THE MUSE MUDDLED.

I sat me down some lines to write,
But soon was in a mood to fight!
I scarcely had begun my song
Before the ragman came along!
(Oh! I wished the fiend to throttle!)
"Ole-rag―ole-rag-any-rag-bottle?"

I tried again: got through a line,
And caught a glimpse of something fine.
But only glimpse; for I was then
Made crosser than a setting hen.
This time, it was that awful sell:
"Mac-Rell-Mac-Rell!-Nice-fresh-Mac-

Rell!"

I waited till Mack-Rell got by,
Then feeling mad enough to cry,
Picked up again my pen and wit,
And started in to make a hit,
When this refrain fell on my ear:
"Baynaynees!-Bye-Baynaynees-haer!"

I thought to give it up: but then-
Should tongue be let to squelch the pen?
No, no! I tried the thing once more:
Alas! No better than before!

THE MUSE MUDDLED.

93

The greasy fiend that filched my hope
Came on the scene with "Sope! Sope! Sope!"

At length I gave up all contorl

With bitter feelings in my soul.

Ought any city sell the right

To howl the street from morn till night?
Ought citizens be robbed their peace
By traders in old rags and grease?

Should venders be allowed to yell
Through decent streets like imps of hell?
Distress the sick, dispel all thought,
Because some wares are sold and bought?
Why not all merchants do the same?
To Bedlam change fair Boston's name?

Methinks there is a better way,
Our people will demand, some day,
For trade in rags and fish and fruit—
A way that folks of sense will suit
Pray give us, now, do people say,
Release them "Be-nah-na-a-a!"

LORIN LUDLOW.

THE PASSING OF SUMMER.

Across the vision of the clerk the giddy seaside flits

As in his thin alpaca coat the livelong day he

sits,

And on the dust-worn drummer's face the shad

ows swiftly play

As in the crowded train he speeds upon his heated

way.

The order-book is damp with warmth, the wheels of trade move slow,

And over all the sweltering mass the summer breezes flow.

In airy costume, light and free, the summer girl is seen,

Her flowing tresses mingling with the play of nature's green;

She promenades the hotel porch, and on the sand she lies,

And advertises silken hose to all admiring eyes. With reckless Cupid at her back she skirts the mountain-top,

And by the latest rings she wears betrays the men who pop.

THE PASSING OF SUMMER.

95

Upon the ocean's azure breast the yachts have spread their sails,

And by the brook the fisherman his scanty luck bewails.

The tennis court is gay with life, the croquet mallet's heard,

And with immense ambition the mosquito now is stirred.

The early morning fly is here, the iceman with his smile,

And while he toils the plumber at the seaside spends his pile.

The dust is flowing overhead; the sun is beating down

Upon the field, and meadow, and the ever-busy town.

The countless throngs are moving with their faces toward the west,

To where the wondrous World's Fair is prepared to meet the test.

The summer's here! When, later on, our steps

are homeward bent,

Why, then 'twill be quite time enough to think of all we've spent.

UNKNOWN.

A SIMILE.

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile)

A squirrel spend his little rage,
In jumping round a rolling cage;
The cage, as either side turned up,
Striking a ring of bells at top?—

Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs:
But, here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.
So fares it with those merry blades
That frisk it under Pindus' shades,
In noble song and lofty odes,

They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,

Still pleased with their own verses' sound;

Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,

Always aspiring, always low.

MATTHEW PRIOR.