FANNY; OR THE BEAUTY AND THE BEE

ANNY, array'd in the bloom of her beauty,

FA Stood at the mirror, and toy'd with her

hair,

Viewing her charms, till she felt it a duty

To own that like Fanny no woman was fair. A Bee from the garden-oh, what could mislead him?

Stray'd through the lattice new dainties to seek, And lighting on Fanny, too busy to heed him, Stung the sweet maid on her delicate cheek.

Smarting with pain, round the chamber she sought him,

Tears in her eyes, and revenge in her heart, And angrily cried, when at length she had caught him, "Die for the deed, little wretch that thou art!" Stooping to crush him, the hapless offender

Pray'd her for mercy,-to hear and forgive; "Oh, spare me!" cried he, "by those eyes in their splendour;

Oh, pity my fault, and allow me to live!

roses,

"Am I to blame that your cheeks are like Whose hues all the pride of the garden eclipse? Lilies are hid in your mouth when it closes,

And odours of Araby breathe from your lips." Sweet Fanny relented: "'twere cruel to hurt you; Small is the fault, pretty bee, you deplore; And e'en were it greater, forgiveness is virtue; Go forth and be happy-I blame you no more.' Charles Mackay.

GARDEN FANCIES

THE FLOWER'S NAME

I

ERE'S the garden she walked across,

H Arm in my arm, such a short while since:

Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among.

II

Down this side of the gravel-walk

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses ranged in a valiant row,

I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know;

But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!

III

This flower she stooped at, finger on lip,
Stooped over in doubt, as settling its claim;
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name:

What a name! Was it love or praise?
Speech half-asleep or song half-awake?
I must learn Spanish, one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

IV

Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell,

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found.

V

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,
Stay as you are and be loved for ever!
Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not:
Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!
For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle

Twinkling the audacious leaves between,
Till round they turn and down they nestle-
Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

VI

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee;

Is there no method to tell her in Spanish

June's twice June since she breathed it with me?

Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,
Treasure my lady's lightest footfall!

—Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces--
Roses, you are not so fair after all!

Robert Browning.

A POEM OF EVERY-DAY LIFE

E tore him from the merry throng
Within the billiard hall;

HE

He was gotten up regardlessly

To pay his party call.

His thoughts were dire and dark within,

Discourteous to fate:

"Ah, me! these social debts incurred
Are hard to liquidate.”

His boots were slender, long and trim;
His collar tall and swell;

His hats were made by Dunlap,
And his coats were cut by Bell;
A symphony in black and white,
Of our set" the pride,

Yet he lingered on his way-
He would that he had died.

His feet caressed the lonely way,
The pave gave forth no sound;
They seemed in pitying silence clothed
West-End-ward he was bound.

He approached the mansion stealthily,
The step looked cold and chill;
He glanced into the vestibule,
But all was calm and still.

He fingered nervously the bell,
His card-case in his hand;
He saw the mirror in the hall-
Solemn, stately, grand.
Suddenly his spirits rose;

The drawing-room looked dim;
The menial filled his soul with joy
With "No, there's no one in.'

دو

With fiendish glee he stole away;
His heart was gay and light,
Happy that he went and paid
His party call that night.

His steps turned to the billiard hall,
Blissfully he trod;

He entered: "What, returned so soon?"
Replied: "She's out, thank God!"

Sixteen cues were put to rest
Within their upright beds,

And sixteen different tiles were placed
On sixteen level heads;

Sixteen men upon the street

In solid phalanx all,

And sixteen men on duty bent

Το pay their

party call.