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Then it grew when she begged me to reach her
A dressing-case under the seat; She was “really so tiny a creature
That she needed a stool for her feet!"
With a care that was even minute,
And a glance-of the fairyest boot.
Then it drooped, and revived at some hovels
"Were they houses for men or for pigs?” Then it shifted to muscular novels,
With a little digression on prigs : She thought “Wives and Daughters” “SO
“Had I read it?” She knew when I had, Like the rest, I should dote upon “ Molly;"
And “poor Mrs. Gaskell—how sad !” “Like Browning ?” “But so-so.”
“But so-so." His proof lay Too deep for her frivolous mood,
That preferred your mere metrical souffle
To the stronger poetical food;
Was Tennyson writing just now?
And clever, and naughty, or how? Then we trified with concerts and cro
quet, Then she daintily dusted her face; Then she sprinkled herself with “Ess Bou
quet,” Fished out from the foregoing case; And we chattered of Gassier and Grisi,
And voted Aunt Sally a bore; Discussed if the tight rope were easy,
Or Chopin much harder than Spohr.
And oh! the odd things that she quoted,
With the prettiest possible look,
In the prettiest possible book,
While her talk like a musical rillet
Flashed on with the hours that flew; And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill it
With just enough summer-for Two. Till at last in her corner, peeping
From a nest of rugs and of furs, With the white shut eyelids sleeping
On those dangerous looks of hers,
Not wholly alive nor dead,
To the sounds of the spring overhead; And I watched in the lamplight's swerving
The shade of the down-dropped lid, And the lip-line's delicate curving,
Where a slumbering smile lay hid, Till I longed that, rather than sever,
The train should shriek into space, And carry us onward-forever
Me and that beautiful face.
But she suddenly woke in a fidget,
With fears she was “nearly at home,” And talked of a certain Aunt Bridget, Whom I mentally wished — well, at
Looking back with a merry Bon Soir,
A surplus, unkind Au Revoir.
So left me to muse on her graces,
To doze and to muse, till I dreamed That we sailed through the sunniest places
In a glorified galley, it seemed;
And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne,
And that's how I lost her-a jewel
Incognita-one in a crowd,
Not prudent enough to be cruel,
Not worldly enough to be proud.
Just a few hours in a train,
DORA versus ROSE.
“ The case is proceeding."
From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's
At least, on a practical planTo the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.
Like mine: I am equally fond
And Dora, a blonde.