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
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.

whin."

The Schoolmaster

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.

65

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.

Cupid's Darts

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 significs 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.

'rabella Willson.

67

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

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.