LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
w£M 
 
 
 
LIFE'S 
 
 VERSES 
 
 
 SECOND SERIES -- 
 / ■ 
 
 F. O. ATTWOOD 
 H. W. MCVICKAR 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 BY 
 ALFRED BRENNAN 
 J. A. MITCHELL 
 AND OTHERS 
 
 O. HERFORD 
 A. E. STERNER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 COPYRIGHT, 1SS6, BY 
 
 WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN 
 
 1886 
 
 AUG ?01886' 
 

 U4T 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 18S6, 
 
 BY 
 
 WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN. 
 
 PRESS OF FLEMING, BREWSTER &. ALLEY 
 31 A 33 WEST 230 STREET, NEW YORK. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 A. D. 1885 
 
 An Earthly Paradise, 
 An Eclipse of Venus, 
 An Invocation 
 Belinda, M.D. 
 
 . M. E. TV. . 
 T. P. S. . 
 Idle Idyller . 
 . C. H. 
 
 Mark Mallow 
 
 Bishop and the Ballet 
 
 Girl. The . . . Sekadee 
 
 Chansonnette, A 
 
 Fickle Gale, A 
 
 Frozen Out . 
 
 German, The 
 
 Her Wicker Chair 
 
 How 
 
 How Could You Fail 
 
 (Im)Modesty . 
 
 . R. King 
 Idle Idyller . 
 James Jt-ffny Roche 
 . M. Este 
 J. K. Bangs . 
 . Clyde 
 
 Robert Grant 
 
 19 
 >5 
 48 
 1 1 
 .38 
 
 5o 
 18 
 
 43 
 44 
 27 
 54 
 14 
 7 
 35 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Imprudent Prudence, Idle Idytter . 
 
 Indian Summer . . . E. G. S. 
 
 Just My Luck . . Walter Clarke 
 
 La BELLE Tromboniste, Charles G. D. Roberts 
 
 Last Beaux of Summer, 
 
 The . . . . J. K. Bangs . 
 
 Last Guests, The, Harold Van Santvoord 
 
 Lines C. H. 
 
 Lines . . . H. L. Satterlee 
 
 Little Brother of the 
 
 Rich, A . . . . E. M. S. . 
 
 Love Song, A . . Id/,- Idytter . 
 
 Maternity .... Ovell 
 
 Messenger Boy, The . . C. H. 
 
 Moon-burnt . . . M. M. G. . 
 
 Mother's Plaint, The, Carlyle Smith 
 
 Musing 
 
 My Tiger . . . . J. D. S. . 
 
 Ode to the Full Moon, Allen Kelly . 
 
 Oh ! Where is Love 
 
 A-hiding? . . Warden Maylowe 
 
 40 
 18 
 
 41 
 55 
 
 34 
 8 
 
 5' 
 55 
 36 
 47 
 25 
 
 29 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Poem of Poverty. A . . M. B. 
 Poet's Miseries, A . Ben Wood Davis 
 Poetical Impecuniosity, W. J. D. . 
 Poor Young Man to His Girl, A 
 Remorse . . . . M. . 
 
 Rendezvous, A . -J- -"'• Mitchell 
 Tempora Mutantur . W. S. Case . 
 
 Tennis H. IV. F. . 
 
 TITLE Clear, A . James Jeffrey Roche 
 
 To a Contributor 
 
 To My Lady of Boston . Vir 
 
 To Prue with Her Candle, Idle IdyUer . 
 
 Tommy's Tale . . . Sekadee 
 
 'Twixt the Cup and the Lip 
 
 Two Scenes from Winter and One from Some 
 
 We Close at 2.30 P.M. . 0. H. 
 
 Wilting M. B. 
 
 er Else 
 
 PAGE 
 
 37 
 ^4 
 36 
 5i 
 12 
 
 17 
 34 
 
 '3 
 
 46 
 
 4^ 
 26 
 
 49 
 56 
 3' 
 

 ^^r- 
 
 # 
 
 A. 
 
 ■': 
 
 «! 
 
 ■■' 
 
 ^|y only 6ooks> 
 ' COere womanV^ool^&j 
 \f\iriS fofjy\a(f tt/eyvetauQ^t me . 
 
 <=^J^ 
 
 
HOW COULD YOU FAIL. 
 
 I SING a maiden fair, 
 I sing an easy chair 
 With carvings quaint and rare 
 
 And arms. 
 Ah, foolish easy chair, 
 When you had Kitty there, 
 How could you fail to dare 
 To use vour arms? 
 
LINES. 
 
 Written on a fly-leaf of H. C. Bunner's " Airs from Arcady and Elsewhere." 
 
 YE gentle airs so sweetly blown 
 From Arcady and other places, 
 Telling of fields of hay new-mown. 
 Of leafy lanes with sun-lit spaces, 
 Of loving hearts and dimpled faces. 
 Of hurried kisses — long embraces, 
 Of tangled curls and tumbled laces — 
 Of every careless joy that 's known ! 
 
 Breathe soft, with blossom-freighted wings, 
 On young and old, on slaves and kings ; 
 And while our minstrel picks the strings, 
 Whisper the notes he sweetly sings — 
 Ye gentle airs. 
 
 H. L. Satterlee. 
 
 THE MESSENGER BOY. 
 
 (SONNET.) 
 
 OFT have I seen him — Hermes' godchild — stand 
 Gazing with sad yet fascinated stare 
 Into a candy shop, whose dainties rare 
 Fills his young soul with dreams of Fairy-land. 
 Across his lips he holds, in one wee hand, 
 A telegram, and pipes thereon an air. 
 The while his eye roams from the rich iclair 
 To linger on the mint-stick's twisted band. 
 
 Gaze on, O boy ! gaze on — yet would I fain 
 
 Receive my telegram — if mine it be — 
 Ere the unsilenced robins nest again, 
 
 Ere spring's sweet violets perfume the lea. 
 Ere man shall have " A Drowsy Tortoise " ta'en 
 
 As the true meaning of thy " A. D. T." 
 
 C.H. 
 
I DO not like the game at all, 
 And fail to see the fun 
 Of rushing madly round and round 
 For hours upon a tennis ground 
 Beneath a July sun. 
 
 I played it once, because I heard 
 'T was such a " perfect " game ; 
 What happened I can scarcely say — 
 1 only know that since that day 
 I've never felt the same. 
 
 The first ball hit me very hard 
 
 Before I 'd time to move — 
 
 And no one seemed to care at all 
 Except because I 'd stopped the ball 
 
 And made " fifteen to love ! " 
 
 And then they laughed across the net 
 
 And served a "gentle ball," 
 At which I struck with all my might 
 And sent it flying out of sight 
 
 Behind a neighboring wall. 
 
My partner was a Harvard lad. 
 With whom I 'd had some fun, 
 
 But as the games went on, he eyed 
 The girl upon the other side 
 As if she'd been the one. 
 
 And so we played for what seemed hours 
 Across that dazzling net. 
 
 Until at last I overheard 
 
 My partner breathe a wicked word, 
 Because we 'd " lost the set ! " 
 
 Of course, for those who brave the sun 
 
 Prepared to pay the price ; 
 And rush about with tumbled hair, 
 And like to hear men curse and swear — 
 
 It may be very nice. H. IV. F. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE HOPE OF RECOVERING AN UMBRELLA. 
 
 I'VE given up riddles 
 And dancing and fiddles, 
 
 To humor your bent ; 
 I Ye given up dining 
 And taken to whining — 
 
 (The // I resent) — 
 This long Lenten season, 
 Of course, is the reason — 
 
 But never I meant 
 To give up, mia bella. 
 My London umbrella 
 
 Because it is lent. C. H 
 
f 
 
 CS OA >^0 
 
 BY bard unsung, by saga's love untold. 
 Softly thou sinkest from the realms of space 
 
 To soar again, nor find a resting-place, 
 Though one should beckon thee and bid thee hold. 
 Descend, sweet sprite ! nor be forever cold 
 
 To my appeals ; show me thy jocund face, 
 
 Thy easy attitudes of airy grace, 
 Thy lazy limbs bedecked in blue and gold. 
 Descend, and waft me with thee ; make me know 
 
 That bliss unspeakable, that perfect joy_ 
 That must be thine, when, leaving men below 
 
 To swear, thou mock'st them, and with laughter coy 
 Floatest to floors where they are fain to go, 
 
 Thou gay. light-hearted elevator boy ! 
 
.-<=.. •">, 
 
 REMORSE. 
 
 MY spirit sits in ashes, breaking dust upon its head ; 
 I 've said a silly thing, and now it cannot be unsaid. 
 What boots it that to only two the wretched truth is known, 
 If of the conscious pair who know it I myself am one ? 
 
 I have my doubts — more doubts the more I think of what I 
 
 said — 
 If, really, half a loaf is much better than no bread ; 
 For if a person is an ass, and duly bound to show it, 
 Cold comfort 't is that he should have just sense enough to 
 
 know it. M. 
 
TO MY LADY OF BOSTON. 
 
 Ifear when you die, O my 
 Lady, 
 And pass through the heavenly 
 
 gate; 
 
 When you put on the wings of ^/fr. 
 an angel, Xg^ 
 
 You will never fly perfectly 
 
 straight. -: 
 
 When you rise on those Heav- 
 enly pinions, 
 
 And soar through that kingdom 
 of Love, 
 
 You will show a strange weak- 
 ness for moving 
 In the most select circles above. 
 Vir. 
 
HOW? 
 
 BV "CLYDE." 
 
 HOW can a man on a dollar a day, 
 Charter a seat at a popular play, 
 And purchase cigars and tobacco, pray? 
 He can't. 
 
 How can he sport an elegant tile, 
 Ask his dear friends to step out for a "smile," 
 And stable a 2.40 animile? 
 He can't. 
 
 How can he frolic with better fed friends 
 When, in cold perspiration he 's at his wits' ends 
 If his wash-woman after her half-dollar sends ? 
 He can't. 
 
 How can he bear to be called a "poor cad," 
 How can he dress in a big, fancy plaid, 
 His credit won't keep — it is " fragrantly " bad ? 
 He can't. 
 
 How buy perfumery, handkerchiefs, too, 
 The edges all stamped with a red kangaroo, 
 And change linen cuffs every Sunday or two ? 
 He can't. 
 
 How can he go out to ride with his " mash" 
 When he has n't the requisite cold-blooded cash ? 
 Why that is his reason for not being rash — 
 He can't. 
 
 How can he claim his dear girl's slender hand, 
 And circle her finger with glittering band. 
 When his check-book 's so weak it scarcely can stand? 
 He can't. 
 
 How can he marry and furnish a wife 
 With the many small comforts which sweeten this life? 
 We must state the cold truth, tho' it cuts like a knife — 
 He can't. 
 
SHE is not frivolous, my love, 
 But relishes the wit of Horace ; 
 Homer, of course, she ranks above 
 
 All other bards, yet dotes on Morris. 
 At Dobson's dainty little muse 
 
 She is inclined to be a mocker. 
 And would be willing to refuse 
 
 A laurel wreath to Frederick Locker. 
 
 Through Morris' Earthly Paradise 
 
 It was a pleasure to beguile her; 
 She found it altogether nice, 
 
 And crunched confections, bought of Huyler. 
 But I a mundane Eden found 
 
 That knocked that one of Morris silly 
 The day my wilful arm stole 'round 
 
 Her waist, and she first called me " Billy." 
 
 T. P. S. 
 
A RENDEZVOUS. 
 
A RENDEZVOUS. 
 
 ^T" 1 IS Christmas night. 
 1 A ghostly light 
 Illumines forgotten faces. 
 With loving tread 
 The feet of the dead 
 Fall soft in familiar places. 
 
 In these dim halls 
 
 This night recalls 
 Sweet memories death cannot chill. 
 
 Faint finger tips 
 
 And voiceless lips 
 Bring the ghost of an old-time thrill 
 
 Ah, many a year 
 
 Has gone, since here. 
 Her love and herself she gave; 
 
 A blushing face, 
 
 A long embrace — 
 And he, to a soldier's grave. 
 
 There's joy in meeting ; 
 
 But hours are fleeting. 
 And the saddest of all draws near, 
 
 For light of dawn 
 
 Will find them gone. 
 And to sleep for another year. 
 
 /. A. Mitchell. 
 
INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 QUATRAIN. 
 
 NOW is the waning twilight of the year ; 
 O'er drowsy fields in sombre russet drest 
 The golden-rod is blazing like a torch 
 
 That lights the weary summer to her rest. 
 
 E. G. S. 
 
 A CHANSONNETTE. 
 
 YOU are singing so well, My Lady. 
 And your voice seems filled with tears, 
 As you sing of a long-lost spring-time, 
 And youth and the misty years. 
 
 And I wonder if you Ye forgotten 
 
 That spring-time so long ago, 
 When you and I wandered together, 
 
 And both were — well, I don't know, 
 
 For 't was not so very long after 
 You married that wealthy beast. 
 
 And I — well, I 'm an old bachelor, 
 And do n't, of course, care the least. 
 
 And you 're singing so well, My Lady; 
 
 Like a pearl falls every note ; 
 And nobody dreams, My Lady, of 
 
 The lump there is in my throat. 
 
 R. King 
 
A. D. 1885. 
 
 ' Varium et mutabile semper femina. 1 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 L 
 
 IGHTLY she mocked him with jest and quip, 
 And a curl of her red, disdainful lip ; 
 
 Lightly she laughed, as he rode away 
 In the golden gleam of a dying day. 
 
 Spurring his steed with a tightened rein 
 At the sound of her gay Auf wiedersehen, 
 
 And cursing the cruel Fate that set 
 His heart at the feet of a vain coquette. 
 
 But the restless hound she held in check 
 Felt the hand that lay on his shaggy neck 
 
 Quiver and stir, while the shadows grew 
 Uusky and dark in the tremulous blue 
 
 Of her April eyes, and a weary sigh 
 Broke unawares in her airy cry : 
 
 " Aye, these are the times of Greed and Gold, 
 And Love is a fashion too old — too old ! " 
 
 M. E. IV. 
 
A TITLE CLEAR. 
 
 MAYBE it was the Sunday fare; 
 Maybe the Sunday sermon . 
 Perhaps 't was but a plain nightmare - 
 I never can determine. 
 
 I dreamed I was an errant shade, 
 With other shadows hieing 
 
 Along a road whose downward grade 
 Was simply terrifying. 
 
 Before them all, with haughty head, 
 One held the chief position. 
 
 Whose lofty mien and stately tread 
 Proclaimed his high condition. 
 
 While in the eyes of all the rest 
 
 Sat trouble and dejection, 
 His gold-rimmed orbs alone expressed 
 
 Approving introspection. 
 
We reached a river and embarked 
 
 Upon a galley gloomy ; 
 The seat the stranger took. I marked, 
 
 Was elegant and roomy. 
 
 When Charon came to punch his fare, 
 
 The awe-inspiring spectre 
 Transfixed him with a stony stare, 
 
 And seemed to say. " Director." 
 
 We reached at length the heavenly gate 
 The press had free admissions — 
 
 The common herd was forced to wait 
 And loaded with conditions. 
 
 The stranger handed in his card. 
 
 While 'round the door we hovered, 
 And to the high celestial guard 
 
 His shapely head uncovered. 
 
 I saw St. Peter smile and bow, 
 
 Urbane and deferential ; 
 The stranger's greeting was somehow, 
 
 A shade more consequential. 
 
 " Angel!" the saintly tylcr cried, 
 
 A page straightway appearing. 
 (I do n't remember that I tried 
 To wholly keep from hearing.) 
 
 I caught the words "Orchestra chair — 
 Be sure you get the right one — 
 
 See the harp-tuner ; and take care 
 The halo is a bright one." 
 
 " Look lively, too," St. Peter said, 
 ■' The gentleman is waiting." 
 
 " Please register" — he bent his head, 
 The great book indicating. 
 
a! 
 < 
 
 o 
 
 >> 
 z 
 o 
 
 H 
 
 
 z 
 
 H 
 
The stranger wrote. I read the scrawl 
 The sacred page engrossed on ; 
 
 The name was naught, the place was all — 
 "J. Winthrop Wiggins, Boston." 
 
 James Jeffrey Roche. 
 
 A LOVE SONG. 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 ONOW for a rhyme that is lyrical, 
 Inspired by a vision of you ; 
 A wonderful, metrical miracle 
 Performed in a stanza or two. 
 
 A song that shall know no impediments 
 To frustrate the fling of its feet — 
 
 A song that shall celebrate sediments 
 Of sentiments sugary sweet. 
 
 Ahem ! W 'ell your heavenly ocular 
 
 Surpasses the crystalline gem ; 
 Your lips have a hint of a jocular 
 
 Expression becoming to them. 
 
 That is all, and it 's incomprehensible ; 
 
 I doubt if you know what 1 mean ; 
 However. I think it 's as sensible 
 
 As other love poems I 've seen. 
 
 I 'm not very much on emotional 
 Productions in verse, you can see, 
 
 But I 'm sure I am quite as devotional 
 As you would desire me to be. 
 
 Idle Idyller. 
 
A POET'S MISERIES. 
 
 (How he wrote it.) 
 
 FROM out the garland on her breast, 
 The brightest flower she chose, 
 And underneath the fairy stars 
 I kissed the ruby rose. 
 
 (As copied by a Northern paper.) 
 
 From out She. garment on her breast 
 The brightest flower she chose, 
 
 And underneath the airy stars 
 I kissed her ruddy nose. 
 
 (As copied from the foregoing by a Southern paper.} 
 
 From out the garden on her waist. 
 
 The liglitest flower she chose, 
 And underneath the hairy stars 
 1 kissed her muddy nose. 
 
 (As copied from the foregoing by a Western paper.) 
 
 From out the garden on her vest 
 The tightest bower she chose, 
 
 And underneath the dairy stairs 
 1 kicked lier bloody nose. 
 
 Ben Wood Davis 
 

 O DISSOLUTE orb, that, in thy frequent state 
 Of lonely fulness, 'cross the heavens dost glide ! 
 'T is not thy loveliness that I do rate 
 Thy most engaging quality. Nor yet 
 Do I thy majesty so much admire. 
 'T is thy ability to get so full. 
 So gloriously, completely full, does fire 
 My wond'ring soul with emulative wish. 
 
 O reveler celestial ! Dost thou e'er 
 
 For boon companions long, and weary grow 
 
 Of lonely state, when on thy monthly tear ? 
 
 Dost ever tip, 'cross heaven's spaces wide, 
 
 To moons of Jupiter, convivial wink 
 
 And ask their company ? Of Saturn's crew, 
 
 With envious longing, dost thou ever think ? 
 
 Alas, thy fate ! Though full, thou art forlorn. 
 
And still, thou type of crapulence, thy lot 
 
 Has many compensations. Into quod, 
 
 Thou fearless roysterer, thou 'It ne'er be brought, 
 
 Though out all night in state called glorious. 
 
 I envy thee. However full, next morn 
 
 Will always see thee with a waning head 
 
 And ne'er at loss to get another horn, 
 
 For, never broke, thou 'st e'er a quarter left ! 
 
 Allen k\-Uv. 
 
 'TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP. 
 
 LAST night, at the rink, 
 1 made my confession. 
 She had liked me, 1 think. 
 'Till last night at the rink : 
 I felt her form sink — 
 
 I let go with discretion. 
 Last night at the rink 
 We made an impression. 
 
 To L. H. B. 
 

 ie is sitting directly before me, 
 And my heart grows as heavy as lead, 
 For he 's drawing with Nellie McVickar 
 A study in yellow and red. 
 
 All my life I shall hate those two colors - 
 She looks so superbly to-night ; 
 
 And I — I must look like a dowdy 
 In my poor little dress of plain white. 
 
HE. 
 
 She is peerlessly, perfectly lovely — 
 So dainty, so fresh, and so fair ; 
 
 Like one of those delicate flowers 
 That lie 'mid the gold of her hair. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 He is thinking of no one hut Nellie, 
 He don't even give me a glance; 
 
 I 'dget him away from that creature 
 If I only had half of a chance. 
 
 Oh ! I think I am very unhappy ! 
 
 But I can 't wear my heart on my sleeve. 
 I wish I could tell him I — like him. 
 
 I 'm tired of making believe. 
 
 HE. 
 
 How she looks at that donkey beside her, 
 With a smile on her exquisite lips. 
 
 Pah! she 's like all the rest of the women — 
 A flirt to her finger-tips. 
 
 But she shan't count me in as a victim. 
 
 I will not be caught in her net : 
 She may flirt 'till she 's tired with others, 
 
 I decline to amuse a coquette. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 I am going to give him a favor, 
 
 If it 's wanting in pride I don 't care ; 
 
 I 'II just run up to him gaily 
 And wear my most infantile air. 
 
 28 
 
She is coming this way, my fair darling — 
 She is leading me out for the waltz ; 
 
 What a brute I have been to resist her — 
 What a fool to imagine her false ! 
 
 SHE. 
 His dear arm is stealing around me — 
 
 HE. 
 She is lifting to me her sweet eyes — 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 On the throb and the swell of the music 
 We float into Paradise! 
 
 M. Este. 
 
 OH! WHERE IS LOVE A-HIDING? 
 
 OH ! where is Love a-hiding ? 
 Pray tell me where he 's fled? 
 For the roguish god 's deserted 
 
 The heart he erstwhile wed. 
 I wonder if he 's waiting 
 
 Till I shall humbly sue, 
 And promise ne'er to thwart him, 
 
 Whatever he may do? 
 O Love ! pray act your, pleasure. 
 
 And I '11 not be averse — 
 Aha ! the rogue ! I spy him ! 
 
 He 's tugging at my purse ! 
 
 J I 'arden Ma vloiut:. 
 
The reason, if I 've not forgot. 
 Was she was pious, I was not ; 
 No trifler should have her, she said, 
 And left me, broken-hearted 
 
 At five-and-twenty, I adored 
 
 Amelia, but she left me. 
 If I remember, I was told 
 I had too small a share of gold. 
 My grief, when she my ring restored, 
 Well-nigh of life bereft me. 
 
 At thirty I was overfond 
 
 Of Grace, a lovely creature. 
 She thought me arbitrary, set ; 
 Too staid for such a merry pet. 
 I made no sign, I think, beyond 
 
 Some ruefulness of feature. 
 
1 'm forty. All are to be had. 
 
 Unless their looks belie them, 
 I could have either ; but, alack ! 
 I 'm pledged to Jane. She'll not go back 
 On me, not she ! And so, egad, 
 
 I'll have no chance to try them ! 
 
 Walter Clarke. 
 
 WILTING. 
 
 SHE gave the rose upon the spot. 
 Her glowing eyes with love were lit. 
 And life without it were a blot ; 
 
 . But yet 't is wilting bit by bit, 
 And I must sort of wonder what 
 In thunder I shall do with it. 
 
 J/. B. 
 
A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE RICH. 
 
 "I""* > put new shingles on old roofs; 
 1 To give old women wadded skirts; 
 To treat premonitory coughs 
 
 With seasonable flannel shirts ; 
 To soothe the stings of poverty 
 
 And keep the jackal from the door — 
 These are the works that occupy 
 
 The Little Sister of the Poor. 
 
 She carries, everywhere she goes, 
 
 Kind words and chickens, jam and coals; 
 Poultices for corporeal woes. 
 
 And sympathy for downcast souls ; 
 Her currant jelly — her quinine, 
 
 The lips of fever move to bless. 
 She makes the humble sick-room shine 
 
 With unaccustomed tidiness. 
 
A heart, of hers the instant twin 
 
 And vivid counterpart is mine; 
 I also serve my fellow-men. 
 
 Though in a somewhat different line. 
 The Poor, and their concerns, she has 
 
 Monopolized, because of which 
 It falls to me to labor as 
 
 A Little Brother of the Rich. 
 
 For their sake at no sacrifice 
 
 Does my devoted spirit quail; 
 I give their horses exercise ; 
 
 As ballast on their yachts I sail. 
 Upon their Tally Ho's I ride 
 
 And brave the chances of a storm ; 
 1 even use my own inside 
 
 To keep their wines and victuals warm. 
 
 Those whom we strive to benefit 
 
 Dear to our hearts soon grow to be : 
 I love my Rich, and I admit 
 
 That they are very good to me. 
 Succor the Poor, my sisters, I. 
 
 While heaven shall still vouchsafe me health 
 Will strive to share and mollify 
 
 The trials of abounding wealth. 
 
 E. S. M. 
 
MATERNITY. 
 
 A MOTHER — yet not wife nor maid. 
 For days she sat, nor spoke nor stirred. 
 She could not, would not bow her head. 
 The sharp-closed lips gave forth no word. 
 
 The father of her children came. 
 But left her there, to live or die; 
 
 And yet her cheek flushed not with shame. 
 No tear bedewed her weary eye. 
 
 Men came and looked. She reared her head 
 Nor flinched before their questioning gaze. 
 
 " Let time fulfill its work," they said ; 
 Then sped them on their several ways. 
 
 One day her place was vacant. Men 
 Found near it the untasted food — 
 
 And proudly our old speckled hen 
 Led forth her downy, callow brood. 
 
 Ovell. 
 
 TEMPORA MUTANTUR. 
 
 IN olden Tyme wh nne valiaunt Knvghtes 
 Disputed f r each otheres Ryghtes. 
 Wlvine Maydes w re foughte f r — Th" ni! I wot 
 F r Monie, Love was nevere boughte. 
 
 Alack ! Those goode old Daies have passed, 
 Y e Foppe succeedes y e Knyghte at laste. 
 Love breedes contentiones as of Olde, 
 But Steele has given waie to Golde ! 
 
 IV. S. Case 
 
(lM)MODESTY. 
 
 [ Written after reading Professor Hill's article on " English 
 in the Schools, ' in Harper's Monthly for Jitnc.\ 
 
 I AM a modest little maid, 
 Who thinks it more polite 
 To bid a man "good-evening" 
 
 Than bid a man " good-night." 
 And if the human members 
 Are introduced by him, 
 I always call an arm an arm, 
 A leg a " lower limb." 
 
 I am a modest little maid 
 
 Who never goes to bed, 
 But to my chamber I "retire" 
 
 Most properly instead. 
 And when the chaste Aurora 
 
 Unseals my sleepy eyes. 
 The act which some call getting up 
 
 I designate "to rise." 
 
 I never speak of feeling sick, 
 
 But say that 1 am " ill," 
 And being in my dressing-gown 
 
 I style en deshabille. 
 In fact, 1 always hesitate 
 
 To call a spade a spade, 
 Because, you see, 1 try to be 
 
 A modest little maid. 
 
 . Robert Grant . 
 
i i 
 
 POETICAL IMPECUNIOSITY. 
 
 T gathering dusk I sit and muse, 
 
 Where fountains play and music thrills. 
 
 And wonder if I can enthuse 
 My soulful soul to pay my bills. 
 
 Alas ! I fear such thoughts are vain, 
 For though in bliss my fancy rolls. 
 
 This fact is always cold and plain, 
 Hard cash eludes the soulful souls. 
 
 IV. J. IK 
 
 MUSING. 
 
 BENEATH the broad elm's pleasant shade 
 Where Nell and I, child lovers, played 
 I tarried. 
 Yes, Nell, we 've changed since then 't is true ; 
 I 'm gray-haired, old, and wiser. You 
 Are married. 
 
 Pray tell if you, as I, e'er dream 
 
 Of childhood's hours ; and if they seem 
 
 As sweet. 
 Or is your life with fuss and care 
 For what to eat, and what to wear. 
 Complete ? 
 
 Ah ! Mrs. Jones, no doubt you think 
 For memory's pangs the shekels' clink 
 
 Atones. 
 | 'T was all for rhyme, that cynic's sigh, 
 Because, my gentle reader, I 
 Am Jones.] 
 
 36 
 
A POEM OF POVERTY. 
 
 IF I had more a year, love. 
 If I had more a year, 
 I 'd take you to the opera. 
 
 Which now would look quite queer; 
 On carriages and Jacqueminots 
 
 I 'd make it disappear ; 
 Candy, ice-cream — whate'er you chose, 
 If I had more a year. 
 
 If I had more a year, love, 
 
 I should my love confess, 
 1 'd give you every kind of chance 
 
 To softly murmur, " Yes." 
 You might accept me then, I think, 
 
 We '11 settle down next year — 
 The other men could take to drink, 
 
 If I had more a year. 
 
 If I had more a year, love, 
 
 'T would very soon be shown 
 If 'tis Cor not) a pleasant thing 
 
 To live for one alone. 
 You're something like your mother, now; 
 
 You '11 grow more like, I fear, 
 Perhaps 'tis better, anyhow, 
 
 I have n't more a year. 
 
 .1/. B. 
 
BELINDA is fifteen, 
 Hath hair of golden sheen, 
 And her eyes 
 Are the regulation blue. 
 Such as we 're accustomed to 
 Idolize. 
 
 38 
 
She hath a winning grace, 
 Complement of such a face 
 
 Of fifteen ; 
 And this dainty little body 
 Is determined that she '11 study 
 
 Medicine. 
 
 Was ever thought so crazy 
 Entertained by such a daisy 
 
 Of the field ? 
 Surely not ; but still the notion 
 Of professional devotion 
 
 Will not yield. 
 
 On the beach at Narragansett 
 She doth scan the London Lancet, 
 
 And I ween 
 Through her reading comprehensive 
 She is "up" on that expensive 
 
 Cocaine. 
 
 She doth cultivate affection 
 For Lequard and vivisection ; 
 
 Though as yet 
 She doth draw her skirt around her 
 When she passeth by a flounder 
 
 In a net. 
 
 And I wish you could behold her 
 In the lee of some big boulder 
 
 At her ease, 
 In profound preoccupation. 
 Getting points on circulation. 
 
 If you please. 
 
 Ah, this winsome little gold-head! 
 When the winged years have folded 
 
 On the scene 
 Of this fancy, will the thronging 
 Of her lovers set her longing 
 
 For fifteen? 
 
If, at length, she must confess 
 To a cardiac distress 
 
 Which an elf 
 With a bended bow hath brought her. 
 Can she then, tho' Galen taught her, 
 Cure herself ? 
 
 Mark Mallow . 
 
 IMPRUDENT PRUDENCE. 
 
 RONDE-AU CONTRAIRE. 
 
 WHEN Prudence was a bud untaught. 
 And took the caramels I bought. 
 With golden ribbons 'round the box, 
 The very color of her locks, 
 She was a paragon, I thought. 
 
 Each idle word she lisped was fraught 
 With sentiments that came unsought. 
 Yet well I knew to play the fox 
 When Prudence was. 
 
 The countless battles then I fought 
 With Cupid, all have come to naught ; 
 My heart withstood his rebel knocks 
 And never fluttered for her frocks ; 
 Egad, I found I was n't caught 
 
 When Prudence was. 
 
 Idle Idyller 
 

 
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TOMMY'S TALE. 
 
 MAMMA, does sister Anna know the Captain very well? 
 I know just why I think so, but I promised not to tell. 
 Still, if you really want to hear, and won't give me away, 
 I'll tell you what I saw when you were out the other day. 
 
 The Captain came and rang the bell, and asked if she was in, 
 And when John Thomas said she was, you should have seen 
 
 him grin, 
 And sister Anna sent me off to play with Bob upstairs, 
 But I saw she was embarrassed, so I did n't mind her airs. 
 
 As soon as nurse had gone away, why, me and Bob came bat k. 
 And underneath the parlor door we found an awful crack. 
 So we just lay down quite quietly outside upon the floor 
 And glued our eyeses to the crack and 
 
 THIS IS WHAT WE SAW. 
 
 Sekadt'e 
 
 TO A CONTRIBUTOR. 
 
 WE must return your witty song. 
 Although the brightest of its sort, 
 Because your poem is too long. 
 
 And Life, you know, is very short. 
 
V 
 
 A DROP of rain, a sudden gust, 
 A dark cloud in the sky ; 
 I turned my head and saw her just 
 
 As she was passing by. 
 Her ribbons fluttered bark and forth, 
 
 And through the gauzy veiling 
 There came a wind from out the north. 
 That set her loose locks sailing. 
 
 1 'm rather fond of rosy girls 
 
 I see upon the street ; 
 I 'm fond of little forehead-curls, 
 
 I 'm fond of little feet. 
 I 'm rather partial to the wind — 
 
 A moderate procella — 
 That whisks the veil securely pinned, 
 
 And tosses the umbrella. 
 
 O tempora ! mores J too ; 
 
 O heart, the slave of fate, 
 To think that for a maiden's shoe 
 
 You wildly palpitate ! 
 And you, my fair Anonymous, 
 
 You 've left a joy that rankles ; 
 How naughty 't was, my dear, to thus 
 
 Expose two pretty ankles ! 
 
 Idle Idyller. 
 
FROZEN OUT. 
 
 A TALE OF THE NICARAGUA CANAL. A.D. 19 — . 
 
 OOME hither, little Britisher, and listen while I tell 
 
 About the great climatic change that long ago befell. 
 Take off your little Arctic shoes ; hang up your reindeer hood ; 
 And you shall have some blubber pie if you be nice and good. 
 
 T was in the old and wicked days your Uncle Sam began 
 To dig his great canal beside the river San Juan, 
 And when they saw him work so hard and get along so slow. 
 The foreign nations laughed ha! ha! and eke they laughed ho ! ho! 
 
 But when the work was done at last and he began to build 
 His mighty forts on either side, with anger they were rilled. 
 They met in hasty conference one morning at Berlin, 
 The very day that he had fixed to let the water in. 
 
 
And as the water and the talk did simultaneous flow, 
 
 The Caribbean Sea ran dry and the Gulf of Mexico. 
 
 ' it 
 The great Gulf Stream which used to wash and warm all Wf 
 
 Europe free 
 
 Was siphoned through the new canal into the Southern Sea. 
 
 Next day a little cablegram covered with ice and snow 
 Came staggering over to Sandy Hook, and this its tale of woe 
 A wave of more than Arctic cold had suddenly ariz, 
 fn spite of grammar or precedent, and the whole of Europe fri 
 
 And every port was blocked with ice, and every town with snow ; 
 You could travel on skates from Liverpool to the Bay of Biscay O. 
 The savans, all at loggerheads the reason to unfold, 
 For some maintained 'twas lack of heat, others, excess of cold. 
 
 "Whatever the cause," said the cablegram, kicking its 
 
 frozen heels, 
 '• Europe for sympathy and help to its Uncle Sam appeals." 
 "The reason is plain," said Uncle Sam, and he winked his 
 
 aged eye, 
 " You 've neglected to pay your water rates, and I 've cut off 
 
 the supply." 
 
 45 
 
He laughed ha ! ha ! and he laughed ho ! ho ! did wily Uncle 
 
 Sam, 
 As he sent in his little bill of costs by the little cablegram. 
 The air of Europe was black that day with blasphemy and sin. 
 But the nations did as we all must do when the plumber's bill 
 
 comes in. 
 
 $100,000,000,000 cash ! and oh ! they roundly swore, 
 
 When they found the Gulf Stream didn 't flow as it useter did 
 
 before. 
 It w'as a pious dodge, my child, to put down war and slaughter, 
 For it made the nations keep the peace to keep out of hot 
 
 water. 
 
 James Jeffrey Roche. 
 
 TO PRUE WITH HER CANDLE. 
 
 ONE white finger through the handle 
 Of the brazen dish I see : 
 Here comes Prudence with her candle — 
 Here comes Prudence — woe to me ! 
 
 Like the slender waxen taper. 
 
 Slowly burning in the flame. 
 Is the heart that can 't escape her 
 
 And the magic of her name. 
 
 Love must have its blows and buffets — 
 
 Well, I comprehend my fate. 
 Good-night, Prudence ! Gently snuff its 
 
 Little life out : it is late. 
 
 Idle Idvller. 
 
 46 
 
MY TIGER. 
 
 HO sits beside my box-seat, trim 
 
 In stiff rigidity of limb, 
 While other drags try passing him ? 
 
 My Tiger. 
 
 A pot-hat decks his reddish hair, 
 Above his set, sarcastic stare 
 When watching my high-trotting mare ; 
 
 My Tiger. 
 
 Who drives me home from club at night, 
 'Neath darkness or electric light, 
 As though 't were some besotted wight ? 
 
 My Tiger. 
 
 Who, faithful, tucks me in my bed 
 Placing moist flannels on my head. 
 And wakes me when the forenoon 's fled ? 
 
 My Tiger. 
 
 Who puts aside the clam 'ring Jew, 
 When raising such a row and stew 
 About some notes long overdue ? 
 
 My Tiger. 
 
 A valet, cook and waiter, too. 
 
 He stirs my glass of " mountain dew; " 
 
 I'll drink a health to him, so true — 
 
 My Tiger. 
 
 /. D. S. 
 
 ?*> 
 
AN ECLIPSE OF VENUS. 
 
 WE said good-bye when all the birds 
 Flew homeward to the South ; 
 Two very unimportant words 
 
 Framed in a rosebud mouth ; 
 I held a slender hand awhile — 
 
 I knew it wasn 't right — 
 And when I missed her sunny smile, 
 It seemed the depth of night. 
 
 A very common incident, 
 
 Yet when a year had passed, 
 Whate'er I did, where'er I went, 
 
 Remembrance held it fast ; 
 1 longed to see her rosy face 
 
 Below her soft brown hair. 
 And so I sought the charmed place, 
 
 And waited for her there. 
 
 O, where was Edith — where was she 
 
 Who once had graced this spot? 
 Here was the seat beneath the tree, 
 
 But Edith — she was not. 
 Ye stars above that shine so pure, 
 
 Hear my Apocalypse ! 
 My star was on her wedding tour, 
 
 And I was in eclipse. 
 
 Idle Idyller. 
 
 4 8 
 
TWO SCENES FROM WINTER AND ONE FROM 
 SOME 'ER' ELSE. 
 
 & ■>'> 1 ' 
 
 E knelt beside her pillow- 
 In the dead watch of the night, 
 And he heard her gentle breathing; 
 But her face was still and white ; 
 
 And on her poor wan 
 cheek a tear 
 Told how the heart 
 can weep; 
 And he said, "My love 
 \ was weary — 
 
 God bless her; she's 
 \ asleep ! " 
 
 W-i 
 
 jr^' 
 
 -:' o.ih 
 
 He knelt beside her 
 grave-stone 
 In the shuddering autumn night, 
 And he heard the grasses rustle, 
 
 And his face was thin and white : 
 And through his heart the tremor ran 
 
 Of grief that cannot weep ; 
 And he said, "My love was weary — 
 God bless her ; she 's asleep ! " 
 
 William Winter. 
 
 He stood beside another 
 
 At the Altar's sacred base, 
 And he held her hand in silence 
 
 As he gazed upon her face. 
 And then he spoke the solemn words ; 
 
 A sense secure and deep 
 Took possession of him as he 
 
 Thought, " The other one 's asleep." 
 
THE BISHOP AND THE BALLET GIRL. 
 
 I. 
 
 CUPID one day, while flying about. 
 Caught sight of a Bishop who 'd just stepped out, 
 In robes of the very last English invention. 
 To grace with his presence the General Convention. 
 Says Cupid, the rascal, as bold as brass, 
 •' I do n't know the man, but he looks like an ass." 
 
 II. 
 Across the street tripped Miss Mary Magique, 
 Premiere danseuse of the Theatre Comique. 
 The devil himself could n't guess her age, 
 But still she made up very well for the stage, 
 " Hurrah," says Cupid, " She'll make him a wife, 
 She'll lead that old party a deuce of a life." 
 
 of&feg 
 
 III. 
 So he bent his bow, and he fired his dart; 
 Bishop and Ballet Girl felt the smart. 
 The Bishop looked wheedlesome, sad to say, 
 While she seemed coy, as is often the way. 
 •' Ha, ha." says Cupid, " I 've saved one more; 
 He won't want to marrv his sister-in-law." 
 
 IV. 
 
 The General Convention waited all day. 
 Wondering what kept that good Bishop away. 
 They waited from morning till evening dim, 
 But they '11 wait pretty long if they wait for him, 
 For he married in haste the engaging Magique, 
 And now he 's frequenting the Theatre Comique. 
 
 Sekadee, 
 
A POOR YOUNG MAN TO HIS GIRL. 
 
 A JEWEL rare are you, dear Anne. 
 But can you use a frying pan ? 
 Or get a meal for a hungry man ? 
 O, I will wed you if you can, 
 Sweet Anne ! 
 
 Your dainty fingers wield a fan. 
 But can they wash a pot or pan ? 
 Sweep, bake and brew ? Oh, if they can. 
 I am, in truth the very man, 
 Sweet Anne ! 
 
 You work in Kensington, fair Anne, 
 Play, sing and dance, but if you can 
 Well mend my pants, none other than 
 Myself can worship like this man, 
 Sweet Anne ! 
 
 MOON-BURNT. 
 
 ONE moonlight night a happy boy 
 Of cherries stole a pailful. 
 The farmer quickly turned his joy 
 
 Into a sorrow baleful. 
 And while he roared, it came to pass, 
 A settled fact the boy learned, 
 That being tanned by moonlight was 
 
 Far worse than being sun-burned. 
 
 M. M. G. 
 
s 
 
 HOW grave she sits and toots 
 In the glare ! 
 From her dainty bits of boots 
 
 To her hair, 
 
 Not the sign remotest shows 
 
 If she either cares or knows 
 
 How the beer-imbibing beaux 
 
 Sit and stare. 
 
They 're most liberal with sighs, 
 
 Or they laugh ; 
 They cast adoring eyes 
 
 As they quaff ; 
 They exhaust their every wile 
 Her attention to beguile. 
 Do they ever win a smile ? 
 
 Not by half ! 
 
 Now she leans upon her chair — 
 
 Not a toot ! 
 While the leading violin 
 
 And the flute 
 Wail and plead in low duet 
 Till, it may be, eyes are wet. 
 She her trombone doth forget --- 
 
 She is mute. 
 
 The music louder grows ; 
 
 She 's awake ! 
 She applies her lips and blows — 
 
 Goodness' sake! .... 
 To think that such a peal 
 From such throat and frame ideal - 
 From such tender lips could steal. 
 
 Takes the cake. 
 
 The dinning cymbals shrill 
 
 Kiss and clash. 
 Drum and kettle-drum at will 
 
 Roll and crash. 
 But that trombone over all 
 Toots unto my heart a call : — 
 Maid petite and trombone tall. 
 
 It ' s a mash ! 
 
 Yet I hesitate — for lo. 
 
 What a point ! 
 She 's poetic ; and, I know, 
 
 / am stout. 
 In her little room would she 
 Sit and toot, as thus, to me, 
 On her trombone, tenderly ? 
 
 Ah! I doubt! 
 
 Charles G. D. Roberts 
 
HER WICKER CHAIR. 
 
 AH, wicker chair, all trimmed with blue, 
 With cushioned plush of dainty hue ! 
 Thou held 'st a being of such grace 
 Within thy generous embrace ! 
 Of form divine and fair to view. 
 
 Her eyes like glist'ning drops of dew 
 Rebuked me when I tried to woo. 
 And in them find of love a trace, 
 
 Ah, wicker chair ! 
 
 But when my suit I tried anew. 
 She leaned still further back in you; 
 
 She calmly fixed some wayward lace, 
 And cast, while gazing in my face, 
 Sad doubts upon my revenue. 
 
 Ah, wicker chair. 
 
 /. K. Bangs. 
 
THE MOTHER'S PLAINT. 
 
 NO more his patt'ring little feet 
 I hear about the hall. 
 No more his song my ear to greet. 
 No more his plaintive squall. 
 
 No more his racket can be heard. 
 
 No more his choo-choo car. 
 No more my precious little bird 
 
 Gives forth his yell — " Mam-MAR ! " 
 
 No. no, not dead ! The little fool 
 
 'S no longer with us now : 
 We sent him off to boarding-school. 
 
 He kicked up such a row. 
 
 CarlyU Smith 
 
 THE LAST GUESTS. 
 
 A 
 
 DAY on the turf. 
 A dip in the surf, 
 A stroll arm-in-arm on the shingle ; 
 A sail on the bay. 
 A game of croquec, 
 A touch of the hand —and a tingle. 
 
 A bitter-sweet jest, 
 
 A tennis-court test — 
 ( The guests are all gone but we tarry , ) 
 
 A last buggy-ride, 
 
 A pang as she sighed, 
 '• I like you, but never shall marry." 
 
 Harold Van Santvoord. 
 

 
 |EING as it was sultry weather 
 
 The Flowers, bent upon improvement, 
 Came all of one a scent together 
 
 To start an early closing; movement. 
 
 When each and all had had their say 
 In speeches long, and flowery, too, 
 
 They all agreed 'twould B — o — quet 
 To close their buds at half-past two. 
 
 Alas ! one Bee was not O. K., 
 
 He found too late, unto his sorrow. 
 
 When he for honey called that day 
 
 The stores were closed until the morrow. 
 
 O.H. 
 
 % 1 
 
 ; ^,,„<4iiWL 
 
 56 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS