The Book of Humorous Verse (part 2 of 6)

Introduction

A hope of immortality and a sense of humor distinguish man from the beasts of the field.

A single exception may be made, perhaps, of the Laughing Hyena, and, on the other hand, not every one of the human race possesses the power of laughter. For those who do, this volume is intended.

And since there can be nothing humorous about an introduction, there can be small need of a lengthy one.

Merely a few explanations of conditions which may be censured by captious critics.

First, the limitations of space had to be recognized. Hence, the book is a compilation, not a collection. It is representative, but not exhaustive. My ambition was toward a volume to which everyone could go, with a surety of finding any one of his favorite humorous poems between these covers. But no covers of one book could insure that, so I reluctantly gave up the dream for a reality which I trust will make it possible for a majority of seekers to find their favorites here.

The compiler's course is a difficult one. The Scylla of Popularity lures him on the one hand, while the Charybdis of the Classical charms him on the other. He has nothing to steer by but his own good taste, and good taste, alack, is greatly a matter of opinion.

And no opinion seemeth good unto an honest compiler, save his own. Wherefore, the choice of these selections, like kissing, went by favor. As to the arrangement of them, every compiler will tell you that Classification is Vexation. And why not? When many a poem may be both Parody and Satire,--both Romance and Cynicism. Wherefore, the compiler sorted with loving care the selections here presented striving to do justice to the verses themselves, and taking a chance on the tolerant good nature of the reader.

For,

"A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it. Never in the tongue Of him that makes it."

Which made me all the more careful to do my authors justice, leaving the prosperity of the jests to the hearers.

|Carolyn Wells.|

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The compiler is indebted to the publisher or author, as noted below, for the use of copyright material included in this volume. Special arrangements have been made with the authorized publishers of those American poets, whose works in whole or in part have lapsed copyright. All rights of these poems have been reserved by the authorized publisher, author or holder of the copyright as indicated in the following:

Little, Brown & Company: For selections from the Poems and Limericks of Edward Lear.

The Macmillan Company: For selections from the Poems of Lewis Carroll and Verses from "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" and "Through the Looking Glass."

Harr Wagner Publishing Company: For permission to reprint from "The Complete Poems" of Joaquin Miller "That Gentle Man From Boston Town," "That Texan Cattle Man," "William Brown of Oregon."

Frederick A. Stokes Company: "Bessie Brown, M.D." and "A Kiss in the Rain," by Samuel Minturn Peck.

Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company: For the inclusion of the following Poems by Sam Walter Foss: "The Meeting of the Clabberhuses," "A Philosopher" and "The Prayer of Cyrus Brown" from "Dreams in Homespun," copyright, 1897. "Then Agin--" and "Husband and Heathen," from "Back Country Poems," copyright, 1894. "The Ideal Husband to His Wife," from "Whiffs from Wild Meadows," copyright, 1895.

Forbes & Company: "How Often?" "If I Should Die To-night," and "The Pessimist," by Ben King.

The Century Company: For permission to reprint from St. Nicholas Magazine the following poems by Ruth McEnery Stuart: "The Endless Song" and "The Hen-Roost Man"; and by Tudor Jenks: "An Old Bachelor"; and by Mary Mapes Dodge: "Home and Mother," "Life in Laconics," "Over the Way" and "The Zealless Xylographer."

Thomas L. Masson: For permission to reprint "The Kiss" from "Life."

E. P. Button & Company: "The Converted Cannibals" and "The Retired Pork-Butcher and the Spook," by G. E. Farrow.

Houghton Mifflin Company: With their permission and by special arrangement, as authorized publishers of the following authors' works, are used: Selections from Nora Perry, John Townsend Trowbridge, Charles E. Carryl, Oliver Wendell Holmes, John Greenleaf Whittier, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Bret Harte, James Thomas Fields, John G. Saxe, James Russell Lowell and Bayard Taylor.

A. P. Watt & Son and Doubleday, Page & Company: For their permission to use "Divided Destinies," "Study of an Elevation, in Indian Ink," and "Commonplaces," by Rudyard Kipling.

G. P. Putnam's Sons: Selections from the Poems of Eugene Fitch Ware and "The Wreck of the 'Julie Plante,'" by William Henry Drummond.

Henry Holt & Company: Two Parodies from "----and Other Poets," by Louis Untermeyer.

Dodd, Mead & Company: "The Constant Cannibal Maiden," "Blow Me Eyes" and "A Grain of Salt," by Wallace Irwin.

John Lane Company: For Poems by Owen Seaman, Anthony C. Deane and G. K. Chesterton.

The Smart Set: "Dighton is Engaged," and "Kitty Wants to Write," by Gelett Burgess.

Small, Maynard & Company: For selections from Holman F. Day, Richard Hovey and Clinton Scollard.

The Bobbs-Merrill Company: For special permission to reprint from the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley (copyright, 1913) the following Poems: "Little Orphant Annie," "The Lugubrious Whing-Whang," "The Man in the Moon," "The Old Man and Jim," "Prior to Miss Belle's Appearance," "Spirk Throll-Derisive," "When the Frost is on the Punkin."

The Bobbs-Merrill Company: For permission to use the following Poems by Robert J. Burdette, from "Smiles Yoked with Sighs" (copyright, 1900), "Orphan Born," "The Romance of the Carpet," "Soldier, Rest!", "Songs without Words," "What Will We Do?".

Charles Scribner's Sons: For permission to use "The Dinkey-Bird," "Dutch Lullaby," "The Little Peach," "The Truth About Horace," by Eugene Field.

I: BANTER PAGE The Played-Out Humorist W. S. Gilbert 25 The Practical Joker W. S. Gilbert 26 To Ph[oe]be W. S. Gilbert 28 Malbrouck Father Prout 29 Mark Twain: A Pipe Dream Oliver Herford 30 From a Full Heart A. A. Milne 31 The Ultimate Joy Unknown 32 Old Fashioned Fun W. M. Thackeray 33 When Moonlike Ore the Hazure Seas W. M. Thackeray 34 When the Frost is on the Punkin James Whitcomb Riley 34 Two Men Edwin Arlington Robinson 35 A Familiar Letter to Several Correspondents Oliver Wendell Holmes 36 The Height of the Ridiculous Oliver Wendell Holmes 38 Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe H. C. Bunner 40 A Rondelay Peter A. Motteux 41 Winter Dusk R. K. Munkittrick 42 Comic Miseries John G. Saxe 42 Early Rising John G. Saxe 44 To the Pliocene Skull Bret Harte 46 Ode to Work in Springtime Thomas R. Ybarra 47 Old Stuff Bert Leston Taylor 48 To Minerva Thomas Hood 49 The Legend of Heinz Von Stein Charles Godfrey Leland 49 The Truth About Horace Eugene Field 50 Propinquity Needed Charles Battell Loomis 51 In the Catacombs Harlan Hoge Ballard 52 Our Native Birds Nathan Haskell Dole 53 The Prayer of Cyrus Brown Sam Walter Foss 54 Erring in Company Franklin P. Adams 55 Cupid William Blake 56 If We Didn't Have to Eat Nixon Waterman 57 To My Empty Purse Geoffrey Chaucer 58 The Birth of Saint Patrick Samuel Lover 58 Her Little Feet William Ernest Henley 59 School James Kenneth Stephen 60 The Millennium James Kenneth Stephen 60 "Exactly So" Lady T. Hastings 61 Companions Charles Stuart Calverley 63 The Schoolmaster Charles Stuart Calverley 64 A Appeal for Are to the Sextant of the old Brick Meetinouse Arabella Willson 66 Cupid's Darts Unknown 67 A Plea for Trigamy Owen Seaman 68 The Pope Charles Lever 70 All at Sea Frederick Moxon 70 Ballad of the Primitive Jest Andrew Lang 72 Villanelle of Things Amusing Gelett Burgess 73 How to Eat Watermelons Frank Libby Stanton 73 A Vague Story Walter Parke 74 His Mother-in-Law Walter Parke 75 On a Deaf Housekeeper Unknown 76 Hom[oe]opathic Soup Unknown 76 Some Little Bug Roy Atwell 77 On the Downtown Side of an Uptown Street William Johnston 79 Written After Swimming from Sestos to Abydos Lord Byron 80 The Fisherman's Chant F. C. Burnand 81 Report of an Adjudged Case William Cowper 82 Prehistoric Smith David Law Proudfit 83 Song George Canning 84 Lying Thomas Moore 86 Strictly Germ-Proof Arthur Guiterman 87 The Lay of the Lover's Friend William B. Aytoun 88 Man's Place in Nature Unknown 89 The New Version W. J. Lampton 90 Amazing Facts About Food Unknown 91 Transcendentalism Unknown 92 A "Caudal" Lecture William Sawyer 92 Salad Sydney Smith 93 Nemesis J. W. Foley 94 "Mona Lisa" John Kendrick Bangs 95 The Siege of Djklxprwbz Eugene Fitch Ware 96 Rural Bliss Anthony C. Deane 97 An Old Bachelor Tudor Jenks 98 Song J. R. Planché 99 The Quest of the Purple Cow Hilda Johnson 100 St. Patrick of Ireland, My Dear! William Maginn 101 The Irish Schoolmaster James A. Sidey 103 Reflections on Cleopathera's Needle Cormac O'Leary 105 The Origin of Ireland Unknown 106 As to the Weather Unknown 107 The Twins Henry S. Leigh 108

II: THE ETERNAL FEMININE

He and She Eugene Fitch Ware 109 The Kiss Tom Masson 109 The Courtin' James Russell Lowell 110 Hiram Hover Bayard Taylor 113 Blow Me Eyes! Wallace Irwin 115 First Love Charles Stuart Calverley 116 What Is a Woman Like? Unknown 118 Mis' Smith Albert Bigelow Paine 119 Triolet Paul T. Gilbert 120 Bessie Brown, M.D. Samuel Minturn Peck 120 A Sketch from the Life Arthur Guiterman 121 Minguillo's Kiss Unknown 122 A Kiss in the Rain Samuel Minturn Peck 123 The Love-Knot Nora Perry 124 Over the Way Mary Mapes Dodge 125 Chorus of Women Aristophanes 126 The Widow Malone Charles Lever 126 The Smack in School William Pitt Palmer 128 'Späcially Jim Bessie Morgan 129 Kitty of Coleraine Edward Lysaght 130 Why Don't the Men Propose? Thomas Haynes Bayly 130 A Pin Ella Wheeler Wilcox 132 The Whistler Unknown 133 The Cloud Oliver Herford 134 Constancy John Boyle O'Reilly 137 Ain't it Awful, Mabel? John Edward Hazzard 137 Wing Tee Wee J. P. Denison 139 Phyllis Lee Oliver Herford 139 The Sorrows of Werther W. M. Thackeray 140 The Unattainable Harry Romaine 141 Rory O'More; or, Good Omens Samuel Lover 141 A Dialogue from Plato Austin Dobson 142 Dora Versus Rose Austin Dobson 144 Tu Quoque Austin Dobson 146 Nothing to Wear William Allen Butler 148 My Mistress's Boots Frederick Locker-Lampson 153 Mrs. Smith Frederick Locker-Lampson 155 A Terrible Infant Frederick Locker-Lampson 156 Susan Frederick Locker-Lampson 157 "I Didn't Like Him" Harry B. Smith 157 My Angeline Harry B. Smith 158 Nora's Vow Sir Walter Scott 159 Husband and Heathen Sam Walter Foss 160 The Lost Pleiad Arthur Reed Ropes 161 The New Church Organ Will Carleton 162 Larrie O'Dee William W. Fink 165 No Fault in Women Robert Herrick 166 A Cosmopolitan Woman Unknown 167 Courting in Kentucky Florence E. Pratt 168 Any One Will Do Unknown 169 A Bird in the Hand Frederic E. Weatherly 170 The Belle of the Ball Winthrop Mackworth Praed 171 The Retort George Pope Morris 174 Behave Yoursel' Before Folk Alexander Rodger 174 The Chronicle: A Ballad Abraham Cowley 176 Buxom Joan William Congreve 179 Oh, My Geraldine F. C. Burnand 180 The Parterre E. H. Palmer 180 How to Ask and Have Samuel Lover 181 Sally in Our Alley Henry Carey 182 False Love and True Logic Laman Blanchard 183 Pet's Punishment J. Ashby-Sterry 184 Ad Chloen, M.A. Mortimer Collins 184 Chloe, M.A. Mortimer Collins 185 The Fair Millinger Fred W. Loring 186 Two Fishers Unknown 188 Maud Henry S. Leigh 188 Are Women Fair? Francis Davison 189 The Plaidie Charles Sibley 190 Feminine Arithmetic Charles Graham Halpine 191 Lord Guy George F. Warren 191 Sary "Fixes Up" Things Albert Bigelow Paine 192 The Constant Cannibal Maiden Wallace Irwin 194 Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles Frances M. Whitcher 195 Under the Mistletoe George Francis Shults 196 The Broken Pitcher William E. Aytoun 196 Gifts Returned Walter Savage Landor 198

III: LOVE AND COURTSHIP

Noureddin, the Son of the Shah Clinton Scollard 199 The Usual Way Frederic E. Weatherly 200 The Way to Arcady H. C. Bunner 201 My Love and My Heart Henry S. Leigh 204 Quite by Chance Frederick Langbridge 205 The Nun Leigh Hunt 206 The Chemist to His Love Unknown 206 Categorical Courtship Unknown 207 Lanty Leary Samuel Lover 208 The Secret Combination Ellis Parker Butler 209 Forty Years After H. H. Porter 210 Cupid Ben Jonson 211 Paring-Time Anticipated William Cowper 212 Why H. P. Stevens 214 The Sabine Farmer's Serenade Father Prout 214 I Hae Laid a Herring in Saut James Tytler 216 The Clown's Courtship Unknown 217 Out Upon It Sir John Suckling 218 Love is Like a Dizziness James Hogg 218 The Kitchen Clock John Vance Cheney 220 Lady Mine H. E. Clarke 221 Ballade of the Golfer in Love Clinton Scollard 222 Ballade of Forgotten Loves Arthur Grissom 223

IV: SATIRE

A Ballade of Suicide G. K. Chesterton 224 Finnigan to Flannigan S. W. Gillinan 225 Study of an Elevation in Indian Ink Rudyard Kipling 226 The V-a-s-e James Jeffrey Roche 227 Miniver Cheevy Edwin Arlington Robinson 229 The Recruit Robert W. Chambers 230 Officer Brady Robert W. Chambers 232 Post-Impressionism Bert Leston Taylor 235 To the Portrait of "A Gentleman" Oliver Wendell Holmes 236 Cacoethes Scribendi Oliver Wendell Holmes 238 Contentment Oliver Wendell Holmes 238 A Boston Lullaby James Jeffrey Roche 240 A Grain of Salt Wallace Irwin 241 Song Richard Lovelace 241 A Philosopher Sam Walter Foss 242 The Meeting of the Clabberhuses Sam Walter Foss 244 The Ideal Husband to His Wife Sam Walter Foss 246 Distichs John Hay 247 The Hen-roost Man Ruth McEnery Stuart 247 If They Meant All They Say Alice Duer Miller 247 The Man Stephen Crane 248 A Thought James Kenneth Stephen 248 The Musical Ass Tomaso de Yriarte 249 The Knife-Grinder George Canning 249 St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes Abraham á Sancta-Clara 251 The Battle of Blenheim Robert Southey 252 The Three Black Crows John Byrom 254 To the Terrestrial Globe W. S. Gilbert 256 Etiquette W. S. Gilbert 256 A Modest Wit Selleck Osborn 260 The Latest Decalogue Arthur Hugh Clough 261 A Simile Matthew Prior 262 By Parcels Post George R. Sims 262 All's Well That Ends Well Unknown 264 The Contrast Captain C. Morris 265 The Devonshire Lane John Marriott 266 A Splendid Fellow H. C. Dodge 267 If H. C. Dodge 268 Accepted and Will Appear Parmenas Mix 268 The Little Vagabond William Blake 269 Sympathy Reginald Heber 270 The Religion of Hudibras Samuel Butler 271 Holy Willie's Prayer Robert Burns 272 The Learned Negro Unknown 274 True to Poll F. C. Burnand 275 Trust in Women Unknown 276 The Literary Lady Richard Brinsley Sheridan 278 Twelve Articles Dean Swift 279 All-Saints Edmund Yates 280 How to Make a Man of Consequence Mark Lemon 280 On a Magazine Sonnet Russell Hilliard Loines 281 Paradise George Birdseye 281 The Friar of Orders Gray John O'Keefe 282 Of a Certain Man Sir John Harrington 282 Clean Clara W. B. Rands 283 Christmas Chimes Unknown 284 The Ruling Passion Alexander Pope 285 The Pope and the Net Robert Browning 286 The Actor John Wolcot 287 The Lost Spectacles Unknown 287 That Texan Cattle Man Joaquin Miller 288 Fable Ralph Waldo Emerson 290 Hoch! Der Kaiser Rodney Blake 291 What Mr. Robinson Thinks James Russell Lowell 292 The Candidate's Creed James Russell Lowell 294 The Razor Seller John Wolcot 297 The Devil's Walk on Earth Robert Southey 298 Father Molloy Samuel Lover 307 The Owl-Critic James Thomas Fields 309 What Will We Do? Robert J. Burdette 311 Life in Laconics Mary Mapes Dodge 311 On Knowing When to Stop L. J. Bridgman 312 Rev. Gabe Tucker's Remarks Unknown 312 Thursday Frederic E. Weatherly 313 Sky-Making Mortimer Collins 314 The Positivists Mortimer Collins 315 Martial in London Mortimer Collins 316 The Splendid Shilling John Philips 316 After Horace A. D. Godley 320 Of a Precise Tailor Sir John Harrington 322 Money Jehan du Pontalais 323 Boston Nursery Rhymes Rev. Joseph Cook 324 Kentucky Philosophy Harrison Robertson 325 John Grumlie Allan Cunningham 326 A Song of Impossibilities Winthrop Mackworth Praed 327 Song John Donne 330 The Oubit Charles Kingsley 330 Double Ballade of Primitive Man Andrew Lang 331 Phillis's Age Matthew Prior 332

V: CYNICISM

Good and Bad Luck John Hay 334 Bangkolidye Barry Pain 334 Pensées De Noël A. D. Godley 336 A Ballade of an Anti-Puritan G. K. Chesterton 337 Pessimism Newton Mackintosh 338 Cynical Ode to an Ultra-Cynical Public Charles Mackay 339 Youth and Art Robert Browning 339 The Bachelor's Dream Thomas Hood 342 All Things Except Myself I Know Francois Villon 343 The Joys of Marriage Charles Cotton 344 The Third Proposition Madeline Bridges 345 The Ballad of Cassandra Brown Helen Gray Cone 345 What's in a Name? R. K. Munkittrick 347 Too Late Fits Hugh Ludlow 348 The Annuity George Outram 350 K. K.--Can't Calculate Frances M. Whitcher 353 Northern Farmer Lord Tennyson 354 Fin de Siècle Unknown 357 Then Ag'in Sam Walter Foss 357 The Pessimist Ben King 358 Without and Within James Russell Lowell 359 Same Old Story Harry B. Smith 360

VI: EPIGRAMS

Woman's Will John G. Saxe 362 Cynicus to W. Shakespeare James Kenneth Stephen 362 Senex to Matt. Prior James Kenneth Stephen 362 To a Blockhead Alexander Pope 362 The Fool and the Poet Alexander Pope 363 A Rhymester Samuel Taylor Coleridge 363 Giles's Hope Samuel Taylor Coleridge 363 Cologne Samuel Taylor Coleridge 363 An Eternal Poem Samuel Taylor Coleridge 364 On a Bad Singer Samuel Taylor Coleridge 364 Job Samuel Taylor Coleridge 364 Reasons for Drinking Dr. Henry Aldrich 364 Smatterers Samuel Butler 365 Hypocrisy Samuel Butler 365 To Doctor Empiric Ben Jonson 365 A Remedy Worse than the Disease Matthew Prior 365 A Wife Richard Brinsley Sheridan 366 The Honey-Moon Walter Savage Landor 366 Dido Richard Porson 366 An Epitaph George John Cayley 366 On Taking a Wife Thomas Moore 367 Upon Being Obliged to Leave a Pleasant Party Thomas Moore 367 Some Ladies Frederick Locker-Lampson 367 On a Sense of Humor Frederick Locker-Lampson 367 On Hearing a Lady Praise a Certain Rev. Doctor's Eyes George Outram 368 Epitaph Intended for His Wife John Dryden 368 To a Capricious Friend Joseph Addison 368 Which is Which John Byrom 368 On a Full-Length Portrait of Beau Marsh Lord Chesterfield 369 On Scotland Cleveland 369 Mendax Lessing 369 To a Slow Walker and Quick Eater Lessing 369 What's My Thought Like? Thomas Moore 370 Of All the Men Thomas Moore 370 On Butler's Monument Rev. Samuel Wesley 370 A Conjugal Conundrum Unknown 371

VII: BURLESQUE

Lovers and a Reflection Charles Stuart Calverley 372 Our Hymn Oliver Wendell Holmes 374 "Soldier, Rest!" Robert J. Burdette 374 Imitation Anthony C. Deane 375 The Mighty Must W. S. Gilbert 376 Midsummer Madness Unknown 377 Mavrone Arthur Guiterman 378 Lilies Don Marquis 379 For I am Sad Don Marquis 379 A Little Swirl of Vers Libre Thomas R. Ybarra 380 Young Lochinvar Unknown 381 Imagiste Love Lines Unknown 383 Bygones Bert Lesion Taylor 383 Justice to Scotland Unknown 384 Lament of the Scotch-Irish Exile James Jeffrey Roche 385 A Song of Sorrow Charles Battell Loomis 386 The Rejected "National Hymns" Robert H. Newell 387 The Editor's Wooing Robert H. Newell 389 The Baby's Debut James Smith 390 The Cantelope Bayard Taylor 393 Never Forget Your Parents Franklin P. Adams 394 A Girl was Too Reckless of Grammar Guy Wetmore Carryl 395 Behold the Deeds! H. C. Bunner 397 Villon's Straight Tip to All Cross Coves William Ernest Henley 399 Culture in the Slums William Ernest Henley 400 The Lawyer's Invocation to Spring Henry Howard Brownell 402 North, East, South, and West Unknown 403 Martin Luther at Potsdam Barry Pain 404 An Idyll of Phatte and Leene Unknown 406 The House that Jack Built Samuel Taylor Coleridge 407 Palabras Grandiosas Bayard Taylor 407 A Love Playnt Godfrey Turner 408 Darwinity Herman C. Merivale 409 Select Passages from a Coming Poet F. Anstey 410 The Romaunt of Humpty Dumpty Henry S. Leigh 411 The Wedding Thomas Hood, Jr. 412 In Memoriam Technicam Thomas Hood, Jr. 413 "Songs Without Words" Robert J. Burdette 413 At the Sign of the Cock Owen Seaman 414 Presto Furioso Owen Seaman 417 To Julia in Shooting Togs Owen Seaman 418 Farewell Bert Leston Taylor 419 Here is the Tale Anthony C. Deane 421 The Willows Bret Harte 423 A Ballad Guy Wetmore Carryl 426 The Translated Way Franklin P. Adams 427 Commonplaces Rudyard Kipling 427 Angelo Orders His Dinner Bayard Taylor 428 The Promissory Note Bayard Taylor 429 Camerados Bayard Taylor 430 The Last Ride Together James Kenneth Stephen 431 Imitation of Walt Whitman Unknown 434 Salad Mortimer Collins 436 If Mortimer Collins 436 The Jabberwocky of Authors Harry Persons Taber 437 The Town of Nice Herman C. Merivale 438 The Willow-Tree W. M. Thackeray 439 A Ballade of Ballade-Mongers Augustus M. Moore 441

VIII: BATHOS

The Confession Richard Harris Barham 443 ["Thomas Ingoldsby"] If You Have Seen Thomas Moore 444 Circumstance Frederick Locker-Lampson 444 Elegy Arthur Guiterman 445 Our Traveler H. Cholmondeley-Pennell 445 Optimism Newton Mackintosh 445 The Declaration N. P. Willis 446 He Came to Pay Parmenas Mix 447 The Forlorn One Richard Harris Barham 449 ["Thomas Ingoldsby"] Rural Raptures Unknown 450 A Fragment Unknown 450 The Bitter Bit William E. Aytoun 451 Comfort in Affliction William E. Aytoun 453 The Husband's Petition William E. Aytoun 454 Lines Written After a Battle Unknown 456 Lines Unknown 456 The Imaginative Crisis Unknown 457

IX: PARODY

The Higher Pantheism in a Nut-Shell Algernon Charles Swinburne 458 Nephelidia Algernon Charles Swinburne 459 Up the Spout Algernon Charles Swinburne 460 In Memoriam Cuthbert Bede 463 Lucy Lake Newton Mackintosh 463 The Cock and the Bull Charles Stuart Calverley 464 Ballad Charles Stuart Calverley 467 Disaster Charles Stuart Calverley 469 Wordsworthian Reminiscence Unknown 470 Inspect Us Edith Daniell 471 The Messed Damozel Charles Hanson Towne 471 A Melton Mowbray Pork-Pie Richard le Gallienne 472 Israfiddlestrings Unknown 472 After Dilettante Concetti H. D. Traill 474 Whenceness of the Which Unknown 476 The Little Star Unknown 476 The Original Lamb Unknown 477 Sainte Margérie Unknown 477 Robert Frost Louis Untermeyer 479 Owen Seaman Louis Untermeyer 480 The Modern Hiawatha Unknown 482 Somewhere-in-Europe-Wocky F. G. Hartswick 482 Rigid Body Sings J. C. Maxwell 483 A Ballad of High Endeavor Unknown 484 Father William Lewis Carroll 485 The Poets at Tea Barry Pain 486 How Often Ben King 489 If I Should Die To-Night Ben King 489 "The Day is Done" Phoebe Cary 490 Jacob Phoebe Cary 491 Ballad of the Canal Phoebe Cary 492 "There's a Bower of Beanvines" Phoebe Cary 493 Reuben Phoebe Cary 493 The Wife Phoebe Cary 494 When Lovely Woman Phoebe Cary 494 John Thomson's Daughter Phoebe Cary 494 A Portrait John Keats 496 Annabel Lee Stanley Huntley 497 Home Sweet Home with Variations H. C. Bunner 498 An Old Song by New Singers A. C. Wilkie 506 More Impressions Oscuro Wildgoose 509 Nursery Rhymes á la Mode Unknown 509 A Maudle-In Ballad Unknown 510 Gillian Unknown 511 Extracts from the Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne Gelett Burgess 512 Diversions of the Re-Echo Club Carolyn Wells 515 Styx River Anthology Carolyn Wells 521 Answer to Master Wither's Song, "Shall I, Wasting in Despair?" Ben Jonson 526 Song of the Springtide Unknown 527 The Village Choir Unknown 528 My Foe Unknown 529 Nursery Song in Pidgin English Unknown 530 Father William Unknown 531 A Poe-'em of Passion C. F. Lummis 532 How the Daughters Come Down at Dunoon H. Cholmondeley-Pennell 533 To an Importunate Host Unknown 534 Cremation William Sawyer 534 An Imitation of Wordsworth Catharine M. Fanshawe 535 The Lay of the Love-Lorn Aytoun and Martin 537 Only Seven Henry S. Leigh 543 'Twas Ever Thus Henry S. Leigh 544 Foam and Fangs Walter Parke 544

X: NARRATIVE

Little Billee W. M. Thackeray 546 The Crystal Palace W. M. Thackeray 547 The Wofle New Ballad of Jane Roney and Mary Brown W. M. Thackeray 552 King John and the Abbot Unknown 554 On the Death of a Favorite Cat Thomas Gray 557 Misadventures at Margate Richard Harris Barham 558 ["Thomas Ingoldsby"] The Gouty Merchant and the Stranger Horace Smith 563 The Diverting History of John Gilpin William Cowper 564 Paddy O'Rafther Samuel Lover 571 Here She Goes and There She Goes James Nack 572 The Quaker's Meeting Samuel Lover 576 The Jester Condemned to Death Horace Smith 578 The Deacon's Masterpiece Oliver Wendell Holmes 580 The Ballad of the Oysterman Oliver Wendell Holmes 583 The Well of St. Keyne Robert Southey 584 The Jackdaw of Rheims Richard Harris Barham 586 ["Thomas Ingoldsby"] The Knight and the Lady Richard Harris Barham 590 ["Thomas Ingoldsby"] An Eastern Question H. M. Paull 598 My Aunt's Spectre Mortimer Collins 600 Casey at the Bat Ernest Lawrence Thayer 601 The Pied Piper of Hamelin Robert Browning 603 The Goose Lord Tennyson 611 The Ballad of Charity Charles Godfrey Leland 613 The Post Captain Charles E. Carryl 615 Robinson Crusoe's Story Charles E. Carryl 617 Ben Bluff Thomas Hood 619 The Pilgrims and the Peas John Wolcot 621 Tam O'Shanter Robert Burns 623 That Gentleman from Boston Town Joaquin Miller 629 The Yarn of the "Nancy Bell" W. S. Gilbert 632 Ferdinando and Elvira W. S. Gilbert 635 Gentle Alice Brown W. S. Gilbert 639 The Story of Prince Agib W. S. Gilbert 641 Sir Guy the Crusader W. S. Gilbert 644 Kitty Wants to Write Gelett Burgess 646 Dighton is Engaged Gelett Burgess 647 Plain Language from Truthful James Bret Harte 648 The Society Upon the Stanisalaus Bret Harte 650 "Jim" Bret Harte 652 William Brown of Oregon Joaquin Miller 653 Little Breeches John Hay 657 The Enchanted Shirt John Hay 658 Jim Bludso John Hay 661 Wreck of the "Julie Plante" William Henry Drummond 662 The Alarmed Skipper James T. Fields 664 The Elderly Gentleman George Canning 665 Saying Not Meaning William Basil Wake 666 Hans Breitmann's Party Charles Godfrey Leland 668 Ballad by Hans Breitmann Charles Godfrey Leland 669 Grampy Sings a Song Holman F. Day 670 The First Banjo Irwin Russell 672 The Romance of the Carpet Robert J. Burdette 674 Hunting of the Snark, The Lewis Carroll 676 The Old Man and Jim James Whitcomb Riley 678 A Sailor's Yarn James Jeffrey Roche 680 The Converted Cannibals G. E. Farrow 683 The Retired Pork-Butcher and the spook G. E. Farrow 685 Skipper Ireson's Ride John Greenleaf Whittier 688 Darius Green and His Flying-Machine John Townsend Trowbridge 690 A Great Fight Robert H. Newell 697 The Donnybrook Jig Viscount Dillon 700 Unfortunate Miss Bailey Unknown 702 The Laird o' Cockpen Lady Nairne 703 A Wedding Sir John Suckling 704

XI: TRIBUTE

The Ahkond of Swat Edward Lear 708 The Ahkoond of Swat George Thomas Lanigan 710 Dirge of the Moolla of Kotal George Thomas Lanigan 712 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse W. M. Thackeray 714 Ould Doctor Mack Alfred Perceval Graves 717 Father O'Flynn Alfred Perceval Graves 719 The Bald-headed Tyrant Vandyne, Mary E. 720 Barney McGee Richard Hovey 721 Address to the Toothache Robert Burns 724 A Farewell to Tobacco Charles Lamb 726 John Barleycorn Robert Burns 730 Stanzas to Pale Ale Unknown 732 Ode to Tobacco Charles Stuart Calverley 732 Sonnet to a Clam John G. Saxe 734 To a Fly John Wolcot 734 Ode to a Bobtailed Cat Unknown 737

XII: WHIMSEY

An Elegy Oliver Goldsmith 740 Parson Gray Oliver Goldsmith 741 The Irishman and the Lady William Maginn 742 The Cataract of Lodore Robert Southey 743 Lay of the Deserted Influenzaed H. Cholmondeley-Pennell 746 Bellagcholly Days Unknown 747 Rhyme of the Rail John G. Saxe 748 Echo John G. Saxe 750 Song Joseph Addison 751 A Gentle Echo on Woman Dean Swift 752 Lay of Ancient Rome Thomas R. Ybarra 753 A New Song John Gay 754 The American Traveller Robert H. Newell 757 The Zealless Xylographer Mary Mapes Dodge 759 The Old Line Fence A. W. Bellaw 760 O-U-G-H Charles Battell Loomis 761 Enigma on the Letter H Catherine M. Fanshawe 762 Travesty of Miss Fanshawe's Enigma Horace Mayhew 763 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog Oliver Goldsmith 764 An Epitaph Matthew Prior 765 Old Grimes Albert Gorton Greene 766 The Endless Song Ruth McEnery Stuart 768 The Hundred Best Books Mostyn T. Pigott 769 The Cosmic Egg Unknown 771 Five Wines Robert Herrick 772 A Rhyme for Musicians E. Lemke 772 My Madeline Walter Parke 773 Susan Simpson Unknown 774 The March to Moscow Robert Southey 775 Half Hours with the Classics H. J. DeBurgh 779 On the Oxford Carrier John Milton 780 Ninety-Nine in the Shade Rossiter Johnson 781 The Triolet William Ernest Henley 782 The Rondeau Austin Dobson 782 Life Unknown 783 Ode to the Human Heart Laman Blanchard 784 A Strike Among the Poets Unknown 785 Whatever Is, Is Right Laman Blanchard 786 Nothing Richard Porson 786 Dirge Unknown 787 O D V Unknown 788 A Man of Words Unknown 790 Similes Unknown 791 No! Thomas Hood 792 Faithless Sally Brown Thomas Hood 792 Tim Turpin Thomas Hood 795 Faithless Nelly Gray Thomas Hood 797 Sally Simpkin's Lament Thomas Hood 800 Death's Ramble Thomas Hood 801 Panegyric on the Ladies Unknown 803 Ambiguous Lines Unknown 804 Surnames James Smith 804 A Ternary of Littles, Upon a Pipkin of Jelly Sent to a Lady Robert Herrick 806 A Carman's Account of a Law Suit Sir David Lindesay 807 Out of Sight, Out of Mind Barnaby Googe 807 Nongtongpaw Charles Dibdin 808 Logical English Unknown 809 Logic Unknown 809 The Careful Penman Unknown 810 Questions with Answers Unknown 810 Conjugal Conjugations A. W. Bellaw 810 Love's Moods and Senses Unknown 812 The Siege of Belgrade Unknown 813 The Happy Man Gilles Ménage 814 The Bells Unknown 816 Takings Thomas Hood, Jr. 817 A Bachelor's Mono-Rhyme Charles Mackay 817 The Art of Bookkeeping An Invitation to the Zoological Laman Blanchard 818 Gardens Unknown 822 A Nocturnal Sketch Thomas Hood 823 Lovelilts Marion Hill 824 Jocosa Lyra Austin Dobson 824 To a Thesaurus Franklin P. Adams 825 The Future of the Classics Unknown 826 Cautionary Verses Theodore Hook 828 The War: A-Z John R. Edwards 829 Lines to Miss Florence Huntingdon Unknown 830 To My Nose Alfred A. Forrester 832 A Polka Lyric Barclay Philips 832 A Catalectic Monody Unknown 833 Ode for a Social Meeting Oliver Wendell Holmes 833 The Jovial Priest's Confession Leigh Hunt 834 Limericks Carolyn Wells 835

XIII: NONSENSE

Lunar Stanzas Henry Coggswell Knight 841 The Whango Tree Unknown 842 Three Children Unknown 843 'Tis Midnight Unknown 843 Cossimbazar Henry S. Leigh 843 An Unexpected Fact Edward Cannon 844 The Cumberbunce Paul West 844 Mr. Finney's Turnip Unknown 847 Nonsense Verses Charles Lamb 848 Like to the Thundering Tone Bishop Corbet 848 Aestivation Oliver Wendell Holmes 849 Uncle Simon and Uncle Jim Charles Farrar Browne 849 ["Artemus Ward"] A Tragic Story W. M. Thackeray 850 Sonnet Found in a Deserted Mad House Unknown 851 The Jim-Jam King of the Jou-Jous Alaric Bertrand Stuart 851 To Marie John Bennett 852 My Dream Unknown 853 The Rollicking Mastodon Arthur Macy 853 The Invisible Bridge Gelett Burgess 855 The Lazy Roof Gelett Burgess 855 My Feet Gelett Burgess 855 Spirk Troll-Derisive James Whitcomb Riley 855 The Man in the Moon James Whitcomb Riley 856 The Lugubrious Whing-Whang James Whitcomb Riley 858 The Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo Edward Lear 859 The Jumbles Edward Lear 862 The Pobble Who Has no Toes Edward Lear 865 The New Vestments Edward Lear 866 The Two Old Bachelors Edward Lear 868 Jabberwocky Lewis Carroll 869 Ways and Means Lewis Carroll 870 Humpty Dumpty's Recitation Lewis Carroll 872 Some Hallucinations Lewis Carroll 874 Sing for the Garish Eye W. S. Gilbert 875 The Shipwreck E. H. Palmer 876 Uffia Harriet R. White 877 'Tis Sweet to Roam Unknown 878 Three Jovial Huntsmen Unknown 878 King Arthur Unknown 879 Hyder Iddle Unknown 879 The Ocean Wanderer Unknown 879 Scientific Proof J. W. Foley 880 The Thingumbob Unknown 882 Wonders of Nature Unknown 882 Lines by an Old Fogy Unknown 882 A Country Summer Pastoral Unknown 883 Turvey Top William Sawyer 884 A Ballad of Bedlam Unknown 886

XIV: NATURAL HISTORY

The Fastidious Serpent Henry Johnstone 887 The Legend of the First Cam-u-el Arthur Guiterman 888 Unsatisfied Yearning R. K. Munkittrick 889 Kindly Advice Unknown 890 Kindness to Animals J. Ashby-Sterry 891 To Be or Not To Be Unknown 891 The Hen Matthew Claudius 892 Of Baiting the Lion Owen Seaman 893 The Flamingo Lewis Gaylord Clark 894 Why Doth a Pussy Cat? Burges Johnson 895 The Walrus and the Carpenter Lewis Carroll 896 Nirvana Unknown 900 The Catfish Oliver Herford 900 War Relief Oliver Herford 901 The Owl and the Pussy-Cat Edward Lear 901 Mexican Serenade Arthur Guiterman 902 Orphan Born Robert J. Burdette 903 Divided Destinies Rudyard Kipling 904 The Viper Hilaire Belloc 906 The Llama Hilaire Belloc 906 The Yak Hilaire Belloc 906 The Frog Hilaire Belloc 907 The Microbe Hilaire Belloc 907 The Great Black Crow Philip James Bailey 907 The Colubriad William Cowper 909 The Retired Cat William Cowper 910 A Darwinian Ballad Unknown 913 The Pig Robert Southey 914 A Fish Story Henry A. Beers 916 The Cameronian Cat Unknown 917 The Young Gazelle Walter Parke 918 The Ballad of the Emeu Bret Harte 921 The Turtle and Flamingo James Thomas Fields 923

XV: JUNIORS

Prior to Miss Belle's Appearance James Whitcomb Riley 925 There Was a Little Girl Unknown 926 The Naughty Darkey Boy Unknown 927 Dutch Lullaby Eugene Field 928 The Dinkey-Bird Eugene Field 929 The Little Peach Eugene Field 931 Counsel to Those that Eat Unknown 932 Home and Mother Mary Mapes Dodge 932 Little Orphant Annie James Whitcomb Riley 934 A Visit From St. Nicholas Clement Clarke Moore 935 A Nursery Legend Henry S. Leigh 937 A Little Goose Eliza Sproat Turner 938 Leedle Yawcob Strauss Charles Follen Adams 940 A Parental Ode to My Son, Aged Three Years and Five Months Thomas Hood 941 Little Mamma Charles Henry Webb 943 The Comical Girl M. Pelham 946 Bunches of Grapes Walter Ramal 947

XVI: IMMORTAL STANZAS

The Purple Cow Gelett Burgess 948 The Young Lady of Niger Unknown 948 The Laughing Willow Oliver Herford 948 Said Opie Reed Julian Street and James Montgomery Flagg 948 Manila Eugene F. Ware 949 On the Aristocracy of Harvard Dr. Samuel G. Bushnell 949 On the Democracy of Yale Dean Jones 949 The Herring Sir Walter Scott 949 If the Man Samuel Johnson 949 The Kilkenny Cats Unknown 950 Poor Dear Grandpapa D'Arcy W. Thompson 950 More Walks Richard Harris Barham 950 ["Thomas Ingoldsby"] Indifference Unknown 950 Madame Sans Souci Unknown 950 A Riddle Unknown 951 If Unknown 951

THE BOOK OF

HUMOROUS VERSE

I

BANTER

THE PLAYED-OUT HUMOURIST

Quixotic is his enterprise and hopeless his adventure is, Who seeks for jocularities that haven't yet been said; The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries, And every joke that's possible has long ago been made. I started as a humourist with lots of mental fizziness, But humour is a drug which it's the fashion to abuse; For my stock-in-trade, my fixtures and the good-will of the business No reasonable offer I am likely to refuse. And if anybody choose He may circulate the news That no reasonable offer I am likely to refuse.

Oh, happy was that humourist--the first that made a pun at all-- Who when a joke occurred to him, however poor and mean, Was absolutely certain that it never had been done at all-- How popular at dinners must that humourist have been! Oh, the days when some step-father for a query held a handle out,-- The door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very far? And when no one knew where Moses was when Aaron put the candle out, And no one had discovered that a door could be a-jar! But your modern hearers are In their tastes particular, And they sneer if you inform them that a door can be a jar!

In search of quip and quiddity I've sat all day alone, apart-- And all that I could hit on as a problem was--to find Analogy between a scrag of mutton and a Bony-part, Which offers slight employment to the speculative mind. For you cannot call it very good, however great your charity-- It's not the sort of humour that is greeted with a shout-- And I've come to the conclusion that my mine of jocularity, In present Anno Domini is worked completely out! Though the notion you may scout, I can prove beyond a doubt That my mine of jocularity is worked completely out!

W. S. Gilbert.

THE PRACTICAL JOKER

Oh, what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes! What keen enjoyment springs From cheap and simple things! What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes, That pain and trouble brew For every one but you!

Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havana, Its unexpected flash Burns eyebrows and moustache. When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha, But common sense suggests You keep it for your guests--

Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red hot coppers. And much amusement bides In common butter slides; And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers.

Coal scuttles, recollect, Produce the same effect.

A man possessed Of common sense Need not invest At great expense

It does not call For pocket deep, These jokes are all Extremely cheap.

If you commence with eighteenpence--it's all you'll have to pay; You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day.

A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets--

And turnip heads on posts Make very decent ghosts.

Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waistcoat pockets--

Burnt cork and walnut juice Are not without their use.

No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with needles--

Live shrimps their patience tax When put down people's backs.

Surprising, too, what one can do with a pint of fat black beetles--

And treacle on a chair Will make a Quaker swear!

Then sharp tin tacks And pocket squirts-- And cobbler's wax For ladies' skirts--

And slimy slugs On bedroom floors-- And water jugs On open doors--

Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day.

W. S. Gilbert.

TO PH[OE]BE

"Gentle, modest little flower, Sweet epitome of May, Love me but for half an hour, Love me, love me, little fay." Sentences so fiercely flaming In your tiny, shell-like ear, I should always be exclaiming If I loved you, Ph[oe]be dear.

"Smiles that thrill from any distance Shed upon me while I sing! Please ecstaticize existence, Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!" Words like these, outpouring sadly, You'd perpetually hear, If I loved you fondly, madly;-- But I do not, Ph[oe]be dear.

W. S. Gilbert.

MALBROUCK

Malbrouck, the prince of commanders, Is gone to the war in Flanders; His fame is like Alexander's; But when will he come home?

Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or Perhaps he may come at Easter. Egad! he had better make haste, or We fear he may never come.

For Trinity Feast is over, And has brought no news from Dover; And Easter is past, moreover, And Malbrouck still delays.

Milady in her watch-tower Spends many a pensive hour, Not well knowing why or how her Dear lord from England stays.

While sitting quite forlorn in That tower, she spies returning A page clad in deep mourning, With fainting steps and slow.

"O page, prithee, come faster! What news do you bring of your master? I fear there is some disaster, Your looks are so full of woe."

"The news I bring, fair lady," With sorrowful accent said he, "Is one you are not ready So soon, alas! to hear.

"But since to speak I'm hurried," Added this page, quite flurried, "Malbrouck is dead and buried!" (And here he shed a tear.)

"He's dead! he's dead as a herring! For I beheld his 'berring,' And four officers transferring His corpse away from the field.

"One officer carried his sabre, And he carried it not without labour, Much envying his next neighbour, Who only bore a shield.

"The third was helmet-bearer-- That helmet which on its wearer Filled all who saw with terror, And covered a hero's brains.

"Now, having got so far, I Find that (by the Lord Harry!) The fourth is left nothing to carry; So there the thing remains."

Translated by Father Prout.

MARK TWAIN: A PIPE DREAM

Well I recall how first I met Mark Twain--an infant barely three Rolling a tiny cigarette While cooing on his nurse's knee.

Since then in every sort of place I've met with Mark and heard him joke, Yet how can I describe his face? I never saw it for the smoke.

At school he won a smokership, At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.) His name was soon on every lip, They made him "smoker" of his class.

Who will forget his smoking bout With Mount Vesuvius--our cheers-- When Mount Vesuvius went out And didn't smoke again for years?

The news was flashed to England's King, Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay, Offered him dukedoms--anything To smoke the London fog away.

But Mark was firm. "I bow," said he, "To no imperial command, No ducal coronet for me, My smoke is for my native land!" For Mark there waits a brighter crown! When Peter comes his card to read-- He'll take the sign "No Smoking" down, Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.

Oliver Herford.

FROM A FULL HEART

In days of peace my fellow-men Rightly regarded me as more like A Bishop than a Major-Gen., And nothing since has made me warlike; But when this age-long struggle ends And I have seen the Allies dish up The goose of Hindenburg--oh, friends! I shall out-bish the mildest Bishop.

_When the War is over and the Kaiser's out of print I'm going to buy some tortoises and watch the beggars sprint; When the War is over and the sword at last we sheathe I'm going to keep a jelly-fish and listen to it breathe._

I never really longed for gore, And any taste for red corpuscles That lingered with me left before The German troops had entered Brussels. In early days the Colonel's "'Shun!" Froze me; and as the war grew older The noise of some one else's gun Left me considerably colder.

_When the War is over and the battle has been won I'm going to buy a barnacle and take it for a run; When the War is over and the German fleet we sink I'm going to keep a silkworm's egg and listen to it think._

The Captains and the Kings depart-- It may be so, but not lieutenants; Dawn after weary dawn I start The never ending round of penance; One rock amid the welter stands On which my gaze is fixed intently: An after-life in quiet lands Lived very lazily and gently.

_When the War is over and we've done the Belgians proud I'm going to keep a chrysalis and read to it aloud; When the War is over and we've finished up the show I'm going to plant a lemon pip and listen to it grow_.

Oh, I'm tired of the noise and turmoil of battle, And I'm even upset by the lowing of cattle, And the clang of the bluebells is death to my liver, And the roar of the dandelion gives me a shiver, And a glacier, in movement, is much too exciting, And I'm nervous, when standing on one, of alighting-- Give me Peace; that is all, that is all that I seek.... Say, starting on Saturday week.

A. A. Milne.

THE ULTIMATE JOY

I have felt the thrill of passion in the poet's mystic book And I've lingered in delight to catch the rhythm of the brook; I've felt the ecstasy that comes when prima donnas reach For upper C and hold it in a long, melodious screech. And yet the charm of all these blissful memories fades away As I think upon the fortune that befell the other day, As I bring to recollection, with a joyous, wistful sigh, That I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July.

Oh, eerie hour of drowsiness--'twas like a fairy spell, That respite from the terrors we have known, alas, so well, The malevolent mosquito, with a limp and idle bill, Hung supinely from the ceiling, all exhausted by his chill. And the early morning sunbeam lost his customary leer And brought a gracious greeting and a prophecy of cheer; A generous affability reached up from earth to sky, When I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July.

In every life there comes a time of happiness supreme, When joy becomes reality and not a glittering dream. 'Tis less appreciated, but it's worth a great deal more Than tides which taken at their flood lead on to fortune's shore. How vain is Art's illusion, and how potent Nature's sway When once in kindly mood she deigns to waft our woes away! And the memory will cheer me, though all other pleasures fly, Of how I woke and needed extra covers in July.

Unknown.

OLD FASHIONED FUN

When that old joke was new, It was not hard to joke, And puns we now pooh-pooh, Great laughter would provoke.

True wit was seldom heard, And humor shown by few, When reign'd King George the Third, And that old joke was new.

It passed indeed for wit, Did this achievement rare, When down your friend would sit, To steal away his chair.

You brought him to the floor, You bruised him black and blue, And this would cause a roar, When your old joke was new.

W. M. Thackeray.

WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS

When moonlike ore the hazure seas In soft effulgence swells, When silver jews and balmy breaze Bend down the Lily's bells; When calm and deap, the rosy sleap Has lapt your soal in dreems, R Hangeline! R lady mine! Dost thou remember Jeames?

I mark thee in the Marble all, Where England's loveliest shine-- I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline. My soul, in desolate eclipse, With recollection teems-- And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames?

Away! I may not tell thee hall This soughring heart endures-- There is a lonely sperrit-call That Sorrow never cures; There is a little, little Star, That still above me beams; It is the Star of Hope--but ar! Dost thou remember Jeames?

W. M. Thackeray.

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' hearty-like about the atmosphere, When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here-- Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetisin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur that no painter has the colorin' to mock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover overhead!-- O, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

James Whitcomb Riley.

TWO MEN

There be two men of all mankind That I should like to know about; But search and question where I will, I cannot ever find them out.

Melchizedek he praised the Lord, And gave some wine to Abraham; But who can tell what else he did Must be more learned than I am.

Ucalegon he lost his house When Agamemnon came to Troy; But who can tell me who he was-- I'll pray the gods to give him joy.

There be two men of all mankind That I'm forever thinking on; They chase me everywhere I go,-- Melchizedek, Ucalegon.

Edwin Arlington Robinson.

A FAMILIAR LETTER TO SEVERAL CORRESPONDENTS

Yes, write if you want to--there's nothing like trying; Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold? I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying, If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold.

Here's a book full of words: one can choose as he fancies, As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool; Just think! all the poems and plays and romances Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool!

You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes, And take all you want--not a copper they cost; What is there to hinder your picking out phrases For an epic as clever as "Paradise Lost"?

Don't mind if the index of sense is at zero; Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean; Leander and Lillian and Lillibullero Are much the same thing in the rhyming machine.

There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother That boarding-school flavour of which we're afraid; There is "lush" is a good one and "swirl" is another; Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made.

With musical murmurs and rhythmical closes You can cheat us of smiles when you've nothing to tell; You hand us a nosegay of milliner's roses, And we cry with delight, "Oh, how sweet they do smell!"

Perhaps you will answer all needful conditions For winning the laurels to which you aspire, By docking the tails of the two prepositions I' the style o' the bards you so greatly admire.

As for subjects of verse, they are only too plenty For ringing the changes on metrical chimes; A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty, Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes.

Let me show you a picture--'tis far from irrelevant-- By a famous old hand in the arts of design; 'Tis only a photographed sketch of an elephant; The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine.

How easy! no troublesome colours to lay on; It can't have fatigued him, no, not in the least; A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon, And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast.

Just so with your verse--'tis as easy as sketching; You can reel off a song without knitting your brow, As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching; It is nothing at all, if you only know how.

Well, imagine you've printed your volume of verses; Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame; Your poem the eloquent school-boy rehearses; Her album the school-girl presents for your name.

Each morning the post brings you autograph letters; You'll answer them promptly--an hour isn't much For the honour of sharing a page with your betters, With magistrates, members of Congress, and such.

Of course you're delighted to serve the committees That come with requests from the country all round; You would grace the occasion with poems and ditties When they've got a new school-house, or poor-house, or pound.

With a hymn for the saints, and a song for the sinners, You go and are welcome wherever you please; You're a privileged guest at all manner of dinners; You've a seat on the platform among the grandees.

At length your mere presence becomes a sensation; Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brim With the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration, As the whisper runs round of "That's he!" or "That's him!"

But, remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous, So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched, Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o'er us, The ovum was human from which you were hatched.

No will of your own, with its puny compulsion, Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre; It comes, if at all, like the sibyl's convulsion, And touches the brain with a finger of fire.

So, perhaps, after all, it's as well to be quiet, If you've nothing you think is worth saying in prose, As to furnish a meal of their cannibal diet To the critics, by publishing, as you propose.

But it's all of no use, and I'm sorry I've written; I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf; For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten, And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS

I wrote some lines once on a time In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him, To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), "There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon a grin.

He read the next, the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear; He read the third, a chuckling noise I now began to hear.

The fourth, he broke into a roar; The fifth, his waistband split; The sixth, he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

SHAKE, MULLEARY AND GO-ETHE

I

I have a bookcase, which is what Many much better men have not. There are no books inside, for books, I am afraid, might spoil its looks. But I've three busts, all second-hand, Upon the top. You understand I could not put them underneath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

II

Shake was a dramatist of note; He lived by writing things to quote, He long ago put on his shroud: Some of his works are rather loud. His bald-spot's dusty, I suppose. I know there's dust upon his nose. I'll have to give each nose a sheath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

III

Mulleary's line was quite the same; He has more hair, but far less fame. I would not from that fame retrench-- But he is foreign, being French. Yet high his haughty head he heaves, The only one done up in leaves, They're rather limited on wreath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

IV

Go-ethe wrote in the German tongue: He must have learned it very young. His nose is quite a butt for scoff, Although an inch of it is off. He did quite nicely for the Dutch; But here he doesn't count for much. They all are off their native heath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

V

They sit there, on their chests, as bland As if they were not second-hand. I do not know of what they think, Nor why they never frown or wink, But why from smiling they refrain I think I clearly can explain: They none of them could show much teeth-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

H. C. Bunner.

A RONDELAY

Man is for woman made, And woman made for man: As the spur is for the jade, As the scabbard for the blade, As for liquor is the can, So man's for woman made, And woman made for man.

As the sceptre to be sway'd, As to night the serenade, As for pudding is the pan, As to cool us is the fan, So man's for woman made, And woman made for man.

Be she widow, wife, or maid, Be she wanton, be she staid, Be she well or ill array'd, So man's for woman made, And woman made for man.

Peter A. Motteux.

WINTER DUSK

The prospect is bare and white, And the air is crisp and chill; While the ebon wings of night Are spread on the distant hill.

The roar of the stormy sea Seem the dirges shrill and sharp That winter plays on the tree-- His wild Æolian harp.

In the pool that darkly creeps In ripples before the gale, A star like a lily sleeps And wiggles its silver tail.

R. K. Munkittrick.

COMIC MISERIES

My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself a "happy dog," For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man!

You're at an evening party, with A group of pleasant folks,-- You venture quietly to crack The least of little jokes,-- A lady doesn't catch the point, And begs you to explain-- Alas for one that drops a jest And takes it up again!

You're talking deep philosophy With very special force, To edify a clergyman With suitable discourse,-- You think you've got him--when he calls A friend across the way, And begs you'll say that funny thing You said the other day!

You drop a pretty jeu-de-mot Into a neighbor's ears, Who likes to give you credit for The clever thing he hears, And so he hawks your jest about, The old authentic one, Just breaking off the point of it, And leaving out the pun!

By sudden change in politics, Or sadder change in Polly, You, lose your love, or loaves, and fall A prey to melancholy, While everybody marvels why Your mirth is under ban,-- They think your very grief "a joke," You're such a funny man!

You follow up a stylish card That bids you come and dine, And bring along your freshest wit (To pay for musty wine), You're looking very dismal, when My lady bounces in, And wonders what you're thinking of And why you don't begin!

You're telling to a knot of friends A fancy-tale of woes That cloud your matrimonial sky, And banish all repose-- solemn lady overhears The story of your strife, And tells the town the pleasant news: You quarrel with your wife!

My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself "a happy dog," For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man!

John G. Saxe.

EARLY RISING

"God bless the man who first invented sleep!" So Sancho Panza said, and so say I: And bless him, also, that he didn't keep His great discovery to himself; nor try To make it--as the lucky fellow might-- A close monopoly by patent-right!

Yes--bless the man who first invented sleep, (I really can't avoid the iteration;) But blast the man, with curses loud and deep, Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-off--Early Rising!

"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," Observes some solemn, sentimental owl; Maxims like these are very cheaply said; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray just inquire about his rise and fall, And whether larks have any beds at all!

The time for honest folks to be a-bed Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery; or else--he drinks!

Thompson, who sung about the "Seasons," said It was a glorious thing to rise in season; But then he said it--lying--in his bed, At ten o'clock A.M.,--the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.

'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,-- Awake to duty, and awake to truth,-- But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood or asleep!

'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile For the soft visions of the gentle night; And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, To live as only in the angel's sight, In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!

So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, "Served him right!--it's not at all surprising; The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!"

John G. Saxe.

TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL

"Speak, O man less recent! Fragmentary fossil! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum Of volcanic tufa!

"Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium; Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami; Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions Of earth's epidermis!

"Eo--Mio--Plio--whatsoe'er the 'cene' was That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,-- Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,-- Tell us thy strange story!

"Or has the professor slightly antedated By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted For cold-blooded creatures?

"Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest When above thy head the stately Sigillaria Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant Carboniferous epoch?

"Tell us of that scene--the dim and watery woodland, Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses, Lycopodiacea,--

"When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, And all around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, While from time to time above thee flew and circled Cheerful Pterodactyls;--

"Tell us of thy food,--those half-marine refections, Crinoids on the shell, and Brachipods au naturel,-- Cuttle-fish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo Seems a periwinkle.

"Speak, thou awful vestige of the Earth's creation-- Solitary fragment of remains organic! Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence-- Speak! thou oldest primate!"

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, Ground the teeth together.

And, from that imperfect dental exhibition, Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs Of expectoration:

"Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted Falling down a shaft in Calaveras county, But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces Home to old Missouri!"

Bret Harte.

ODE TO WORK IN SPRINGTIME

Oh, would that working I might shun, From labour my connection sever, That I might do a bit--or none Whatever!

That I might wander over hills, Establish friendship with a daisy, O'er pretty things like daffodils Go crazy!

That I might at the heavens gaze, Concern myself with nothing weighty, Loaf, at a stretch, for seven days-- Or eighty.

Why can't I cease a slave to be, And taste existence beatific On some fair island, hid in the Pacific?

Instead of sitting at a desk 'Mid undone labours, grimly lurking-- Oh, say, what is there picturesque In working?

But no!--to loaf were misery!-- I love to work! Hang isles of coral! (To end this otherwise would be Immoral!)

Thomas R. Ybarra.

OLD STUFF

If I go to see the play, Of the story I am certain; Promptly it gets under way With the lifting of the curtain. Builded all that's said and done On the ancient recipe-- 'Tis the same old Two and One: A and B in love with C.

If I read the latest book, There's the mossy situation; One may confidently look For the trite triangulation. Old as time, but ever new, Seemingly, this tale of Three-- Same old yarn of One and Two: A and C in love with B.

If I cast my eyes around, Far and near and middle distance, Still the formula is found In our everyday existence. Everywhere I look I see-- Fact or fiction, life or play-- Still the little game of Three: B and C in love with A.

While the ancient law fulfills, Myriad moons shall wane and wax. Jack must have his pair of Jills, Jill must have her pair of Jacks.

Bert Leston Taylor.

TO MINERVA

My temples throb, my pulses boil, I'm sick of Song and Ode and Ballad-- So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil, And pour it on a lobster salad.

My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read-- Then Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a Lark instead.

Thomas Hood.

THE LEGEND OF HEINZ VON STEIN

Out rode from his wild, dark castle The terrible Heinz von Stein; He came to the door of a tavern And gazed on its swinging sign.

He sat himself down at a table, And growled for a bottle of wine; Up came with a flask and a corkscrew A maiden of beauty divine.

Then, seized with a deep love-longing, He uttered, "O damosel mine, Suppose you just give a few kisses To the valorous Ritter von Stein!"

But she answered, "The kissing business Is entirely out of my line; And I certainly will not begin it On a countenance ugly as thine!"

Oh, then the bold knight was angry, And cursed both coarse and fine; And asked, "How much is the swindle For your sour and nasty wine?"

And fiercely he rode to the castle And sat himself down to dine; And this is the dreadful legend Of the terrible Heinz von Stein.

Charles Godfrey Leland.

THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE

It is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating Of the fossils who are stating That old Horace was a prude; When we know that with the ladies He was always raising Hades, And with many an escapade his Best productions are imbued.

There's really not much harm in a Large number of his carmina, But these people find alarm in a Few records of his acts; So they'd squelch the muse caloric, And to students sophomoric They'd present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts.

We have always thought 'em lazy; Now we adjudge 'em crazy! Why, Horace was a daisy That was very much alive! And the wisest of us know him As his Lydia verses show him,-- Go, read that virile poem,-- It is No. 25.

He was a very owl, sir, And starting out to prowl, sir, You bet he made Rome howl, sir, Until he filled his date; With a massic-laden ditty And a classic maiden pretty, He painted up the city, And Mæcenas paid the freight!

Eugene Field.

PROPINQUITY NEEDED

Celestine Silvousplait Justine de Mouton Rosalie, A coryphée who lived and danced in naughty, gay Paree, Was every bit as pretty as a French girl e'er can be (Which isn't saying much).

Maurice Boulanger (there's a name that would adorn a king), But Morris Baker was the name they called the man I sing. He lived in New York City in the Street that's labeled Spring (Chosen because it rhymed).

Now Baker was a lonesome youth and wanted to be wed, And for a wife, all over town he hunted, it is said; And up and down Fifth Avenue he ofttimes wanderéd (He was a peripatetic Baker, he was).

And had he met Celestine, not a doubt but Cupid's darts Would in a trice have wounded both of their fond, loving hearts; But he has never left New York to stray in foreign parts (Because he hasn't the price).

And she has never left Paree and so, of course, you see There's not the slightest chance at all she'll marry Morris B. For love to get well started, really needs propinquity (Hence my title).

Charles Battell Loomis.

IN THE CATACOMBS

Sam Brown was a fellow from way down East, Who never was "staggered" in the least. No tale of marvellous beast or bird Could match the stories he had heard; No curious place or wondrous view "Was ekil to Podunk, I tell yu."

If they told him of Italy's sunny clime, "Maine kin beat it, every time!" If they marvelled at Ætna's fount of fire, They roused his ire: With an injured air He'd reply, "I swear I don't think much of a smokin' hill; We've got a moderate little rill Kin make yer old volcaner still; Jes' pour old Kennebec down the crater, 'N' I guess it'll cool her fiery nater!"

They showed him a room where a queen had slept; "'Twan't up to the tavern daddy kept." They showed him Lucerne; but he had drunk From the beautiful Molechunkamunk. They took him at last to ancient Rome, And inveigled him into a catacomb: Here they plied him with draughts of wine, Though he vowed old cider was twice as fine, Till the fumes of Falernian filled his head, And he slept as sound as the silent dead; They removed a mummy to make him room, And laid him at length in the rocky tomb.

They piled old skeletons round the stone, Set a "dip" in a candlestick of bone, And left him to slumber there alone; Then watched from a distance the taper's gleam, Waiting to jeer at his frightened scream, When he should wake from his drunken dream.

After a time the Yankee woke, But instantly saw through the flimsy joke; So never a cry or shout he uttered, But solemnly rose, and slowly muttered: "I see how it is. It's the judgment day, We've all been dead and stowed away; All these stone furreners sleepin' yet, An' I'm the fust one up, you bet! Can't none o' you Romans start, I wonder? United States ahead, by thunder!"

Harlan Hoge Ballard.

OUR NATIVE BIRDS

Alone I sit at eventide; The twilight glory pales, And o'er the meadows far and wide I hear the bobolinks-- (We have no nightingales!)

Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old manse on the lea Flies slow the cawing crow-- (In England 'twere a rook!)

The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men-- (Alas! we have no swains!)

From farmyards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids Sweeter than catbird's strains-- (I should say Philomel's!)

I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun's bright flame And heard the oriole-- (Alas! we have no lark!)

We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, No swains, no nightingales, No singing milkmaids (save in books) The poet does his best:-- It is the rhyme that fails.

Nathan Haskell Dole.

THE PRAYER OF CYRUS BROWN

"The proper way for a man to pray," Said Deacon Lemuel Keyes, "And the only proper attitude Is down upon his knees."

"No, I should say the way to pray," Said Rev. Doctor Wise, "Is standing straight with outstretched arms And rapt and upturned eyes."

"Oh, no; no, no," said Elder Slow, "Such posture is too proud: A man should pray with eyes fast closed And head contritely bowed."

"It seems to me his hands should be Austerely clasped in front. With both thumbs pointing toward the ground," Said Rev. Doctor Blunt.

"Las' year I fell in Hodgkin's well Head first," said Cyrus Brown, "With both my heels a-stickin' up, My head a-pinting down;

"An' I made a prayer right then an' there-- Best prayer I ever said, The prayingest prayer I ever prayed, A-standing on my head."

Sam Walter Foss.

ERRING IN COMPANY

"If I have erred, I err in company with Abraham Lincoln." --Theodore Roosevelt.

If e'er my rhyming be at fault, If e'er I chance to scribble dope, If that my metre ever halt, I err in company with Pope.

An that my grammar go awry, An that my English be askew, Sooth, I can prove an alibi-- The Bard of Avon did it too.

If often toward the bottled grape My errant fancy fondly turns, Remember, leering jackanape, I err in company with Burns.

If now and then I sigh "Mine own!" Unto another's wedded wife, Remember, I am not alone-- Hast ever read Lord Byron's Life?

If frequently I fret and fume, And absolutely will not smile, I err in company with Hume, Old Socrates and T. Carlyle.

If e'er I fail in etiquette, And foozle on The Proper Stuff Regarding manners, don't forget A. Tennyson's were pretty tough.

Eke if I err upon the side Of talking overmuch of Me, I err, it cannot be denied, In most illustrious company.

Franklin P. Adams.

CUPID

Why was Cupid a boy, And why a boy was he? He should have been a girl, For aught that I can see.

For he shoots with his bow, And the girl shoots with her eye; And they both are merry and glad, And laugh when we do cry.

Then to make Cupid a boy Was surely a woman's plan, For a boy never learns so much Till he has become a man.

And then he's so pierced with cares, And wounded with arrowy smarts, That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts.

William Blake.

IF WE DIDN'T HAVE TO EAT

Life would be an easy matter If we didn't have to eat. If we never had to utter, "Won't you pass the bread and butter, Likewise push along that platter Full of meat?" Yes, if food were obsolete Life would be a jolly treat, If we didn't--shine or shower, Old or young, 'bout every hour-- Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat-- 'Twould be jolly if we didn't have to eat.

We could save a lot of money If we didn't have to eat. Could we cease our busy buying, Baking, broiling, brewing, frying, Life would then be oh, so sunny And complete; And we wouldn't fear to greet Every grocer in the street If we didn't--man and woman, Every hungry, helpless human-- Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat-- We'd save money if we didn't have to eat.

All our worry would be over If we didn't have to eat. Would the butcher, baker, grocer Get our hard-earned dollars? No, Sir! We would then be right in clover Cool and sweet. Want and hunger we could cheat, And we'd get there with both feet, If we didn't--poor or wealthy, Halt or nimble, sick or healthy-- Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, We could get there if we didn't have to eat.

Nixon Waterman.

TO MY EMPTY PURSE

To you, my purse, and to none other wight, Complain I, for ye be my lady dere; I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere; Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere, For which unto your mercy thus I crie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, That I of you the blissful sowne may here, Or see your color like the sunne bright, That of yellowness had never pere; Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queen of comfort and of good companie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now purse, thou art to me my lives light, And saviour, as downe in this world here, Out of this towne helpe me by your might, Sith that you will not be my treasure, For I am slave as nere as any frere, But I pray unto your curtesie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Geoffrey Chaucer.

THE BIRTH OF SAINT PATRICK

On the eighth day of March it was, some people say, That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day; While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born, And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn; For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock, And some blam'd the baby--and some blam'd the clock-- Till with all their cross-questions sure no one could know, If the child was too fast--or the clock was too slow.

Now the first faction fight in ould Ireland, they say, Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birthday, Some fought for the eighth--for the ninth more would die. And who wouldn't see right, sure they blacken'd his eye! At last, both the factions so positive grew, That each kept a birthday, so Pat then had two, Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins, Said, "No one could have two birthdays but a twins."

Says he, "Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or for nine, Don't be always dividin'--but sometimes combine; Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark, So let that be his birthday."--"Amen," says the clerk. "If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will show-- That, at least, he's worth any two saints that we know!" Then they all got blind dhrunk--which complated their bliss, And we keep up the practice from that day to this.

Samuel Lover.

HER LITTLE FEET

Her little feet!... Beneath us ranged the sea, She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded, One shoe above the other danglingly, And lo! a Something exquisitely graded, Brown rings and white, distracting--to the knee!

The band was loud. A wild waltz melody Flowed rhythmic forth. The nobodies paraded. And thro' my dream went pulsing fast and free: Her little feet.

Till she made room for some one. It was He! A port-wine flavored He, a He who traded, Rich, rosy, round, obese to a degree! A sense of injury overmastered me. Quite bulbously his ample boots upbraided Her little feet.

William Ernest Henley.

SCHOOL

If there is a vile, pernicious, Wicked and degraded rule, Tending to debase the vicious, And corrupt the harmless fool; If there is a hateful habit Making man a senseless tool, With the feelings of a rabbit And the wisdom of a mule; It's the rule which inculcates, It's the habit which dictates The wrong and sinful practice of going into school.

If there's anything improving To an erring sinner's state, Which is useful in removing All the ills of human fate; If there's any glorious custom Which our faults can dissipate, And can casually thrust 'em Out of sight and make us great; It's the plan by which we shirk Half our matu-ti-nal work, The glorious institution of always being late.

James Kenneth Stephen.

THE MILLENNIUM

TO R. K.

_As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrendous Demoniaco-seraphic Penman's latest piece of graphic._ --|Robert Browning|.

Will there never come a season Which shall rid us from the curse Of a prose which knows no reason And an unmelodious verse: When the world shall cease to wonder At the genius of an Ass, And a boy's eccentric blunder Shall not bring success to pass:

When mankind shall be delivered From the clash of magazines, And the inkstand shall be shivered Into countless smithereens: When there stands a muzzled stripling, Mute, beside a muzzled bore: When the Rudyards cease from Kipling And the Haggards Ride no more?

James Kenneth Stephen.

"EXACTLY SO"

A |speech|, both pithy and concise, Marks a mind acute and wise; What speech, my friend, say, do you know, Can stand before "Exactly so?"

I have a dear and witty friend Who turns this phrase to every end; None can deny that "Yes" or "No" Is meant in this "Exactly so."

Or when a bore his ear assails, Good-humour in his bosom fails, No response from his lips will flow, Save, now and then, "Exactly so."

Is there remark on matters grave That he may wish perchance to waive, Or thinks perhaps is rather slow, He stops it by "Exactly so."

It saves the trouble of a thought-- No sour dispute can thence be sought; It leaves the thing in statu quo, This beautiful "Exactly so."

It has another charm, this phrase, For it implies the speaker's praise Of what has just been said--ergo-- It pleases, this "Exactly so."

Nor need the conscience feel distress, By answ'ring wrongly "No" or "Yes;" It 'scapes a falsehood, which is low, And substitutes "Exactly so."

Each mortal loves to think he's right, That his opinion, too, is bright; Then, Christian, you may soothe your foe By chiming in "Exactly so."

Whoe'er these lines may chance peruse, Of this famed word will see the use, And mention where'er he may go, The praises of "Exactly so."

Of this more could my muse relate, But you, kind reader, I'll not sate; For if I did you'd cry "Hallo! I've heard enough"--"Exactly so."

Lady T. Hastings.

COMPANIONS

A TALE OF A GRANDFATHER

I know not of what we ponder'd Or made pretty pretence to talk, As, her hand within mine, we wander'd Tow'rd the pool by the lime-tree walk, While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.

I cannot recall her figure: Was it regal as Juno's own? Or only a trifle bigger Than the elves who surround the throne Of the Faëry Queen, and are seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone?

What her eyes were like, I know not: Perhaps they were blurr'd with tears; And perhaps in your skies there glow not (On the contrary) clearer spheres. No! as to her eyes I am just as wise As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly": But which was she, brunette or blonde? Her hair, was it quaintly curly, Or as straight as a beadle's wand? That I fail'd to remark;--it was rather dark And shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that reposed so snugly In mine,--was it plump or spare? Was the countenance fair or ugly? Nay, children, you have me there! My eyes were p'r'aps blurr'd; and besides I'd heard That it's horribly rude to stare.

And I--was I brusque and surly? Or oppressively bland and fond? Was I partial to rising early? Or why did we twain abscond, All breakfastless, too, from the public view, To prowl by a misty pond?

What pass'd, what was felt or spoken-- Whether anything pass'd at all-- And whether the heart was broken That beat under that shelt'ring shawl-- (If shawl she had on, which I doubt)--has gone, Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor? Or her uncle? I can't make out-- Ask your governess, dears, or tutor. For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt As to why we were there, who on earth we were, And, what this is all about.

Charles Stuart Calverley.

THE SCHOOLMASTER

ABROAD WITH HIS SON

O what harper could worthily harp it, Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold (Look out wold) with its wonderful carpet Of emerald, purple and gold! Look well at it--also look sharp, it Is getting so cold.

The purple is heather (erica); The yellow, gorse--call'd sometimes "whin." Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a Green beetle as if on a pin. You may roll in it, if you would like a Few holes in your skin.

You wouldn't? Then think of how kind you Should be to the insects who crave Your compassion--and then, look behind you At yon barley-ears! Don't they look brave As they undulate--(undulate, mind you, From unda, a wave).

The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it Sounds here--(on account of our height)! And this hillock itself--who could paint it, With its changes of shadow and light? Is it not--(never, Eddy, say "ain't it")-- A marvelous sight?

Then yon desolate eerie morasses. The haunts of the snipe and the hern-- (I shall question the two upper classes On aquatiles, when we return)-- Why, I see on them absolute masses Of filix or fern.

How it interests e'en a beginner (Or tiro) like dear little Ned! Is he listening? As I am a sinner He's asleep--he is wagging his head. Wake up! I'll go home to my dinner, And you to your bed.

The boundless ineffable prairie; The splendor of mountain and lake With their hues that seem ever to vary; The mighty pine forests which shake In the wind, and in which the unwary May tread on a snake;

And this wold with its heathery garment-- Are themes undeniably great. But--although there is not any harm in't-- It's perhaps little good to dilate On their charms to a dull little varmint Of seven or eight.

Charles Stuart Calverley.

A APPEAL FOR ARE TO THE SEXTANT OF THE OLD BRICK MEETINOUSE

BY A GASPER

The sextant of the meetinouse, which sweeps And dusts, or is supposed too! and makes fiers, And lites the gas and sometimes leaves a screw loose, in which case it smells orful--worse than lampile; And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dyes to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps pathes; And for the servases gits $100 per annum, Which them that thinks deer, let em try it; Getting up be foar star-lite in all weathers and Kindlin-fires when the wether it is cold As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlers; I wouldn't be hired to do it for no some-- But o sextant! there are 1 kermoddity Which's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin, Worth more than anything exsep the Sole of Man. i mean pewer Are, sextent, i mean pewer are! O it is plenty out o dores, so plenty it doant no What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about Scaterin levs and bloin of men's hatts; in short, jest "fre as are" out dores. But o sextant, in our church its scarce as piety, scarce as bank bills wen agints beg for mischuns, Wich some say purty often (taint nothin to me, Wat I give aint nothin to nobody), but o sextant, u shut 500 mens wimmen and children, Speshally the latter, up in a tite place, Some has bad breths, none aint 2 swete, some is fevery, some is scrofilus, some has bad teeth, And some haint none, and some aint over clean; But every 1 on em breethes in and out and out and in, Say 50 times a minit, or 1 million and a half breths an our, Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate, I ask you, say 15 minutes, and then wats to be did? Why then they must brethe it all over agin. And then agin, and so on, till each has took it down, At least ten times, and let it up again, and wats more The same individible don't have the privilege of brethen his own are, and no one's else; Each one mus take whatever comes to him, O sextant, don't you know our lungs is bellusses, To blo the fier of life, and keep it from goin out; and how can bellusses blow without wind, And aint wind are? i put it to your conscens. Are is the same to us as milk to babes, Or water to fish, or pendlums to clox-- Or roots and airbs unto an injun Doctor, Or little pils to an omepath, Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe, Wat signifies who preeches if i cant brethe? Wats Pol? Wats Pollus? to sinners who are ded? Ded for want of breth? why sextant, when we die Its only coz we cant brethe no more--that's all. And now, O sextant, let me beg of you 2 let a little are into our church. (Pewer are is sertin proper for the pews) And do it weak days and Sundays tew-- It aint much trouble--only make a hole And the are will come in itself; (It luvs to come in whare it can git warm): And o how it will rouse the people up And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garbs, And yawns and figgits as effectooal As wind on the dry Boans the Profit tells of.

Arabella Willson.

CUPID'S DARTS

WHICH ARE A GROWING MENACE TO THE PUBLIC

Do not worry if I scurry from the grill room in a hurry, Dropping hastily my curry and retiring into balk; Do not let it cause you wonder if, by some mischance or blunder, We encounter on the Underground and I get out and walk.

If I double as a cub'll when you meet him in the stubble, Do not think I am in trouble or attempt to make a fuss; Do not judge me melancholy or attribute it to folly If I leave the Metropolitan and travel 'n a bus.

Do not quiet your anxiety by giving me a diet, Or by base resort to vi et armis fold me to your arms, And let no suspicious tremor violate your wonted phlegm or Any fear that Harold's memory is faithless to your charms.

For my passion as I dash on in that disconcerting fashion Is as ardently irrational as when we forged the link When you gave your little hand away to me, my own Amanda As we sat 'n the veranda till the stars began to wink.

And I am in such a famine when your beauty I examine That it lures me as the jam invites a hungry little brat; But I fancy that, at any rate, I'd rather waste a penny Then be spitted by the many pins that bristle from your hat.

Unknown.

A PLEA FOR TRIGAMY

I've been trying to fashion a wifely ideal, And find that my tastes are so far from concise That, to marry completely, no fewer than three'll Suffice

I've subjected my views to severe atmospheric Compression, but still, in defiance of force, They distinctly fall under three heads, like a cleric Discourse.

My first must be fashion's own fancy-bred daughter, Proud, peerless, and perfect--in fact, comme il faut; A waltzer and wit of the very first water-- For show.

But these beauties that serve to make all the men jealous, Once face them alone in the family cot, Heaven's angels incarnate (the novelists tell us) They're not.

But so much for appearances. Now for my second, My lover, the wife of my home and my heart: Of all fortune and fate of my life to be reckon'd A part.

She must know all the needs of a rational being, Be skilled to keep counsel, to comfort, to coax; And, above all things else, be accomplished at seeing My jokes.

I complete the ménage by including the other With all the domestic prestige of a hen: As my housekeeper, nurse, or it may be, a mother Of men.

Total three! and the virtues all well represented; With fewer than this such a thing can't be done; Though I've known married men who declare they're contented With one.

Would you hunt during harvest, or hay-make in winter? And how can one woman expect to combine Certain qualifications essentially inter- necine?

You may say that my prospects are (legally) sunless; I state that I find them as clear as can be:-- I will marry no wife, since I can't do with one less Than three.

Owen Seaman.

THE POPE

The Pope he leads a happy life, He fears not married care nor strife. He drinks the best of Rhenish wine,-- I would the Pope's gay lot were mine.

But yet all happy's not his life, He has no maid, nor blooming wife; No child has he to raise his hope,-- I would not wish to be the Pope.

The Sultan better pleases me, His is a life of jollity; He's wives as many as he will,-- I would the Sultan's throne then fill.

But even he's a wretched man, He must obey the Alcoran; He dare not drink one drop of wine-- I would not change his lot for mine.

So here I'll take my lowly stand, I'll drink my own, my native land; I'll kiss my maiden fair and fine, And drink the best of Rhenish wine.

And when my maiden kisses me I'll think that I the Sultan be; And when my cheery glass I tope, I'll fancy then I am the Pope.

Charles Lever.

ALL AT SEA

THE VOYAGE OF A CERTAIN UNCERTAIN SAILORMAN

I saw a certain sailorman who sat beside the sea, And in the manner of his tribe he yawned this yarn to me: "'Twere back in eighteen-fifty-three, or mebbe fifty-four, I skipped the farm,--no, 't were the shop,--an' went to Baltimore. I shipped aboard the Lizzie--or she might ha' bin the Jane; Them wimmin names are mixey, so I don't remember plain; But anyhow, she were a craft that carried schooner rig, (Although Sam Swab, the bo'sun, allus swore she were a brig); We sailed away from Salem Town,--no, lemme think;--'t were Lynn,-- An' steered a course for Africa (or Greece, it might ha' bin); But anyway, we tacked an' backed an' weathered many a storm-- Oh, no,--as I recall it now, that week was fine an' warm! Who did I say the cap'n was? I didn't say at all? Wa-a-ll now, his name were 'Lijah Bell--or was it Eli Ball? I kinder guess 't were Eli. He'd a big, red, bushy beard-- No-o-o, come to think, he allus kept his whiskers nicely sheared.

But anyhow, that voyage was the first I'd ever took, An' all I had to do was cut up cabbage for the cook; But come to talk o' cabbage just reminds me,--that there trip Would prob'ly be my third one, on a Hong Kong clipper-ship.

The crew they were a jolly lot, an' used to sing 'Avast,' I think it were, or else 'Ahoy,' while bailing out the mast. And as I recollect it now,--" But here I cut him short, And said: "It's time to tack again, and bring your wits to port; I came to get a story both adventurous and true, And here is how I started out to write the interview: 'I saw a certain sailorman,' but you turn out to be The most un-certain sailorman that ever sailed the sea!" He puffed his pipe, and answered, "Wa-a-ll, I thought 'twere mine, but still, I must ha' told the one belongs to my twin brother Bill!"

Frederick Moxon.

BALLAD OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST

I am an ancient Jest! Paleolithic man In his arboreal nest The sparks of fun would fan; My outline did he plan, And laughed like one possessed, 'Twas thus my course began, I am a Merry Jest.

I am an early Jest! Man delved and built and span; Then wandered South and West The peoples Aryan, I journeyed in their van; The Semites, too, confessed,-- From Beersheba to Dan,-- I am a Merry Jest.

I am an ancient Jest, Through all the human clan, Red, black, white, free, oppressed, Hilarious I ran! I'm found in Lucian, In Poggio, and the rest, I'm dear to Moll and Nan! I am a Merry Jest!

|envoy|:

Prince, you may storm and ban-- Joe Millers are a pest, Suppress me if you can! I am a Merry Jest!

Andrew Lang.

VILLANELLE OF THINGS AMUSING

These are the things that make me laugh-- Life's a preposterous farce, say I! And I've missed of too many jokes by half.

The high-heeled antics of colt and calf, The men who think they can act, and try-- These are the things that make me laugh.

The hard-boiled poses in photograph, The groom still wearing his wedding tie-- And I've missed of too many jokes by half!

These are the bubbles I gayly quaff With the rank conceit of the new-born fly-- These are the things that make me laugh!

For, Heaven help me! I needs must chaff, And people will tickle me till I die-- And I've missed of too many jokes by half!

So write me down in my epitaph As one too fond of his health to cry-- These are the things that make me laugh, And I've missed of too many jokes by half!

Gelett Burgess.

HOW TO EAT WATERMELONS

When you slice a Georgy melon you mus' know what you is at An' look out how de knife is gwine in. Put one-half on dis side er you--de yuther half on dat, En' den you gits betwixt 'em, en begin! Oh, melons! Honey good ter see; But we'en it comes ter sweetness, De melon make fer me! En den you puts yo' knife up, en you sorter licks de blade, En never stop fer sayin' any grace; But eat ontell you satisfy--roll over in de shade, En sleep ontell de sun shine in yo' face! Oh, melons! Honey good ter see; But we'en it comes ter sweetness, De melon make fer me!

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, malgré 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 Cæsar! 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. Planché.

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, hornèd 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 jintlemàn, 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 jintlemàn, 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 jintlemàn, 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 jintlemàn, 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 jintlemàn, 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 jintlemàn, 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 jintlemàn, 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 jintlemàn, 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 jintlemàn, 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 jintlemàn, 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 Cæsar 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 à 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 "THESMOPHORIAZUSÆ."

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.

'SPÄCIALLY JIM

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

I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun' ('Späcially 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, 'Späcially 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 fête 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 distingué 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 Ecarté 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 forkèd 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 chère!

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 employé 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 piqué, 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."

Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey, and gained her, With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder At least in the property, and the best right To appear as its escort by day and by night; And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball,-- Their cards had been out for a fortnight or so, And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe,-- I considered it only my duty to call And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her--as ladies are apt to be found When the time intervening between the first sound Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter Than usual--I found--I won't say I caught--her Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. She turned as I entered--"Why, Harry, you sinner, I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!" "So I did," I replied; "but the dinner is swallowed, And digested, I trust; for 'tis now nine or more: So being relieved from that duty, I followed Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. And now will your Ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your beauty and graces and presence to lend (All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) To the Stuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?" The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry, mon cher, I should like above all things to go with you there; But really and truly--I've nothing to wear."

"Nothing to wear? Go just as you are: Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, I engage, the most bright and particular star On the Stuckup horizon--" I stopped, for her eye, Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, Opened on me at once a most terrible battery Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose (That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, "How absurd that any sane man should suppose That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, No matter how fine, that she wears every day!" So I ventured again--"Wear your crimson brocade." (Second turn-up of nose)--"That's too dark by a shade."-- "Your blue silk--" "That's too heavy."--"Your pink--" "That's too light."-- "Wear tulle over satin." "I can't endure white."-- "Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch--" "I haven't a thread of point lace to match."-- "Your brown moire-antique--" "Yes, and look like a Quaker."-- "The pearl-colored--" "I would, but that plaguy dressmaker Has had it a week."--"Then that exquisite lilac, In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock." (Here the nose took again the same elevation)-- "I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." "Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it As more comme il faut"--"Yes, but, dear me, that lean Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen."-- "Then that splendid purple, that sweet mazarine, That superb point d'aiguille, that imperial green, That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine--" "Not one of all which is fit to be seen," Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. "Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed Opposition, "that gorgeous toilette which you sported In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation; And by all the grand court were so very much courted." The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, "I have worn it three times at the least calculation, And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!" Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash-- Quite innocent, though; but to use an expression More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," And proved very soon the last act of our session. "Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling Doesn't fall down and crush you!--oh, you men have no feeling. You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers, Your silly pretence--why, what a mere guess it is! Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities? I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear, And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care, But you do not believe me" (here the nose went still higher): "I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar. Our engagement is ended, sir--yes, on the spot; You're a brute, and a monster, and--I don't know what." I mildly suggested the words Hottentot, Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief, As gentle expletives which might give relief: But this only proved as a spark to the powder, And the storm I had raised came faster and louder; It blew, and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed To express the abusive, and then its arrears Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears; And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.

Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat too, Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say: Then, without going through the form of a bow, Found myself in the entry,--I hardly knew how,-- On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square, At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair; Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, And said to myself, as I lit my cigar,-- Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days, On the whole do you think he would have much time to spare If he married a woman with nothing to wear?

William Allen Butler.

MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS

They nearly strike me dumb, And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat: This palpitation means These boots are Geraldine's-- Think of that!

Oh, where did hunter win So delectable a skin For her feet? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my sweet!

The faëry stitching gleams On the sides, and in the seams, And it shows The Pixies were the wags Who tipt those funny tags And these toes.

What soles to charm an elf! Had Crusoe, sick of self, Chanced to view One printed near the tide, Oh, how hard he would have tried For the two!

For Gerry's debonair And innocent, and fair As a rose; She's an angel in a frock, With a fascinating cock To her nose.

The simpletons who squeeze Their extremities to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's.

Cinderella's lefts and rights, To Geraldine's were frights; And I trow, The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don; Set this dainty hand awhile On my shoulder, dear, and I'll Put them on.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

MRS. SMITH

Last year I trod these fields with Di, Fields fresh with clover and with rye; They now seem arid! Then Di was fair and single; how Unfair it seems on me, for now Di's fair--and married!

A blissful swain--I scorn'd the song Which says that though young Love is strong, The Fates are stronger; Breezes then blew a boon to men, The buttercups were bright, and then This grass was longer.

That day I saw and much esteem'd Di's ankles, which the clover seem'd Inclined to smother; It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun) The ribbon of her shoes, first one, And then the other.

I'm told that virgins augur some Misfortune if their shoe-strings come To grief on Friday: And so did Di, and then her pride Decreed that shoe-strings so untied Are "so untidy!"

Of course I knelt; with fingers deft I tied the right, and then the left; Says Di, "The stubble Is very stupid!--as I live, I'm quite ashamed!--I'm shock'd to give You so much trouble!"

For answer I was fain to sink To what we all would say and think Were Beauty present: "Don't mention such a simple act-- A trouble? not the least! in fact It's rather pleasant!"

I trust that Love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he's A graceless rover. She's happy now as Mrs. Smith-- And less polite when walking with Her chosen lover!

Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings, We've had our quarrels!-- I think that Smith is thought an ass; I know that when they walk in grass She wears balmorals.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

A TERRIBLE INFANT

I recollect a nurse call'd Ann, Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a fine young man Came up, and kiss'd the pretty lass. She did not make the least objection! Thinks I, "Aha! When I can talk I'll tell Mamma" --And that's my earliest recollection.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

SUSAN

A KIND PROVIDENCE

He dropt a tear on Susan's bier, He seem'd a most despairing swain; But bluer sky brought newer tie, And--would he wish her back again?

The moments fly, and when we die, Will Philly Thistletop complain? She'll cry and sigh, and--dry her eye, And let herself be woo'd again.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

"I DIDN'T LIKE HIM"

Perhaps you may a-noticed I been soht o' solemn lately, Haven't been a-lookin' quite so pleasant. Mabbe I have been a little bit too proud and stately; Dat's because I'se lonesome jes' at present. I an' him agreed to quit a week or so ago, Fo' now dat I am in de social swim I'se 'rived to de opinion dat he ain't my style o' beau, So I tole him dat my watch was fas' fo' him.

|refrain|

Oh, I didn't like his clo'es, An' I didn't like his eyes, Nor his walk, nor his talk, Nor his ready-made neckties. I didn't like his name a bit, Jes' 'spise the name o' Jim; If dem ere reasons ain't enough, I didn't like Him.

Dimon' ring he give to me, an' said it was a fine stone. Guess it's only alum mixed wif camphor. Took it roun' to Eisenstein; he said it was a rhinestone, Kind, he said, he didn't give a dam fur. Sealskin sack he give to me it got me in a row. P'liceman called an' asked to see dat sack; Said another lady lost it. Course I don't know how; But I had to go to jail or give it back.

|refrain|

Oh, I didn't like his trade; Trade dat kep' him out all night. He'd de look ob a crook, An' he owned a bull's-eye light. So when policemen come to ask What I know 'bout dat Jim, I come to de confusion dat I didn't like Him.

Harry B. Smith.

MY ANGELINE

She kept her secret well, oh, yes, Her hideous secret well. We together were cast, I knew not her past; For how was I to tell? I married her, guileless lamb I was; I'd have died for her sweet sake. How could I have known that my Angeline Had been a Human Snake? Ah, we had been wed but a week or two When I found her quite a wreck: Her limbs were tied in a double bow-knot At the back of her swan-like neck. No curse there sprang to my pallid lips, Nor did I reproach her then; I calmly untied my bonny bride And straightened her out again.

Refrain

My Angeline! My Angeline! Why didst disturb my mind serene? My well-belovèd circus queen, My Human Snake, my Angeline! At night I'd wake at the midnight hour, With a weird and haunted feeling, And there she'd be, in her robe de nuit, A-walking upon the ceiling. She said she was being "the human fly," And she'd lift me up from beneath By a section slight of my garb of night, Which she held in her pearly teeth. For the sweet, sweet sake of the Human Snake I'd have stood this conduct shady; But she skipped in the end with an old, old friend, An eminent bearded lady. But, oh, at night, when my slumber's light, Regret comes o'er me stealing; For I miss the sound of those little feet, As they pattered along the ceiling.

Refrain

My Angeline! My Angeline! Why didst disturb my mind serene? My well-belovèd circus queen, My Human Snake, my Angeline!

Harry B. Smith.

NORA'S VOW

Hear what Highland Nora said,-- "The Earlie's son I will not wed, Should all the race of nature die, And none be left but he and I. For all the gold, for all the gear, And all the lands both far and near, That ever valour lost or won, I would not wed the Earlie's son."

"A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke, "Are lightly made and lightly broke, The heather on the mountain's height Begins to bloom in purple light; The frost-wind soon shall sweep away That lustre deep from glen and brae; Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, May blithely wed the Earlie's son."

"The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest; The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn; Our kilted clans, when blood is high, Before their foes may turn and fly; But I, were all these marvels done, Would never wed the Earlie's son."

Still in the water-lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild swan made; Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river; To shun the clash of foeman's steel, No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel; But Nora's heart is lost and won, --She's wedded to the Earlie's son!

Sir Walter Scott.

HUSBAND AND HEATHEN

O'er the men of Ethiopia she would pour her cornucopia, And shower wealth and plenty on the people of Japan, Send down jelly cake and candies to the Indians of the Andes, And a cargo of plum pudding to the men of Hindoostan; And she said she loved 'em so, Bushman, Finn, and Eskimo. If she had the wings of eagles to their succour she would fly Loaded down with jam and jelly, Succotash and vermicelli, Prunes, pomegranates, plums and pudding, peaches, pineapples, and pie.

She would fly with speedy succour to the natives of Molucca With whole loads of quail and salmon, and with tons of fricassee And give cake in fullest measure To the men of Australasia And all the Archipelagoes that dot the southern sea; And the Anthropophagi, All their lives deprived of pie, She would satiate and satisfy with custards, cream, and mince; And those miserable Australians And the Borrioboolighalians, She would gorge with choicest jelly, raspberry, currant, grape, and quince.

But like old war-time hardtackers, her poor husband lived on crackers, Bought at wholesale from a baker, eaten from the mantelshelf; If the men of Madagascar, And the natives of Alaska, Had enough to sate their hunger, let him look out for himself. And his coat had but one tail And he used a shingle nail To fasten up his galluses when he went out to his work; And she used to spend his money To buy sugar-plums and honey For the Terra del Fuegian and the Turcoman and Turk.

Sam Walter Foss.

THE LOST PLEIAD

'Twas a pretty little maiden In a garden gray and old, Where the apple trees were laden With the magic fruit of gold; But she strayed beyond the portal Of the garden of the Sun, And she flirted with a mortal, Which she oughtn't to have done! For a giant was her father and a goddess was her mother, She was Merope or Sterope--the one or else the other; And the man was not the equal, though presentable and rich, Of Merope or Sterope--I don't remember which!

Now the giant's daughters seven, She among them, if you please, Were translated to the heaven As the starry Pleiades! But amid their constellation One alone was always dark, For she shrank from observation Or censorious remark.

She had yielded to a mortal when he came to flirt and flatter. She was Merope or Sterope--the former or the latter; So the planets all ignored her, and the comets wouldn't call On Merope or Sterope--I am not sure at all!

But the Dog-star, brightly shining In the hottest of July, Saw the pretty Pleiad pining In the shadow of the sky, And he courted her and kissed her Till she kindled into light; And the Pleiads' erring sister Was the lady of the night!

So her former indiscretion as a fault was never reckoned, To Merope or Sterope--the first or else the second, And you'll never see so rigidly respectable a dame As Merope or Sterope--I can't recall her name!

Arthur Reed Ropes.

THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN

They've got a brand-new organ, Sue, For all their fuss and search; They've done just as they said they'd do, And fetched it into church. They're bound the critter shall be seen, And on the preacher's right They've hoisted up their new machine In everybody's sight. They've got a chorister and choir, Ag'in' my voice and vote; For it was never my desire To praise the Lord by note.

I've been a sister good an' true For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, Just as the preacher read, And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, I took the fork an' led; And now, their bold, new-fangled ways Is comin' all about; And I, right in my latter days, Am fairly crowded out!

To-day the preacher, good old dear, With tears all in his eyes, Read, "I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies." I al'ays liked that blessed hymn-- I s'pose I al'ays will-- It somehow gratifies my whim, In good old Ortonville; But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word; They sung the most dog-gondest thing A body ever heard!

Some worldly chaps was standin' near; An' when I see them grin, I bid farewell to every fear, And boldly waded in. I thought I'd chase their tune along, An' tried with all my might; But though my voice was good an' strong, I couldn't steer it right. When they was high, then I was low, An' also contrawise; An' I too fast, or they too slow, To "mansions in the skies."

An' after every verse, you know They play a little tune; I didn't understand, and so I started in too soon. I pitched it pretty middlin' high, I fetched a lusty tone, But oh, alas! I found that I Was singin' there alone! They laughed a little, I am told; But I had done my best; And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast.

And Sister Brown--I could but look-- She sits right front of me; She never was no singin'-book, An' never went to be; But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said; She understood the time right through, An' kep' it with her head; But when she tried this mornin', oh, I had to laugh, or cough! It kep' her head a-bobbin' so, It e'en a'most came off.

An' Deacon Tubbs--he all broke 'down, As one might well suppose; He took one look at Sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose. He looked his hymn-book through and through, And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat. And when they took another bout, He didn't even rise; But drawed his red bandanner out, An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true, For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; But Death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track; And some day I to church will go, And nevermore come back; And when the folks gets up to sing-- Whene'er that time shall be-- I do not want no patent thing A-squealin' over me!

Will Carteton.

LARRIE O'DEE

Now the Widow McGee, And Larrie O'Dee, Had two little cottages out on the green, With just room enough for two pig-pens between. The widow was young and the widow was fair, With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair, And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn, With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn, And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand In the pen of the widow were certain to land.

One morning said he: "Och! Misthress McGee, It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs, Wid a fancy purtition betwane our two pigs!" "Indade, sur, it is!" answered Widow McGee, With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee. "And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane, Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near That whiniver one grunts the other can hear, And yit kape a cruel purtition betwane."

"Shwate Widow McGee," Answered Larrie O'Dee, "If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs, Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs? Och! it made me heart ache when I paped through the cracks Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin' yer axe; An' a-bobbin' yer head an' a-shtompin' yer fate, Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate, A-shplittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm, When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!"

"Now, piggy," says she, "Larrie's courtin' o' me, Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you; So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do: For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid yer snout; But if I'm to say no, ye must kape yer nose out. Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pig By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig!" "Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered he. And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee.

William W. Fink.

NO FAULT IN WOMEN

No fault in women, to refuse The offer which they most would choose. No fault in women to confess How tedious they are in their dress; No fault in women, to lay on The tincture of vermilion, And there to give the cheek a dye Of white, where Nature doth deny. No fault in women, to make show Of largeness, when they've nothing so; When, true it is, the outside swells With inward buckram, little else. No fault in women, though they be But seldom from suspicion free; No fault in womankind at all, If they but slip, and never fall.

Robert Herrick.

A COSMOPOLITAN WOMAN

She went round and asked subscriptions For the heathen black Egyptians And the Terra del Fuegians, She did; For the tribes round Athabasca, And the men of Madagascar, And the poor souls of Alaska, So she did; She longed, she said, to buy Jelly, cake, and jam, and pie, For the Anthropophagi, So she did.

Her heart ached for the Australians And the Borriobooli-Ghalians, And the poor dear Amahagger, Yes, it did; And she loved the black Numidian, And the ebon Abyssinian, And the charcoal-coloured Guinean, Oh, she did! And she said she'd cross the seas With a ship of bread and cheese For those starving Chimpanzees, So she did.

How she loved the cold Norwegian And the poor half-melted Feejeean, And the dear Molucca Islander, She did: She sent tins of red tomato To the tribes beyond the Equator, But her husband ate potato, So he did; The poor helpless, homeless thing (My voice falters as I sing) Tied his clothes up with a string, Yes, he did.

Unknown.

COURTING IN KENTUCKY.

When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay, I was glad, for I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way. I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high, Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter do ter fly; But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell She come in her reg'lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell. My Jake an' her had been cronies ever since they could walk, An' it tuk me aback to hear her kerrectin' him in his talk.

Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work; But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!" Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way, He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay. I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns, An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones. Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long, Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong.

One day I was pickin' currants daown by the old quince-tree, When I heerd Jake's voice a-saying', "Be yer willin' ter marry me?" An' Mary Ann kerrectin', 'Air ye willin' yeou sh'd say"; Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum, decided way, "No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me, Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.' Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say:. But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay. I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' ter marry me?'" An' Mary Ann says, tremblin, yet anxious-like, "I be."

Florence E. Pratt.

ANY ONE WILL DO

A maiden once, of certain age, To catch a husband did engage; But, having passed the prime of life In striving to become a wife Without success, she thought it time To mend the follies of her prime.

Departing from the usual course Of paint and such like for resource, With all her might this ancient maid Beneath an oak-tree knelt and prayed; Unconscious that a grave old owl Was perched above--the mousing fowl!

"Oh, give! a husband give!" she cried, "While yet I may become a bride; Soon will my day of grace be o'er, And then, like many maids before, I'll die without an early Jove, And none to meet me there above!

"Oh, 'tis a fate too hard to bear! Then answer this my humble prayer, And oh, a husband give to me!" Just then the owl from out the tree, In deep bass tones cried, "Who--who--who!" "Who, Lord? And dost Thou ask me who? Why, any one, good Lord, will do."

Unknown.

A BIRD IN THE HAND

There were three young maids of Lee; They were fair as fair can be, And they had lovers three times three, For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee. But these young maids they cannot find A lover each to suit her mind; The plain-spoke lad is far too rough, The rich young lord is not rich enough, The one is too poor, and one is too tall, And one just an inch too short for them all. "Others pick and choose, and why not we? We can very well wait," said the maids of Lee. There were three young maids of Lee; They were fair as fair can be, And they had lovers three times three For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee.

There are three old maids of Lee, And they are old as old can be, And one is deaf, and one cannot see, And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree, These three old maids of Lee. Now, if any one chanced--'tis a chance remote-- One single charm in these maids to note, He need not a poet nor handsome be, For one is deaf and one cannot see; He need not woo on his bended knee, For they all are willing as willing can be. He may take the one, or the two, or the three, If he'll only take them away from Lee. There are three old maids at Lee; They are cross as cross can be; And there they are, and there they'll be To the end of the chapter, one, two, three, These three old maids of Lee.

Frederic E. Weatherly.

THE BELLE OF THE BALL

Years--years ago,--ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise and witty,-- Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;-- Years, years ago, while all my joy Was in my fowling-piece and filly: In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lily.

I saw her at the county ball; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced--O Heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender, Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows.

She talk'd,--of politics or prayers; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it matter'd not a tittle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmur'd Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. My mother laugh'd; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling; My father frown'd; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a Dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother, just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord lieutenant of the county.

But titles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel; it was grand-- She made the Catalani jealous; She touch'd the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home, Well fill'd with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter; And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder water.

And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored; Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolish'd; She frown'd, and every look was sad, As if the Opera were demolished.

She smil'd on many just for fun-- I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first--the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute; I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand,--and oh! How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves-- A little glow, a little shiver; A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows--and then we parted.

We parted;--months and years roll'd by; We met again four summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh--- Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ballroom belle, But only--Mrs. Something Rogers.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed.

THE RETORT

Old Nick, who taught the village school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was as stubborn as a mule, She was as playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!--and red And white his face alternate grew! "Less freedom, ma'am!" Jane sighed and said, "Oh, dear! I didn't know 'twas you!"

George Pope Morris.

BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK

Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk.

It wadna gi'e me meikle pain, Gin we were seen and heard by nane, To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane; But guidsake! no before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Whate'er ye do, when out o' view, Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack, And what a great affair they'll mak' O' naething but a simple smack, That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young Occasion to come o'er folk.

It's no through hatred o' a kiss, That I sae plainly tell you this; But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss To be sae teazed before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; When we're our lane ye may tak' ane, But fient a ane before folk.

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free As ony modest lass should be; But yet it doesna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; I'll ne'er submit again to it-- So mind you that--before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair; It may be sae--I dinna care-- But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair As ye ha'e done before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, But aye de douce before folk.

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit; At ony rate, it's hardly meet To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Gin that's the case, there's time, and place, But surely no before folk.

But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kiss'd, Gae, get a license frae the priest, And mak' me yours before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak' ten--before folk.

Alexander Rodger.

THE CHRONICLE: A BALLAD

Margarita first possess'd, If I remember well, my breast, Margarita, first of all; But when a while the wanton maid With my restless heart had play'd, Martha took the flying ball.

Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine. Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loth and angry she to part With the possession of my heart) To Eliza's conquering face.

Eliza till this hour might reign, Had she not evil counsel ta'en: Fundamental laws she broke, And still new favourites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose, And cast away her yoke.

Mary then and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began, Alternately they swayed: And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, And sometimes both I obey'd.

Another Mary then arose, And did rigorous laws impose; A mighty tyrant she! Long, alas, should I have been Under that iron-scepter'd queen, Had not Rebecca set me free.

When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden time with me, But soon those pleasures fled; For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride, And Judith reigned in her stead.

One month, three days, and half an hour, Judith held the sovereign power, Wondrous beautiful her face; But so weak and small her wit, That she to govern was unfit, And so Susanna took her place.

But when Isabella came, Arm'd with a resistless flame, And th' artillery of her eye; Whilst she proudly march'd about Greater conquests to find out: She beat out Susan by the bye.

But in her place I then obey'd Black-ey'd Bess, her viceroy maid, To whom ensued a vacancy: Thousand worse passions then possess'd The interregnum of my breast; Bless me from such an anarchy.

Gentle Henrietta then, And a third Mary next began; Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria: And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catharine, And then a long et cætera.

But should I now to you relate The strength and riches of their state, The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribbons, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint, and warlike things, That make up all their magazines:

If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts; The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, Numberless, nameless, mysteries!

And all the little lime-twigs laid By Machiavel, the waiting maid; I more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I, like them, should tell All change of weather that befel) Than Holinshed or Stow.

But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with me: An higher and a nobler strain My present empress does claim, Eleonora, first o' th' name, Whom God grant long to reign.

Abraham Cowley.

BUXOM JOAN

A soldier and a sailor, A tinker and a tailor, Had once a doubtful strife, sir, To make a maid a wife, sir, Whose name was Buxom Joan. For now the time was ended, When she no more intended To lick her lips at men, sir, And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir, And lie o' nights alone.

The soldier swore like thunder, He loved her more than plunder; And showed her many a scar, sir, That he had brought from far, sir, With fighting for her sake. The tailor thought to please her, With offering her his measure. The tinker too with mettle, Said he could mend her kettle, And stop up every leak.

But while these three were prating, The sailor slily waiting, Thought if it came about, sir, That they should all fall out, sir, He then might play his part. And just e'en as he meant, sir, To loggerheads they went, sir, And then he let fly at her A shot 'twixt wind and water, That won this fair maid's heart.

William Congreve.

OH, MY GERALDINE

Oh, my Geraldine, No flow'r was ever seen so toodle um. You are my lum ti toodle lay, Pretty, pretty queen, Is rum ti Geraldine and something teen, More sweet than tiddle lum in May. Like the star so bright That somethings all the night, My Geraldine! You're fair as the rum ti lum ti sheen, Hark! there is what--ho! From something--um, you know, Dear, what I mean. Oh I rum! tum!! tum!!! my Geraldine.

F. C. Burnand.

THE PARTERRE

I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, And sniff one up the perfume sweet Of every roses buttoning there.

It only want my charming miss Who make to blush the self red rose; Oh! I have envy of to kiss The end's tip of her splendid nose.

Oh! I have envy of to be What grass 'neath her pantoffle push, And too much happy seemeth me The margaret which her vestige crush.

But I will meet her nose at nose, And take occasion for her hairs, And indicate her all my woes, That she in fine agree my prayers.

|The Envoy|

I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, With Madame who is too more sweet Than every roses buttoning there.

E. H. Palmer.

HOW TO ASK AND HAVE

"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my mother says men are decaivers, And never, I know, will consent; She says girls in a hurry to marry, At leisure repent."

"Then, suppose I should talk to your father, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my father he loves me so dearly, He'll never consent I should go;-- If you talk to my father," says Mary, "He'll surely say 'No.'"

"Then how shall I get you, my jewel, Sweet Mary?" says I; "If your father and mother's so cruel, Most surely I'll die!" "Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary; "A way now to save you I see: Since my parents are both so conthrairy, You'd better ask me."

Samuel Lover.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY

Of all the girls that are so smart, There's none like Pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. There's ne'er a lady in the land That's half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry them; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy them: But sure such folk can have no part In such a girl as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes, like any Turk, And bangs me most severely: But let him bang, long as he will, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

Of all the days are in the week, I dearly love but one day, And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm dressed, all in my best, To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed, Because I leave him in the lurch, Soon as the text is named: I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, Oh, then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up and, box and all, I'll give it to my honey; Oh, would it were ten thousand pounds, I'd give it all to Sally; For she's the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley.

My master, and the neighbors all, Make game of me and Sally, And but for her I'd better be A slave, and row a galley: But when my seven long years are out, Oh, then I'll marry Sally, And then how happily we'll live-- But not in our alley.

Henry Carey.

FALSE LOVE AND TRUE LOGIC

THE DISCONSOLATE

My heart will break--I'm sure it will: My lover, yes, my favorite--he Who seemed my own through good and ill-- Has basely turned his back on me.

THE COMFORTER

Ah! silly sorrower, weep no more; Your lover's turned his back, we see; But you had turned his head before, And now he's as he ought to be.

Laman Blanchard.

PET'S PUNISHMENT

O, if my love offended me, And we had words together, To show her I would master be, I'd whip her with a feather!

If then she, like a naughty girl, Would tyranny declare it, I'd give my pet a cross of pearl, And make her always bear it.

If still she tried to sulk and sigh, And threw away my posies, I'd catch my darling on the sly, And smother her with roses.

But should she clench her dimpled fists, Or contradict her betters, I'd manacle her tiny wrists With dainty jewelled fetters.

And if she dared her lips to pout, Like many pert young misses, I'd wind my arm her waist about, And punish her--with kisses!

J. Ashby-Sterry.

AD CHLOEN, M.A.

FRESH FROM HER CAMBRIDGE EXAMINATION

Lady, very fair are you, And your eyes are very blue, And your hose; And your brow is like the snow, And the various things you know, Goodness knows.

And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your Algebra and Greek Perfect are; And that loving lustrous eye Recognizes in the sky Every star.

You have pouting piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse Calculate; But for your cerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate.

If by some arrangement dual I were Adams mixed with Whewell, Then some day I, as wooer, perhaps might come To so sweet an Artium Magistra.

Mortimer Collins.

CHLOE, M.A.

AD AMANTEM SUAM

Careless rhymer, it is true, That my favourite colour's blue: But am I To be made a victim, sir, If to puddings I prefer Cambridge [pi]?

If with giddier girls I play Croquet through the summer day On the turf, Then at night ('tis no great boon) Let me study how the moon Sways the surf.

Tennyson's idyllic verse Surely suits me none the worse If I seek Old Sicilian birds and bees-- Music of sweet Sophocles-- Golden Greek.

You have said my eyes are blue; There may be a fairer hue, Perhaps--and yet It is surely not a sin If I keep my secrets in Violet.

Mortimer Collins.

THE FAIR MILLINGER

By the Watertown Horse-Car Conductor

It was a millinger most gay, As sat within her shop; A student came along that way, And in he straight did pop. Clean shaven he, of massive mould, He thought his looks was killing her; So lots of stuff to him she sold: "Thanks!" says the millinger.

He loafed around and seemed to try On all things to converse; The millinger did mind her eye, But also mound his purse. He tried, then, with his flattering tongue, With nonsense to be filling her; But she was sharp, though she was young: "Thanks," said the millinger.

He asked her to the theatre, They got into my car; Our steeds were tired, could hardly stir, He thought the way not far. A pretty pict-i-ure she made, No doctors had been pilling her; Fairly the fair one's fare he paid: "Thanks!" said the millinger.

When we arrived in Bowdoin Square, A female to them ran; Then says that millinger so fair: "O, thank you, Mary Ann! She's going with us, she is," says she, "She only is fulfilling her Duty in looking after me: Thanks!" said that millinger.

"Why," says that student chap to her, "I've but two seats to hand." "Too bad," replied that millinger, "Then you will have to stand." "I won't stand this," says he, "I own The joke which you've been drilling her; Here, take the seats and go alone!" "Thanks!" says the millinger.

That ere much-taken-down young man Stepped back into my car. We got fresh horses, off they ran; He thought the distance far. And now she is my better half, And oft, when coo-and-billing her, I think about that chap and laugh: "Thanks!" says my millinger.

Fred W. Loring.

TWO FISHERS

One morning when Spring was in her teens-- A morn to a poet's wishing, All tinted in delicate pinks and greens-- Miss Bessie and I went fishing.

I in my rough and easy clothes, With my face at the sun-tan's mercy; She with her hat tipped down to her nose, And her nose tipped--vice versa.

I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks, And a hamper for lunching recesses; She with the bait of her comely looks, And the seine of her golden tresses.

So we sat us down on the sunny dike, Where the white pond-lilies teeter, And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike, And she like Simon Peter.

All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes, And dreamily watched and waited, But the fish were cunning and would not rise, And the baiter alone was baited.

And when the time of departure came, My bag hung flat as a flounder; But Bessie had neatly hooked her game-- A hundred-and-fifty-pounder.

Unknown.

MAUD

Nay, I cannot come into the garden just now, Tho' it vexes me much to refuse: But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow, With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues.

I am sure you'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear That our ball has been quite a success. As for me--I've been looking a monster, my dear. In that old-fashion'd guy of a dress.

You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed; It is getting so dreadfully late. You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head If you linger so long at our gate.

Don't be obstinate, Alfy; come, take my advice-- For I know you're in want of repose: Take a basin of gruel (you'll find it so nice), And remember to tallow your nose.

No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away, For De Boots has implor'd me to sing. As to you--if you like it, of course you can stay, You were always an obstinate thing.

If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs About "babble and revel and wine," When you might have been snoring for two or three hours, Why, it's not the least business of mine.

Henry S. Leigh.

ARE WOMEN FAIR?

"Are women fair?" Ay, wondrous fair to see, too. "Are women sweet?" Yea, passing sweet they be, too. Most fair and sweet to them that only love them; Chaste and discreet to all save them that prove them.

"Are women wise?" Not wise, but they be witty; "Are women witty?" Yea, the more the pity; They are so witty, and in wit so wily, Though ye be ne'er so wise, they will beguile ye.

"Are women fools?" Not fools, but fondlings many; "Can women fond be faithful unto any?" When snow-white swans do turn to colour sable, Then women fond will be both firm and stable.

"Are women saints?" No saints, nor yet no devils; "Are women good?" Not good, but needful evils. So Angel-like, that devils I do not doubt them, So needful evils that few can live without them.

"Are women proud?" Ay! passing proud, an praise them. "Are women kind?" Ay! wondrous kind, an please them. Or so imperious, no man can endure them, Or so kind-hearted, any may procure them.

Francis Davison.

THE PLAIDIE

Upon ane stormy Sunday, Coming adoon the lane, Were a score of bonnie lassies-- And the sweetest I maintain Was Caddie, That I took unneath my plaidie, To shield her from the rain.

She said that the daisies blushed For the kiss that I had ta'en; I wadna hae thought the lassie Wad sae of a kiss complain: "Now, laddie! I winna stay under your plaidie, If I gang hame in the rain!"

But, on an after Sunday, When cloud there was not ane, This selfsame winsome lassie (We chanced to meet in the lane), Said, "Laddie, Why dinna ye wear your plaidie? Wha kens but it may rain?"

Charles Sibley.

FEMININE ARITHMETIC

LAURA On me he shall ne'er put a ring, So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble-- For I was but eighteen in spring While his age exactly is double.

MAMMA He's but in his thirty-sixth year, Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty, And should you refuse him, my dear, May you die an old maid without pity!

LAURA His figure, I grant you, will pass, And at present he's young enough plenty; But when I am sixty, alas! Will not he be a hundred and twenty?

Charles Graham Halpine.

LORD GUY

When swallows Northward flew Forth from his home did fare Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.

Swore he to cross the brine, Pausing not, night nor day, That he might Paynims slay In Palestine.

Half a league on his way Met he a shepherdess Beaming with loveliness-- Fair as Young Day.

Gazed he in eyes of blue-- Saw love in hiding there Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.

"Let the foul Paynim wait!" Plead Love, "and stay with me. Cruel and cold the sea-- Here's brighter fate."

When swallows Southward flew Back to his home did fare Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.

Led he his charger gay Bearing a shepherdess Beaming with happiness-- Fair as Young Day.

White lambs, be-ribboned blue-- Tends now with anxious care, Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu.

George F. Warren.

SARY "FIXES UP" THINGS

Oh, yes, we've be'n fixin' up some sence we sold that piece o' groun' Fer a place to put a golf-lynx to them crazy dudes from town. (Anyway, they laughed like crazy when I had it specified, Ef they put a golf-lynx on it, thet they'd haf to keep him tied.) But they paid the price all reg'lar, an' then Sary says to me, "Now we're goin' to fix the parlor up, an' settin'-room," says she. Fer she 'lowed she'd been a-scrimpin' an' a-scrapin' all her life, An' she meant fer once to have things good as Cousin Ed'ard's wife.

Well, we went down to the city, an' she bought the blamedest mess; An' them clerks there must 'a' took her fer a' Astoroid, I guess; Fer they showed her fancy bureaus which they said was shiffoneers, An' some more they said was dressers, an' some curtains called porteers. An' she looked at that there furnicher, an' felt them curtains' heft; Then she sailed in like a cyclone an' she bought 'em right an' left; An' she picked a Bress'ls carpet thet was flowered like Cousin Ed's, But she drawed the line com-pletely when we got to foldin'-beds.

Course, she said, 't 'u'd make the parlor lots more roomier, she s'posed; But she 'lowed she'd have a bedstid thet was shore to stay un-closed; An' she stopped right there an' told us sev'ral tales of folks she'd read Bein' overtook in slumber by the "fatal foldin'-bed." "Not ef it wuz set in di'mon's! Nary foldin'-bed fer me! I ain't goin' to start fer glory in a rabbit-trap!" says she. "When the time comes I'll be ready an' a-waitin'; but ez yet, I shan't go to sleep a-thinkin' that I've got the triggers set."

Well, sir, shore as yo''re a-livin', after all thet Sary said, 'Fore we started home that evenin' she hed bought a foldin'-bed; An' she's put it in the parlor, where it adds a heap o' style; An' we're sleepin' in the settin'-room at present fer a while. Sary still maintains it's han'some, "an' them city folks'll see That we're posted on the fashions when they visit us," says she; But it plagues her some to tell her, ef it ain't no other use, We can set it fer the golf-lynx ef he ever sh'u'd get loose.

Albert Bigelow Paine.

THE CONSTANT CANNIBAL MAIDEN

Far, oh, far is the Mango island, Far, oh, far is the tropical sea-- Palms a-slant and the hills a-smile, and A cannibal maiden a-waiting for me.

I've been deceived by a damsel Spanish, And Indian maidens both red and brown, A black-eyed Turk and a blue-eyed Danish, And a Puritan lassie of Salem town.

For the Puritan Prue she sets in the offing, A-castin' 'er eyes at a tall marine, And the Spanish minx is the wust at scoffing Of all of the wimming I ever seen.

But the cannibal maid is a simple creetur, With a habit of gazin' over the sea, A-hopin' in vain for the day I'll meet 'er, And constant and faithful a-yearnin' for me.

Me Turkish sweetheart she played me double-- Eloped with the Sultan Harum In-Deed, And the Danish damsel she made me trouble When she ups and married an oblong Swede. But there's truth in the heart of the maid o' Mango, Though her cheeks is black like the kiln-baked cork, As she sets in the shade o' the whingo-whango, A-waitin' for me--with a knife and fork.

Wallace Irwin.

WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES

O reverend sir, I do declare It drives me most to frenzy, To think of you a-lying there Down sick with influenzy.

A body'd thought it was enough To mourn your wife's departer, Without sich trouble as this ere To come a-follerin' arter.

But sickness and affliction Are sent by a wise creation, And always ought to be underwent By patience and resignation.

O, I could to your bedside fly, And wipe your weeping eyes, And do my best to cure you up, If 'twouldn't create surprise.

It's a world of trouble we tarry in, But, Elder, don't despair; That you may soon be movin' again Is constantly my prayer.

Both sick and well, you may depend You'll never be forgot By your faithful and affectionate friend, |Priscilla Pool Bedott|.

Frances Miriam Whitcher.

UNDER THE MISTLETOE

She stood beneath the mistletoe That hung above the door, Quite conscious of the sprig above, Revered by maids of yore. A timid longing filled her heart; Her pulses throbbed with heat; He sprang to where the fair girl stood. "May I--just one--my sweet?" He asked his love, who tossed her head, "Just do it--if--you dare!" she said.

He sat before the fireplace Down at the club that night. "She loves me not," he hotly said, "Therefore she did but right!" She sat alone within her room, And with her finger-tips She held his picture to her heart, Then pressed it to her lips. "My loved one!" sobbed she, "if you--cared You surely would have--would have--dared."

George Francis Shults.

THE BROKEN PITCHER

It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well, And what the maiden thought of I cannot, cannot tell. When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo-- Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo.

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring? Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide, And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?"

"I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, Because an article like that hath never come my way; And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell, Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.

"My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,-- A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss; I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke, But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.

"My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home, And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. I cannot bring him water--the pitcher is in pieces-- And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces."

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me! So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three; And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè."

He lighted down from off his steed--he tied him to a tree-- He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three: "To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!" He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.

Up rose the Moorish maiden--behind the knight she steals, And caught Alphonso Guzman up tightly by the heels; She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,-- "Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!"

A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo; She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo. I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.

William E. Aytoun.

GIFTS RETURNED

"You must give back," her mother said, To a poor sobbing little maid, "All the young man has given you, Hard as it now may seem to do." "'Tis done already, mother dear!" Said the sweet girl, "So never fear." Mother. Are you quite certain? Come, recount (There was not much) the whole amount. Girl. The locket; the kid gloves. Mother. Go on. Girl. Of the kid gloves I found but one. Mother. Never mind that. What else? Proceed. You gave back all his trash? Girl. Indeed. Mother. And was there nothing you would save? Girl. Everything I could give I gave. Mother. To the last tittle? Girl. Even to that. Mother. Freely? Girl. My heart went pit-a-pat At giving up ... ah me! ah me! I cry so I can hardly see ... All the fond looks and words that past, And all the kisses, to the last.

Walter Savage Landor.

III

LOVE AND COURTSHIP

NOUREDDIN, THE SON OF THE SHAH

There once was a Shah had a second son Who was very unlike his elder one, For he went about on his own affairs, And scorned the mosque and the daily prayers; When his sire frowned fierce, then he cried, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

But worst of all of the pranks he played Was to fall in love with a Christian maid,-- An Armenian maid who wore no veil, Nor behind a lattice grew thin and pale; At his sire's dark threats laughed the youth, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

"I will shut him close in an iron cage," The monarch said, in a fuming rage; But the prince slipped out by a postern door, And away to the mountains his loved one bore; Loud his glee rang back on the winds, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

And still in the town of Teheran, When a youth and a maid adopt this plan,-- All frowns and threats with a laugh defy, And away from the mosques to the mountains fly,-- Folk meet and greet with a gay "_Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah_.

Clinton Scollard.

THE USUAL WAY

There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met--in the usual way.

Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!" And he was--in the usual way.

So he gravely took his rod in hand, and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly that he was not looking out; And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you!" but she said she could not stay: But she did--in the usual way.

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh, As they watched the silver ripples, like the moments, running by; "We must say good-by," she whispered, by the alders old and gray, And they did--in the usual way.

And day by day beside the stream they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below; Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much--in the usual way.

And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? Do they never fret and quarrel as other couples do? Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and obey? Well--they do--in the usual way.

Frederic E. Weatherly.

THE WAY TO ARCADY

Oh, _what's the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, what's the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry_?

Oh, what's the way to Arcady? The spring is rustling in the tree-- The tree the wind is blowing through-- It sets the blossoms flickering white. I knew not skies could burn so blue Nor any breezes blow so light. They blow an old-time way for me, Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, Quit mocking of the song-bird's note. How have you heart for any tune, You with the wayworn russet shoon? Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. I'll brim it well with pieces red, If you will tell the way to tread.

_Oh, I am bound for Arcady, And if you but keep pace with me You tread the way to Arcady._

And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be?

Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know-- Across the clover and the snow-- Across the frost, across the flowers-- Through summer seconds and winter hours I've trod the way my whole life long, And know not now where it may be; My guide is but the stir to song, That tells me I cannot go wrong, Or clear or dark the pathway be Upon the road to Arcady.

But how shall I do who cannot sing? I was wont to sing, once on a time-- There is never an echo now to ring Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

'Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he), The folk all sing in Arcady.

But how may he find Arcady Who hath not youth nor melody?

What, know you not, old man (quoth he)-- Your hair is white, your face is wise-- That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes Who hopes to see fair Arcady? No gold can buy you entrance there; But beggared Love may go all bare-- No wisdom won with weariness; But Love goes in with Folly's dress-- No fame that wit could ever win; But only Love may lead Love in To Arcady, to Arcady.

Ah, woe is me, through all my days Wisdom and wealth I both have got, And fame and name, and great men's praise; But Love, ah, Love! I have it not. There was a time, when life was new-- But far away, and half forgot-- I only know her eyes were blue; But Love--I fear I knew it not. We did not wed, for lack of gold, And she is dead, and I am old. All things have come since then to me, Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady. Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he), My way's for Love and Arcady.

But you, you fare alone, like me; The gray is likewise in your hair. What love have you to lead you there, To Arcady, to Arcady?