OLD GRIMES

BY ALBERT GORTON GREENE

Old Grimes is dead, that good old man
We never shall see more:

He used to wear a long black coat
All button'd down before.

His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;
His hair was some inclined to gray-
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burn'd;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turn'd.

Kind words he ever had for all;

He knew no base design:

His eyes were dark and rather small,

His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true;
His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.

Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes

He pass'd securely o'er,

And never wore a pair of boots
For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown:
He wore a double-breasted vest-
The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert:

He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse

Was sociable and gay:

He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.

His knowledge hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view,

Nor made a noise town-meeting days,

As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to fortune's chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares,

His peaceful moments ran;

And everybody said he was

A fine old gentleman.

MISS LEGION

BY BERT LESTON TAYLOR

She is hotfoot after Cultyure;
She pursues it with a club.
She breathes a heavy atmosphere
Of literary flub.

No literary shrine so far

But she is there to kneel;

And

Her favorite bunch of reading
Is O. Meredith's "Lucile."

Of course she's up on pictures—
Passes for a connoisseur;
On free days at the Institute

You'll always notice her.

She qualifies approval

Of a Titian or Corot,
But-

She throws a fit of rapture

When she comes to Bouguereau.

And when you talk of music,

Why, she's Music's devotee. She will tell you that Beethoven

Always makes her wish to pray, And "dear old Bach!" his very name, She says, her ear enchants;

But

Her favorite piece is Weber's

"Invitation to the Dance."

HAVE YOU SEEN THE LADY?

BY JOHN PHILIP SOUSA

"Have I told you the name of a lady? Have I told you the name of a dear? 'Twas known long ago,

And ends with an O;

You don't hear it often round here.

Have I talked of the eyes of a lady?

Have I talked of the eyes that are bright?

Their color, you see,

Is B-L-U-E;

They're the gin in the cocktail of light.

Have I sung of the hair of a lady?

Have I sung of the hair of a dove?
What shade do you say?
B-L-A-C-K;

It's the fizz in the champagne of love.

Can you guess it-the name of the lady?

She is sweet, she is fair, she is coy.

Your guessing forego,

It's J-U-N-O;

She's the mint in the julep of joy."