A WARNING.

And (here came the daintiest blushes),
Regarding me quite as a friend,

She asked, as a very great favor,

That I'd take a trunk under my care; And then, I consenting, she gave me― I won't tell you what, I declare.

We were just coming up Boston Harbor
When a man in blue flannel came round,
And, demanding the keys of their owners,
Examined what baggage was found.
Imagine my painful emotion

When in very gruff tones I was told
That the duties on what that trunk carried
Would be ninety-eight dollars in gold!

I paid it-it took all my money

And some that I borrowed-before That trunk was released from its durance And allowed to be carried on shore. And the warning I wish to inculcate

On all who this episode con

Is to never bring trunks up to Boston
From the people who live at St. John.

123

UNKNOWN.

A SONG OF SEPTEMBER.

Two little flies in my chamber I see;
I have killed one, and now there are three.

Three little flies crawling over my door;
I have killed two, and now there are four.

Four little flies on the wall still alive;
I have killed three, and now there are five.

Five little flies, but their fate soon I'll fix; I have killed four, and now there are six.

Six little flies to torment me have striven; I have killed five, and now there are seven.

Seven little flies, buzzing early and late;
I have killed six, and now there are eight.

Eight little flies, all impatient to dine;
I have killed seven, and now there are nine.

Nine little flies within reach of my pen;
I have killed eight, and now there are ten.

O good Beelzebub, "Lord of the Fly";
Call home the children who thus multiply.
UNKNOWN.

A BAR HARBOR ROMANCE.

She was a summer maiden,
Slender, seductive and fair.

He was a Harvard half-back

With a very distinguished air.

They drove, they danced and they boated, And flirted away the days.

He talked of college and foot-ball,

And she of society's ways.

But oft on the moonlit evenings,

When they sauntered along the shore,

They murmured of dearer topics

That figure in lovers' lore.

Yet they parted at last with coldness,
As the fondest of sweethearts can,
For they simultaneously discovered through
the agency of a mutual friend that—

He was engaged to a Boston girl,

And she to a New York man.

MABEL T. J.

THE WEAKER SEX.

127

THE WEAKER SEX.

She'd been a belle all winter long-the queen, in fact, of all.

She'd been to all the coaching meets; had danced at every ball.

No function of society had this fair maiden missed.

Her name was certain to be found on every social list.

When summer came she went away to get a needed rest,

And to the hills she hied herself, because they pleased her best.

And this is how she took her ease, this lovely city belle,

And this is how she "rested" in that little mountain dell.

She walked each day a dozen miles 'twixt breakfast-time and one;

She bowled five games of ten-pins ere the lunch hour was begun;

She played five sets of tennis, and she took a horseback ride,

And then a row upon the lake this worn-out maiden tried.