peltries give Cash, wherefrom a pair may live.

"I, you think, am but a vagrant, Trapping beasts by no means fragrant; Yet, I'm sure it's worth a thank— I've a handsome sum in bank."

Turned and vanished Hiram Hover, And, before the year was over, Huldah, with the yarbs she sold, Bought a cape, against the cold.

Black and thick the furry cape was, Of a stylish cut the shape was; And the girls, in all the town, Envied Huldah up and down.

Then at last, one winter morning, Hiram came without a warning. "Either," said he, "you are blind, Huldah, or you've changed your mind.

"Me you snub for trapping varmints, Yet you take the skins for garments; Since you wear the skunk and mink, There's no harm in me, I think."

"Well," said she, "we will not quarrel, Hiram; I accept the moral, Now the fashion's so I guess I can't hardly do no less."

Thus the trouble all was over Of the love of Hiram Hover. Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde Huldah Hover as his bride.

Love employs, with equal favor, Things of good and evil savor; That which first appeared to part, Warmed, at last, the maiden's heart.

Under one impartial banner, Life, the hunter, Love the tanner, Draw, from every beast they snare, Comfort for a wedded pair!

Bayard Taylor.



BLOW ME EYES!

When I was young and full o' pride, A-standin' on the grass And gazin' o'er the water-side, I seen a fisher lass. "O, fisher lass, be kind awhile," I asks 'er quite unbid. "Please look into me face and smile"— And, blow me eyes, she did!

O, blow me light and blow me blow, I didn't think she'd charm me so— But, blow me eyes, she did!

She seemed so young and beautiful I had to speak perlite, (The afternoon was long and dull, But she was short and bright). "This ain't no place," I says, "to stand— Let's take a walk instid, Each holdin' of the other's hand"— And, blow me eyes, she did!

O, blow me light and blow me blow, I sort o' thunk she wouldn't go— But, blow me eyes, she did! And as we walked along a lane With no one else to see, Me heart was filled with sudden pain, And so I says to she: "If you would have me actions speak The words what can't be hid, You'd sort o' let me kiss yer cheek"— And, blow me eyes, she did!

O, blow me light and blow me blow, How sweet she was I didn't know— But, blow me eyes, she did!

But pretty soon me shipmate Jim Came strollin' down the beach, And she began a-oglin' him As pretty as a peach. "O, fickle maid o' false intent," Impulsively I chid, "Why don't you go and wed that gent?" And, blow me eyes, she did!

O, blow me light and blow me blow, I didn't think she'd treat me so— But, blow me eyes, she did!

Wallace Irwin.



FIRST LOVE

O my earliest love, who, ere I number'd Ten sweet summers, made my bosom thrill! Will a swallow—or a swift, or some bird— Fly to her and say, I love her still?

Say my life's a desert drear and arid, To its one green spot I aye recur: Never, never—although three times married— Have I cared a jot for aught but her.

No, mine own! though early forced to leave you, Still my heart was there where first we met; In those "Lodgings with an ample sea-view," Which were, forty years ago, "To Let."

There I saw her first, our landlord's oldest Little daughter. On a thing so fair Thou, O Sun,—who (so they say) beholdest Everything,—hast gazed, I tell thee, ne'er.

There she sat—so near me, yet remoter Than a star—a blue-eyed, bashful imp: On her lap she held a happy bloater, 'Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp.

And I loved her, and our troth we plighted On the morrow by the shingly shore: In a fortnight to be disunited By a bitter fate forevermore.

O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed! To be young once more, and bite my thumb At the world and all its cares with you, I'd Give no inconsiderable sum.

Hand in hand we tramp'd the golden seaweed, Soon as o'er the gray cliff peep'd the dawn: Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we'd Crunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:—

Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper, That sweet mite with whom I loved to play? Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper, That bright being who was always gay?

Yes—she has at least a dozen wee things! Yes—I see her darning corduroys, Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-things, For a howling herd of hungry boys,

In a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil! But at intervals she thinks, I know, Of those days which we, afar from turmoil, Spent together forty years ago.

O my earliest love, still unforgotten, With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue! Never, somehow, could I seem to cotton To another as I did to you!

Charles Stuart Calverley.



WHAT IS A WOMAN LIKE?

A woman is like to—but stay— What a woman is like, who can say? There is no living with or without one. Love bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye, Buzz, buzz, always buzzing about one. When she's tender and kind She is like to my mind, (And Fanny was so, I remember). She's like to—Oh, dear! She's as good, very near, As a ripe, melting peach in September. If she laugh, and she chat, Play, joke, and all that, And with smiles and good humor she meet me, She's like a rich dish Of venison or fish, That cries from the table, Come eat me! But she'll plague you and vex you, Distract and perplex you; False-hearted and ranging, Unsettled and changing, What then do you think, she is like? Like sand? Like a rock? Like a wheel? Like a clock? Ay, a clock that is always at strike. Her head's like the island folks tell on, Which nothing but monkeys can dwell on; Her heart's like a lemon—so nice She carves for each lover a slice; In truth she's to me, Like the wind, like the sea, Whose raging will hearken to no man; Like a mill, like a pill, Like a flail, like a whale, Like an ass, like a glass Whose image is constant to no man; Like a shower, like a flower, Like a fly, like a pie, Like a pea, like a flea, Like a thief, like—in brief, She's like nothing on earth—but a woman!

Unknown.



MIS' SMITH

All day she hurried to get through, The same as lots of wimmin do; Sometimes at night her husban' said, "Ma, ain't you goin' to come to bed?" And then she'd kinder give a hitch, And pause half way between a stitch, And sorter sigh, and say that she Was ready as she'd ever be, She reckoned.

And so the years went one by one, An' somehow she was never done; An' when the angel said, as how "Mis' Smith, it's time you rested now," She sorter raised her eyes to look A second, as a stitch she took; "All right, I'm comin' now," says she, "I'm ready as I'll ever be, I reckon."

Albert Bigelow Paine.



TRIOLET

"I love you, my lord!" Was all that she said— What a dissonant chord, "I love you, my lord!" Ah! how I abhorred That sarcastic maid!— "I love you? My Lord!" Was all that she said.

Paul T. Gilbert.



BESSIE BROWN, M.D.

'Twas April when she came to town; The birds had come; the bees were swarming. Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown; I saw at once that she was charming. She took a cottage tinted green, Where dewy roses loved to mingle; And on the door, next day, was seen A dainty little shingle.

Her hair was like an amber wreath; Her hat was darker, to enhance it. The violet eyes that glowed beneath Were brighter than her keenest lancet, The beauties of her glove and gown The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter. Ere she had been a day in town The town was in a flutter.

The gallants viewed her feet and hands, And swore they never saw such wee things; The gossips met in purring bands, And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-things. The former drank the Doctor's health With clinking cups, the gay carousers; The latter watched her door by stealth, Just like so many mousers.

But Doctor Bessie went her way, Unmindful of the spiteful cronies, And drove her buggy every day Behind a dashing pair of ponies. Her flower-like face so bright she bore I hoped that time might never wilt her. The way she tripped across the floor Was better than a philter.

Her patients thronged the village street; Her snowy slate was always quite full. Some said her bitters tasted sweet, And some pronounced her pills delightful. 'Twas strange—I knew not what it meant— She seemed a nymph from Eldorado; Where'er she came, where'er she went, Grief lost its gloomy shadow.

Like all the rest I, too, grew ill; My aching heart there was no quelling. I tremble at my doctor's bill— And lo! the items still are swelling. The drugs I've drunk you'd weep to hear! They've quite enriched the fair concocter, And I'm a ruined man, I fear, Unless—I wed the Doctor!

Samuel Minturn Peck.



A SKETCH FROM THE LIFE

Its eyes are gray; Its hair is either brown Or black; And, strange to say, Its dresses button down The back!

It wears a plume That loves to frisk around My ear. It crowds the room With cushions in a mound And queer

Old rugs and lamps In corners a la Turque And things. It steals my stamps, And when I want to work It sings!

It rides and skates— But then it comes and fills My walls With plaques and plates And keeps me paying bills And calls.

It's firm; and if I should my many woes Deplore, 'Twould only sniff And perk its little nose Some more.

It's bright, though small; Its name, you may have guessed, Is "Wife." But, after all, It gives a wondrous zest To life!

Arthur Guiterman.



MINGUILLO'S KISS

Since for kissing thee, Minguillo, Mother's ever scolding me, Give me swiftly back, thou dear one, Give the kiss I gave to thee. Give me back the kiss—that one, now; Let my mother scold no more; Let us tell her all is o'er: What was done is all undone now. Yes, it will be wise, Minguillo, My fond kiss to give to me; Give me swiftly back, thou dear one, Give the kiss I gave to thee. Give me back the kiss, for mother Is impatient—prithee, do! For that one thou shalt have two: Give me that, and take another. Yes, then will they be contented, Then can't they complain of me; Give me swiftly back, thou dear one, Give the kiss I gave to thee.

Unknown.



A KISS IN THE RAIN

One stormy morn I chanced to meet A lassie in the town; Her locks were like the ripened wheat, Her laughing eyes were brown. I watched her as she tripped along Till madness filled my brain, And then—and then—I know 'twas wrong— I kissed her in the rain!

With rain-drops shining on her cheek, Like dew-drops on a rose, The little lassie strove to speak My boldness to oppose; She strove in vain, and quivering Her fingers stole in mine; And then the birds began to sing, The sun began to shine.

Oh, let the clouds grow dark above, My heart is light below; 'Tis always summer when we love, However winds may blow; And I'm as proud as any prince, All honors I disdain: She says I am her rain beau since I kissed her in the rain.

Samuel Minturn Peck.



THE LOVE-KNOT

Tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied her raven ringlets in; But, not alone in the silken snare Did she catch her lovely floating hair, For, tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man's heart within.

They were strolling together up the hill, Where the wind comes blowing merry and chill; And it blew the curls, a frolicsome race, All over the happy peach-coloured face, Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in, Under her beautiful dimpled chin.

And it blew a colour bright as the bloom Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume, All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl That ever imprisoned a romping curl, Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin, Tied a young man's heart within.

Steeper and steeper grew the hill— Madder, merrier, chillier still— The western wind blew down and played The wildest tricks with the little maid, As, tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man's heart within.

Oh, western wind, do you think it was fair To play such tricks with her floating hair?— To gladly, gleefully do your best To blow her against the young man's breast, Where he as gladly folded her in, And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin?

Oh, Ellery Vane! you little thought An hour ago, when you besought This country lass to walk with you, After the sun had dried the dew, What perilous danger you'd be in As she tied her bonnet under her chin.

Nora Perry.



OVER THE WAY

Over the way, over the way, I've seen a head that's fair and gray; I've seen kind eyes not new to tears, A form of grace, though full of years— Her fifty summers have left no flaw— And I, a youth of twenty-three, So love this lady, fair to see, I want her for my mother-in-law!

Over the way, over the way, I've seen her with the children play; I've seen her with a royal grace Before the mirror adjust her lace; A kinder woman none ever saw; God bless and cheer her onward path, And bless all treasures that she hath, And let her be my mother-in-law!

Over the way, over the way, I think I'll venture, dear, some day (If you will lend a helping hand, And sanctify the scheme I've planned); I'll kneel in loving, reverent awe Down at the lady's feet, and say: "I've loved your daughter many a day— Please won't you be my mother-in-law?"

Mary Mapes Dodge.



CHORUS OF WOMEN

FROM THE "THESMOPHORIAZUSAE."

They're always abusing the women, As a terrible plague to men; They say we're the root of all evil, And repeat it again and again— Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed, All mischief, be what it may. And pray, then, why do you marry us, If we're all the plagues you say? And why do you take such care of us, And keep us so safe at home, And are never easy a moment If ever we chance to roam? When you ought to be thanking Heaven That your plague is out of the way, You all keep fussing and fretting— "Where is my Plague to-day?" If a Plague peeps out of the window, Up go the eyes of men; If she hides, then they all keep staring Until she looks out again.

Aristophanes.



THE WIDOW MALONE

Did you hear of the Widow Malone O hone! Who lived in the town of Athlone Alone? O, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts; So lovely the Widow Malone, O hone! So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score Or more; And fortunes they all had galore In store; From the minister down To the clerk of the Crown, All were courting the Widow Malone O hone! All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mrs. Malone, 'Twas known, That no one could see her alone, O hone! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye; So bashful the Widow Malone, O hone! So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Mister O'Brien from Clare, How quare! 'Tis little for blushing they care Down there; Put his arm round her waist, Gave ten kisses at laste, And says he, "You're my Molly Malone, My own." Says he, "You're my Molly Malone."

And the widow they all thought so shy— My eye! Never thought of a simper or sigh; For why? "O Lucius," said she, "Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Your own; You may marry your Mary Malone." There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong; And one comfort it's not very long, But strong:— If for widows you die, Learn to kiss—not to sigh, For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone! O hone! O they're all like sweet Mistress Malone!

Charles Lever.



THE SMACK IN SCHOOL

A district school, not far away, Mid Berkshire's hills, one winter's day, Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls and boys; Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent. The while the master's downward look Was fastened on a copy-book; When suddenly, behind his back, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack! As 'twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss! "What's that?" the startled master cries; "That, thir," a little imp replies, "Wath William Willith, if you pleathe,— I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!" With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, "Hither, Will!" Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head in fear and shame, And to the awful presence came,— A great, green, bashful simpleton, The butt of all good-natured fun. With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, The thunderer faltered,—"I'm amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be guilty of an act so rude! Before the whole set school to boot— What evil genius put you to't?" "'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, "I did not mean to be so bad; But when Susannah shook her curls, And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, I couldn't stand it, sir, at all, But up and kissed her on the spot! I know—boo—hoo—I ought to not, But, somehow, from her looks—boo—hoo— I thought she kind o' wished me to!"

William Pitt Palmer.



'SPAECIALLY JIM

I wus mighty good-lookin' when I wus young— Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 'Spaecially Jim.

The likeliest one of 'em all wus he, Chipper an' han'som' an' trim; But I toss'd up my head, an' made fun o' the crowd, 'Spaecially Jim.

I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men An' I wouldn't take stock in him! But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 'Spaecially Jim.

I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun' ('Spaecially Jim!), I made up my mind I'd settle down An' take up with him;

So we was married one Sunday in church, 'Twas crowded full to the brim, 'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 'Spaecially Jim.

Bessie Morgan.



KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping, With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk water'd the plain.

"O, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now, Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again! 'Twas the pride of my dairy: O Barney M'Cleary! You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine."

I sat down beside her,—and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain; A kiss then I gave her,—and ere I did leave her, She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again.

'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason, Misfortunes will never come single,—that's plain, For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster, The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

Edward Lysaght.



WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?

Why don't the men propose, mamma? Why don't the men propose? Each seems just coming to the point, And then away he goes; It is no fault of yours, mamma, That everybody knows; You fete the finest men in town, Yet, oh! they won't propose.

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, To make a proper match; For coronets and eldest sons, I'm ever on the watch; I've hopes when some distingue beau A glance upon me throws; But though he'll dance and smile and flirt, Alas! he won't propose.

I've tried to win by languishing, And dressing like a blue; I've bought big books and talked of them As if I'd read them through! With hair cropp'd like a man I've felt The heads of all the beaux; But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, And oh! they won't propose.

I threw aside the books, and thought That ignorance was bliss; I felt convinced that men preferred A simple sort of Miss; And so I lisped out nought beyond Plain "yesses" or plain "noes," And wore a sweet unmeaning smile; Yet, oh! they won't propose.

Last night at Lady Ramble's rout I heard Sir Henry Gale Exclaim, "Now I propose again——" I started, turning pale; I really thought my time was come, I blushed like any rose; But oh! I found 'twas only at Ecarte he'd propose.

And what is to be done, mamma? Oh, what is to be done? I really have no time to lose, For I am thirty-one; At balls I am too often left Where spinsters sit in rows; Why don't the men propose, mamma? Why won't the men propose?

Thomas Haynes Bayly.



A PIN

Oh, I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good, But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would. The little chills run up and down my spine when'er we meet, Though she seems a gentle creature and she's very trim and neat.

And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin, And she pricks you, and she sticks you, in a way that can't be said— When you seek for what has hurt you, why, you cannot find the head.

But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain— If anybody asks you why, you really can't explain. A pin is such a tiny thing,—of that there is no doubt,— Yet when it's sticking in your flesh, you're wretched till it's out!

She is wonderfully observing—when she meets a pretty girl She is always sure to tell her if her "bang" is out of curl. And she is so sympathetic: to a friend, who's much admired, She is often heard remarking, "Dear, you look so worn and tired!"

And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride, And she said, "Oh, how becoming!" and then softly added, "It Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit."

Then she said, "If you had heard me yestereve, I'm sure, my friend, You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend." And she left me with the feeling—most unpleasant, I aver— That the whole world would despise me if it had not been for her.

Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day, And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet) With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.

She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust— Use does not seem to blunt her point, not does she gather rust— Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.



THE WHISTLER

"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline— "You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood; I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine!"

"And what would you do with it?—tell me," she said, While an arch smile play'd over her beautiful face. "I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid Would fly to my side, and would there take her place."

"Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours Without any magic," the fair maiden cried; "A favour so slight one's good-nature secures;" And she playfully seated herself by his side.

"I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm Would work so, that not even modesty's check Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm." She smiled, and she laid her white arm round his neck. "Yet once more I would blow, and the music divine Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss."

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee— "What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make! For only consider how silly 'twould be To sit there and whistle for what you might take."

Unknown.



THE CLOUD

AN IDYLL OF THE WESTERN FRONT

I

Scene : A wayside shrine in France.

Persons : Celeste, Pierre, a Cloud.

Celeste (gazing at the solitary white Cloud): I wonder what your thoughts are, little Cloud, Up in the sky, so lonely and so proud!

Cloud : Not proud, dear maiden; lonely, if you will. Long have I watched you, sitting there so still Before that little shrine beside the way, And wondered where your thoughts might be astray; Your knitting lying idle on your knees, And worse than idle like Penelope's, Working its own undoing!

Celeste (picks up her knitting): Who was she? Saints! What a knot! Who was Penelope? What happened to her knitting? Tell me, Cloud!

Cloud : She was a Queen; she wove her husband's shroud.

Celeste (drops the knitting). His shroud!

Cloud : There, there! 'Twas only an excuse To put her lovers off, a wifely ruse, Bidding them bide till it was finished, she Each night the web unravelled secretly.

Celeste : He came home safe? Cloud : If I remember right, It was the lovers needed shrouds that night! It is an old, old tale. I heard it through A Wind whose ancestor it was that blew Ulysses' ship across the purple sea Back to his people and Penelope. We Clouds pick up strange tales, as far and wide And to and fro above the world we ride, Across uncharted seas, upon the swell Of viewless waves and tides invisible, Freighted with friendly flood or forked flame, Knowing not whither bound nor whence we came; Now drifting lonely, now a company Of pond'rous galleons

Celeste : Oft-times I see A Cloud, as by some playful fancy stirred, Take likeness of a monstrous beast or bird Or some fantastic fish, as though 'twere clay Moulded by unseen hands.

Cloud : Then tell me, pray, What I resemble now!

Celeste : I scarcely know. But had you asked a little while ago, I should have said a camel; then your hump Dissolved, and you became a gosling plump, Downy and white and warm

Cloud : What! Warm, up here? Ten thousand feet above the earth!

Celeste : Oh dear! What am I thinking of! Of course I know How cold it is. Pierre has told me so A thousand times.

Cloud : And who is this Pierre That tells you all the secrets of the air? How came he to such frigid heights to soar?

Celeste : Pierre's my He is in the Flying Corps.

Cloud : Ah, now I understand! And he's away?

Celeste : He left at dawn, where for he would not say, Telling me only 'twas a bombing raid Somewhere My God! What's that?

Cloud : What, little maid? Celeste (pointing): That over there beyond the wooded crest!

Cloud : Only a skylark dropping to her nest; Her mate is hov'ring somewhere near. I heard His tremulous song of love

Celeste : That was no bird! (Drops upon her knees.) O Mary! Blessed Mother! Hear, my prayer! That one that fell grant it was not Pierre! Here is the cross my mother gave me I Will burn the longest candle it will buy!

Cloud : Courage, my child! Your prayer will not be vain! Who guards the lark, will guide your lover's plane. The West Wind's calling. I must go! Hark! There He sings again! Le bon Dieu garde, ma chere!

II

Pierre : I made a perfect landing over there Behind the church

Celeste : The Virgin heard my prayer! Now I must burn the candle that I vowed

Pierre : Then 'twas our Blessed Lady sent that Cloud That saved me when the Boche came up behind. I made a lightning turn, only to find The Boche on top of me. It seemed a kind Of miracle to see that Cloud I swear A moment past the sky was everywhere As clear as clear; there was no Cloud in sight. It looked to me, floating there calm and white. Like a great mother hen, and I a chick. She seemed to call me, and I scurried quick Behind her wing. That spoiled the Boche's game, And gave me time to turn and take good aim. I emptied my last drum, and saw him drop Ten thousand feet in flames

Celeste (shuddering): Stop! Pierre, stop! Maybe a girl is waiting for him too

Pierre : 'Twas either him or me Celeste : Thank God, not you!

Pierre (pointing to the church): Come, let us burn the candle that you vowed.

Celeste : Two candles!

Pierre : Who's the other for?

Celeste : The Cloud!

Oliver Herford.



CONSTANCY

"You gave me the key of your heart, my love; Then why do you make me knock?" "Oh, that was yesterday, Saints above! And last night—I changed the lock!"

John Boyle O'Reilly.



AIN'T IT AWFUL, MABEL?

It worries me to beat the band To hear folks say our lives is grand; Wish they'd try some one-night stand. Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Nothin' ever seems to suit— The manager's an awful brute; Spend our lives jest lookin' cute. Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Met a boy last Tuesday night, Was spendin' money left and right—- Me, gee! I couldn't eat a bite! Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Then I met another guy— Hungry! well, I thought I'd die! But I couldn't make him buy. Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Lots of men has called me dear, Said without me life was drear, But men is all so unsincere! Ain't it awful, Mabel?

I tell you, life is mighty hard, I've had proposals by the yard— Some of 'em would 'a had me starred. Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Remember that sealskin sacque of mine? When I got it, look'd awful fine— I found out it was a shine. Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Prima donna's sore on me; My roses had her up a tree— I jest told her to "twenty-three." Ain't it awful, Mabel?

My dear, she went right out and wired The New York office to have me "fired"; But say! 'twas the author had me hired. Ain't it awful, Mabel?

I think hotels is awful mean, Jim and me put out of room sixteen— An' we was only readin' Laura Jean. Ain't it awful, Mabel?

The way folks talk about us too; For the smallest thing we do— 'Nuff to make a girl feel blue. Ain't it awful, Mabel?

My Gawd! is that the overture? I never will be on, I'm sure— The things us actresses endure, Ain't it awful, Mabel?

John Edward Hazzard.



WING TEE WEE

Oh, Wing Tee Wee Was a sweet Chinee, And she lived in the town of Tac. Her eyes were blue, And her curling queue Hung dangling down her back; And she fell in love with gay Win Sil When he wrote his name on a laundry bill.

And, oh, Tim Told Was a pirate bold, And he sailed in a Chinese junk; And he loved, ah me! Sweet Wing Tee Wee, But his valiant heart had sunk; So he drowned his blues in fickle fizz, And vowed the maid would yet be his.

So bold Tim Told Showed all his gold To the maid in the town of Tac; And sweet Wing Wee Eloped to sea, And nevermore came back; For in far Chinee the maids are fair, And the maids are false,—as everywhere.

J. P. Denison.



PHYLLIS LEE

Beside a Primrose 'broider'd Rill Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress Whilst Lucius limn'd with loving skill Her likeness, as a Shepherdess. Yet tho' he strove with loving skill His Brush refused to work his Will.

"Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes I cannot paint to-day," he said; "Their Brightness shames the very Skies And turns their Turquoise into Lead." Quoth Phyllis, then, "To save the Skies And speed your Brush, I'll shut my Eyes."

Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear, Not dreaming of such Treachery, Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear, "Without the Light, how can one See?" "If you are sure that none can see I'll keep them shut," said Phyllis Lee.

Oliver Herford.



THE SORROWS OF WERTHER

Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sigh'd and pined and ogled, And his passion boil'd and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter.

W. M. Thackeray.



THE UNATTAINABLE

Tom's album was filled with the pictures of belles Who had captured his manly heart, From the fairy who danced for the front-row swells To the maiden who tooled her cart; But one face as fair as a cloudless dawn Caught my eye, and I said, "Who's this?" "Oh, that," he replied, with a skilful yawn, "Is the girl I couldn't kiss."

Her face was the best in the book, no doubt, But I hastily turned the leaf, For my friend had let his cigar go out, And I knew I had bared his grief: For caresses we win and smiles we gain Yield only a transient bliss, And we're all of us prone to sigh in vain For "the girl we couldn't kiss."

Harry Romaine.



RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS

Young Rory O'More, courted Kathleen Bawn, He was bold as a hawk,—she as soft as the dawn; He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.

"Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), "With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about, Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." "Oh, jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way You've thrated my heart for this many a day; And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not to be sure? For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound." "Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground." "Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!" "Oh," says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear, For drames always go by conthraries, my dear; Oh! jewel, keep draming that same till you die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie! And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not, to be sure? Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teas'd me enough, Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm around her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he look'd in her eyes that were beaming' with light, And he kiss'd her sweet lips;—don't you think he was right? "Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more, That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

Samuel Lover.



A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO

"Le temps le mieux employe est celui qu' on perd." Claude Tillier .

I'd read three hours. Both notes and text Were fast a mist becoming; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming.

Then out. The casement's leafage sways, And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book,—a maze Of muslin mixed with roses.

"You're reading Greek?" "I am—and you?" "O, mine's a mere romancer!" "So Plato is." "Then read him—do; And I'll read mine in answer."

I read. "My Plato (Plato, too,— That wisdom thus should harden!) Declares 'blue eyes look doubly blue Beneath a Dolly Varden.'"

She smiled. "My book in turn avers (No author's name is stated) That sometimes those Philosophers Are sadly mis-translated."

"But hear,—the next's in stronger style: The Cynic School asserted That two red lips which part and smile May not be controverted!"

She smiled once more—"My book, I find, Observes some modern doctors Would make the Cynics out a kind Of album-verse concoctors."

Then I—"Why not? 'Ephesian law, No less than time's tradition, Enjoined fair speech on all who saw Diana's apparition.'"

She blushed—this time. "If Plato's page No wiser precept teaches, Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage, And walk to Burnham-beeches."

"Agreed," I said. "For Socrates (I find he too is talking) Thinks Learning can't remain at ease While Beauty goes a-walking."

She read no more, I leapt the sill: The sequel's scarce essential— Nay, more than this, I hold it still Profoundly confidential.

Austin Dobson.



DORA VERSUS ROSE

"The case is proceeding."

From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's— At least, on a practical plan— To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys, One love is enough for a man. But no case that I ever yet met is Like mine: I am equally fond Of Rose, who a charming brunette is, And Dora, a blonde.

Each rivals the other in powers— Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints— Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers; Miss Do., perpendicular saints. In short, to distinguish is folly; 'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,— Or Buridan's ass.

If it happens that Rosa I've singled For a soft celebration in rhyme, Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled Somehow with the tune and the time; Or I painfully pen me a sonnet To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s, And behold I am writing upon it The legend, "To Rose,"

Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter Is all overscrawled with her head), If I fancy at last that I've got her, It turns to her rival instead; Or I find myself placidly adding To the rapturous tresses of Rose Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding Ineffable nose.

Was there ever so sad a dilemma? For Rose I would perish (pro tem.); For Dora I'd willingly stem a— (Whatever might offer to stem); But to make the invidious election,— To declare that on either one's side I've a scruple,—a grain, more affection, I cannot decide.

And, as either so hopelessly nice is, My sole and my final resource Is to wait some indefinite crisis,— Some feat of molecular force, To solve me this riddle conducive By no means to peace or repose, Since the issue can scarce be inclusive Of Dora and Rose.

(Afterthought)

But, perhaps, if a third (say a Nora), Not quite so delightful as Rose,— Not wholly so charming as Dora,— Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,— As the claims of the others are equal,— And flight—in the main—is the best,— That I might ... But no matter,—the sequel Is easily guessed.

Austin Dobson.



TU QUOQUE

AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY

nellie If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir, Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, I would not turn abstractedly away, Sir, If I were you!

frank If I were you, when persons I affected, Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would at least pretend I recollected, If I were you!

nellie If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish, If I were you!

frank If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best, the mildest "honey dew," I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you!

nellie If I were you, I would not, Sir, be bitter, Even to write the "Cynical Review";

frank No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, If I were you!

nellie Really! You would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful, Hot as Othello, and as black of hue; Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful, If I were you!

frank "It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu! I shall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis, If I were you!

nellie Go, if you will. At once! And by express, Sir! Where shall it be? To China or Peru? Go. I should leave inquirers my address, Sir, If I were you!

frank No I remain. To stay and fight a duel Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do Ah, you are strong, I would not then be cruel, If I were you!

nellie One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,

frank One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,

nellie If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted?

frank I should admit that I was pique, too.

nellie Ask me to dance. I'd say no more about it, If I were you!

[Waltz—Exeunt.]

Austin Dobson.



NOTHING TO WEAR.

Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square, Has made three separate journeys to Paris; And her father assures me, each time she was there, That she and her friend Mrs. Harris (Not the lady whose name is so famous in history, But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery) Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping, In one continuous round of shopping;— Shopping alone, and shopping together, At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather: For all manner of things that a woman can put On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot, Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, In front or behind, above or below; For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls; Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls; Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in, Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in; Dresses in which to do nothing at all; Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall,— All of them different in color and pattern, Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin, Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material Quite as expensive and much more ethereal: In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of, From ten-thousand-francs robes to twenty-sous frills; In all quarters of Paris, and to every store: While McFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore. They footed the streets, and he footed the bills.

The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Argo Formed, McFlimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest, Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, But for which the ladies themselves manifested Such particular interest that they invested Their own proper persons in layers and rows Of muslins, embroideries, worked underclothes, Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those; Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties, Gave good-by to the ship, and go-by to the duties. Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt, Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout For an actual belle and a possible bride; But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside, Which, in spite of collector and custom-house sentry, Had entered the port without any entry. And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day The merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square, The last time we met, was in utter despair, Because she had nothing whatever to wear!

Nothing to wear ! Now, as this is a true ditty, I do not assert this you know is between us That she's in a state of absolute nudity, Like Powers's Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus; But I do mean to say I have heard her declare, When at the same moment she had on a dress Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less, And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess, That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear! I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, I had just been selected as he who should throw all The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections," And that rather decayed but well-known work of art, Which Miss Flora persisted in styling "her heart." So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove; But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted, Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes, Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions; It was one of the quietest business transactions, With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any, And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis, And by way of putting me quite at my ease, "You know, I'm to polka as much as I please, And flirt when I like, now stop, don't you speak, And you must not come here more than twice in the week, Or talk to me either at party or ball; But always be ready to come when I call: So don't prose to me about duty and stuff, If we don't break this off, there will be time enough For that sort of thing; but the bargain must be, That as long as I choose I am perfectly free: For this is a sort of engagement, you see, Which is binding on you, but not binding on me."