Go dangle th' tillyphone call, An' gimme La Mulberry Roo, F'r the town is too warrm f'r this gendarme, An' he'll go to the goats, mon Dieu!'" Sez Alderman Grady Can't open to-night, An' everything tight! "Oh! 'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman lookin' f'r you! 'Bedad,' sez he, 'he's mad,' sez he. 'So turrn on the screw f'r Bellevue, An' chain 'im ag'in' the wall, An' lather 'im wan or two, An' tether 'im out on the Bloomin'dale route Like a loonytick goat! Whurroo!"" Robert W. Chambers. Post-Impression POST-IMPRESSIONISM I CANNOT tell you how I love At first you fancy they are built This thing which you would almost bet Now, Mr. Dove has too much art This thing which would appear to show Is really quite another thing, A flock of pigeons on the wing. But Mr. Dove is much too keen It's all as simple as can be; He paints the things you cannot see, Just as composers please the ear With "programme" things you cannot hear. Dove is the cleverest of chaps; Whether he did them on a bet. 235 Bert Leston Taylor. TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN," IN THE ATHENÆUM GALLERY It may be so-perhaps thou hast I will not blame thee for thy face, That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, In spite of all the cold world's scorn, Those eyes,-among thine elder friends No matter, if a man can see, What more have eyes to do? Thy mouth-that fissure in thy face I know thou hast a wife at home, That wife sits fearless by thy side, Above thy mantel is a hook,- It was thine only ornament,- To the Portrait of "A Gentleman ” She begged thee not to let it go, She begged thee all in vain: She wept, and breathed a trembling prayer It was a bitter sight to see It was a solemn thought to think And often in her calmer hours, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems. Thy wretched infant turns his head And looks to meet the placid stare I never saw thee, lovely one,- It is not often that we cross 237 But if we meet in distant years, Sure I can take my Bible oath I've seen that face before. Oliver Wendell Holmes. CACOËTHES SCRIBENDI Ir all the trees in all the woods were men, Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes The human race should write, and write, and write, Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink LITTLE I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone Plain food is quite enough for me; Thank Heaven for three-Amen! I care not much for gold or land; Give me a mortgage here and there, I only ask that Fortune send |