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Or I find myself placidly adding

To the rapturous tresses of Rose Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,

Ineffable nose.

Was there ever so sad a dilemma?

For Rose I would perish (pro tem.); For Dora I'd willingly stem a

(Whatever might offer to stem); But to make the invidious election

To declare that on either one's side I've a scruple—a grain more affection,

I can not decide.

And as either so hopelessly nice is,

My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis-

Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle, conducive

By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive

Of Dora and Rose.

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(After-thought.) But, perhaps, if a third (say a Norah),

Not quite so delightful as RoseNot wholy so charming as Dora

Should appear, is it wrong to supposeAs the claims of the others are equal

And flight-in the main-is the bestThat I might ... But no matter—the sequel

Is easily guessed.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

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THEY nearly strike me dumb,
And I tremble when they come

Pit-a-pat:
This palpitation means
That these boots are Geraldine's,

Think of that.

O, where did hunter win
So delicate a skin

For her feet?
You lucky little kid,
You perished, so you did,

For my sweet!

The fairy stitching gleams
On the sides, and in the seams,

And it shows
The Pixies were the wags
Who tipped these funny tags

And these toes.

What soles to charm an elf!
Had Crusoe, sick of self,

Chanced to view
One printed near the tide,
O, how hard he would have tried

For the two !

For Gerry's debonair,
And innocent and fair

As a rose.
She's an angel in a frock,
With a fascinating cock

To her nose.

Those simpletons who squeeze Their extremities, to please

Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch

Geraldine's.

Cinderella's lefts and rights
To Geraldine's were frights,

And I trow
The damsel, deftly shod,
Has dutifully trod

Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits
Such a pretty puss-in-boots

These to don,
Set this dainty hand awhile
On my shoulder, dear, and I'll

Put them on.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

HERMIONÉ.

WHEREVER I wander, up and about,
This is the puzzle I can't make out-
Because I care little for books, no doubt:

I have a wife, and she is wise,

Deep in philosophy, strong in Greek; Spectacles shadow her pretty eyes,

Coteries rustle to hear her speak; She writes a little for love, not fame;

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