s/o t VERSES FROM LIFE ' TAKEN FROM LIFE VERSES NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY & McCLURE CO. M DCCC XCVIII FOURTH EDITION COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY MITCHELL & MILLER 883831 CONTENTS PAGE A Debutante's Bouquets . M. D. Hatch .... I A Cenotaph P. Dana ..... 3 A Mystery Metcalfe 5 Valentine to a Flirt . . Felix Carmen .... 6 When My Cousin Comes to Town W. P. Bourke ... 8 A Final Day Dialogue ]V. J. Lampion ... 10 My Lady of the Links 12 A Terrible Example . . Lay ton Brewer ... 13 All on One Side .... Harry Romaine ... 14 The Fin-de-Siecle Angel 16 A Lawyer's Daughter . . /. H. Thacher ... 18 The Books I Ought to Read Abbie Farwell Brown . 19 Their Turn K. H. A. . . . . . 20 The Sloth Ruth Kimb all- Gar diner 21 The Secret Combination . Ellis Parker Butler . .22 A Boston Lullaby 23 Moonshine IV. S. Moody, Jr. . . 24 ix CONTENTS PAGE A Post-Nuptial Reverie . Roy Farrell Greene . . 26 De Trop L W. 28 Advice L. L. H 29 At the Opera ..... De Lancey Pierson . 30 Rejected 31 Justice Jessie M. Wood ... 32 Vanity Fair 35 Could it Be ? Harry Romaine ... 36 To Narcissa . . . . . E. P. Train .... 39 At Last Tom Masson .... 40 "For Sale" Pitts Duffi eld . ... 42 The Chase of the Laurel Wreath Jessie M. Wood ... 44 To Phyllis Returned to Town MacGregor Jenkins . . 45 Lent George Hyde .... 47 Bargains in Hearts . . . Maud Hosford ... 49 The Golf Fiend . . . . R. F. B 51 The Dirge of the House- holder Richard Stillman Powell 52 The Full Suite .... Metcalfe 53 Easter Buds Wood Levette Wilson . 55 Marigold Lane . . . . M. E. W 57 A Safe Attachment ... 5. St. G. Lawrence . . 59 Our Hero Harry Romaine ... 60 Food of Love .... Harry Romaine . . . 61 Two Kisses ... . Richard Stillman Powell 62 CONTENTS PAGE An Acrostic Plaint .../?. 5. P 64 To a Modern Girl . . . Archibald Douglas . . 65 Love Tapped upon My Lattice . . . . . A. L. M. Hawes ... 66 In Mamma's Day . . . Curley . 67 To St. Valentine . . . Madeleine Reese ... 68 Bagged the Wrong Bird . John P. Lyons .... 69 Miss Jones Harry Romaine ...71 Ballade of Forgotten Loves Arthur Grissom ... 72 Debt in two Costumes . Wood Levette Wilson . 74 Her $ Shoes 75 A Brief Description . . . Harry Romaine ... 76 Conjugal Lament . . . Samuel U. Pond ... 77 A Christmas Memory . . James Whitcomb Riley . 79 If She Knew D. D. P 83 To - Denison Eldridge . . 84 Her Wish E. H. Graham Dewey . 87 Lay of the Grateful Patient F. D 88 A Romance of To-day 89 Finnigin to Flannagan . . S. W. Gillilan ... 90 The Fad Obsolete . . . Maude Andrews ... 92 To a Would-Be New Wo- man Metcalfe 93 A Critic Harry Romaine ... 94 Priscilla Samuel Minturn Peck . 95 The Ride from Ghent to Aix Irwin Beaumont. . . 96 xi CONTENTS PAGE The Fall of Corydon . . IV. B. A 98 Traced Lay ton Brewer . . .100 An Arcadian Flirtation 101 Grace's Choice . . . . Charles Battell Loomis . 102 When Nelly Hangs Her Stocking Up . . . Earle H. Eaton . . .104 Forty Years After . . . H. H. Porter . . . .106 Ye Sleighride Partie . . Jack Stevens . . . .107 Two Verses Richard Stillman Powell 108 My Poems Ida W or den Wheeler . 109 Lines on an X-Ray Por- trait Lawrence K. Russel . . 1 10 Affinity 1 1 1 A Modern Psyche . . . Eli%a Calvert Hall . .112 The Happy Man . . . Annie M. L. Hawes . .114 A. B. C. of Literature . . Carolyn Wells . . . \\6 When Mabel Smiles . . Samuel Minium Peck . 121 In the Church .... Roy FarreH Greene . . 1 23 At the Opera 1 24 Her Sofa M. E. IV 126 The Triumph of Cupid . Geraldine Mcyrick . . 1 29 The Wrath of Cupid 130 Love's Sacrifice 132 The Blind Beggar . . . M. E. M. Davis . . .133 Cupid's Easter Composition I 35 Love on the Links . . . G. M. Winter . . .136 A Usurper 137 xii CONTENTS PACE The Spinning Wheel . . Felix Carmen . . .138 An Astral Romance . . Gustav V. Drake . .140 The Fall of J. W. Beane . Oliver Herford . . .142 A DEBUTANTE'S BOUQUETS WEARY ? I am as limp as that white glove I've taken off exquisite, are they not, Massed so ? Not one for whom I cared forgot To send to-day the flowers that I love. These gorgeous tulips come from Uncle Jim, That bunch of velvety sweet Jacqueminots Was sent by one of Mamma's own old beaux ; I wonder if to-day seemed strange to him. Those radiant Beauties Ada brought to me. She is the girl 1 read with twice a week ; We are quite strict about it if we speak We pay a fine that goes to charity. Claude sent the pinks you know to me he pours Out all his woes a Southern boy at Yale Sent me the Jonquils ; how I love that pale Yellow he said these grew at home out-doors. The pansies with the single rose were sent By that young artist wanting me to sit For Rosalind ; I'm sure they mean a bit Of weird symbolic tonal sentiment. Dear Daddy sent these fragrant Bonselines He hated so this fuss to bring me out. * t Though$ itall ttpnsenee, and I do not doubt *tlf*is* wh en *rfne.thirtks, really what it means. Sut when I came down stairs to him all dressed He kissed me patted me upon the head u God bless my little grown-up girl/' he said, And sent his flowers to me with the rest. I wore this bud and held to match my gown The orchids Mamma brought how tired one gets. What ? Oh, a bunch of Russian violets ? I think I did not think to bring them down. M. D. Hatch. A CENOTAPH GOOD Elnathan went from Slocum Back in 1839, To become a tenens locum In the missionary line. And the Heathen, it is said Dearly loved their missionary ; Grief or something seemed to choke 'em When the worthy man was dead Then the Populace of Slocum, Though they hadn't him to bury, Though the outlay almost broke 'em Placed upon the hallowed spot, Where his blest remains were not, In the local cemetery, An expensive marble shaft, Elegantly epitaphed, Pleasantly obituary : !< For good Elnathan shed a pious tear Departed Saint ! Would that his lost remains were resting here But, Ah! They ain't! In Afric's clime he hath a warm sarcophagus In the deep bosom of an Anthropophagus," P. Dana 3 511 UNION SQ'R.,. |'R.,.N. Y. J A MYSTERY DAINTY maid, fair maid, your name I fain would know, For every time I see your face more sorrowful I grow. When you were dropped upon the pave and I came walk- ing by, I took you up and looked at you with far from eager eye. But this soon changed to interest, and then to something more, Until, at last I have to own, a woman I adore Whose voice I've never heard, whose hand I've never pressed, To whom I've never compliment nor gallant speech ad- dressed. And then I sought the photo man and told to him my tale, But tears, entreaties, gold galore, did not with him avail To wrest -from him the secret that haunts me day and night The name to go with the sweet face that's ever in my sight. It may be Doris, Phyllis, lanthe, Mary Jane, But I'm strongly of opinion it's something like Elaine ; And when it comes to surnames I'm ready to affirm It's not a name like Boggs or Grimes to make my fancy squirm. Rose-like, by any other name you'd still be dear to me, For with the Scottish poet, Burns, I certainly agree That guineas are not purer from the guinea stamp they bear, And I'm sure that you are lovely whatever name you Wear. Metcalfe. VALENTINE TO A FLIRT YOU who capture hearts in plenty, Golden-haired and gay ; You will get some ten or twenty Valentines to-day. Each one with its message tender Owning absolute surrender Of the true heart of the sender : Such is Cupid's way. You will find my own confession In among the rest. It is every man's impression That you love him best. So like nine or nineteen others Of my sentimental brothers, I am one who vainly smothers Love within his breast. 6 But I know you, little flirt you ! Hope ? Indeed, I've none ! That's the very vine of virtue Frozen by your fun. Every line of love you'll parry, Of these twenty men who tarry, Then, at last, go off and marry Number twenty-one ! Felix Carmen. WHEN MY COUSIN COMES TO TOWN CHERRY Valley's finest raiment ^^ Quaint, yet beautiful to see Rightly decks its fairest claimant To sweet femininity. Miss New York, au fait in fashion, Smiles at Cherry Valley's gown Smile half envy, half compassion When my cousin comes to town. Miles on miles of streets of shopping ; How she revels in the sights ! Every window finds her stopping To examine its delights. 8 And I join in her inspection, For two sparkling eyes of brown Show in the plate-glass reflection When my cousin comes to town. If she warms about the city In her healthy, happy way, Miss New York politely witty Is about her naivete. But to men, such girlish rapture Is a far from common noun, And each day shows some fresh capture When my cousin comes to town. Goes the maid to Seidl's, Sousa's, Horse Show, Metropolitan Over each one she enthuses As but Cherry Valley can. Is it strange when breezes waft her Homeward, sorrow weighs me down ? I am " broke " for six weeks after, When my cousin comes to town. W. P. Bourke. A FINAL DAY DIALOGUE T GABRIEL *HE golden gates are open now ; And, glittering like a gem For your eternal wearing, stands The New Jerusalem." NEW YORKER " Before I take a man- sion in Your city bright and fair, 'd like to ask you, Gabriel, if The 400 will be there ?" CHICAGOAN "I'd like to ask before I stop And register with you, Is it as ' live ' a town, old man, As I'm accustomed to ?" BOSTONIAN " I'll come, but let me tell you now. That always I'll expect Your city to be well supplied With beans and intellect." PHILADELPHIAN "I'm half afraid to try your town Until I've made a test : Will you assure me it's a place Of quiet and of rest?" BALTIMOREAN " Dear Mr. Gabriel, let me ask, Before I enter in, Am I to get, three times a day, A dish of terrapin ? " WASHINGTONIAN " Dear sir, I'd like to ask of you, If to your shady pools, And pleasant fields, I've got to come By civil service rules." ATLANTAN " Blow, blow your trumpet, Gabriel, blow ; I will not heed the sound, Unless your watermelon crop Is ripe the whole year round." LOUISVILLIAN " Say, Colonel, do I, if I come, Get, in your glorious clime, A horse-race every other day, And whiskey all the time ? " DENVERIAN " Just count me out, old chap, I've heard Your streets were paved with gold. If you can't furnish silver streets, I'll stay out in the cold." GALVESTONIAN " Ta ta, old fellow. Not this morn, The other way I'll roam. N. J's n. g. The other place Is something more like home." W. f. Lampion. MY LADY OF THE LINKS LIKE Dian, her trim ankles seen, And small feet treading lightly, She drives the ball from green to green, And grasps her lofter tightly. Like Venus, her sweet lips and eyes Above her wind-tossed plaidie, She plays my fortune for her prize, Dan Cupid for her caddie. A TERRIBLE EXAMPLE TWO loves took lodgings in a heart Whose owner wanted both to stay; But constant quarrelings and tart Encounters many times a day Persuaded one to go away. This love went journeying about ; With frequent change of resi- dence ; His mind was vastly broadened out ; He added to his stock cf sense In each distinct experience. One day, upon a pointless roam, By accident he chanced to spy His earliest remembered home, And on the spot resolved to try These lodgings where he used to lie. The other love still, hermitwise, Abode within, but nearly dead From lack of change and exercise. He saw his rival, paled with dread And, lo ! his broken spirit fled. Whereat his awed survivor cried : " I'll stay awhile, but still I must Be sure this lesson is applied. At my demise they'll say, I trust, He died from wear, but not from rust." Layton Brewer. ALL ON ONE SIDE SHE is like Nature : and I love Her ever-changing, wayward moods, As I adore the sky above ; The far blue hills ; the dark, green woods ; The noisy brook ; the torrent's roar ; The glamour of a moonlight night ; The never-ending ocean's shore ; The fleecy cloud-heads, soft and white. She is like Nature. Much she cares, Though I should love a thousand years ! If I am sad when sunlight glares, Will cloudless skies weep scalding tears ? And will my gladness dry the rain ? Will Nature smile and join my glee ? Will Nature love me back again ? I think not and no more will She ! Harry Romaine. THE FIN-DE-SIECLE ANGEL HER harp is of the newest make The things she likes to play Make even Peter's sides to shake, Whene'er she flies his way. Her wings are of the latest style, Her halo's quite the thing. Her laughing eyes an an- swering smile From all the choir bring, And, when she flies the golden street, She stirs the saints so madly They always haste across to meet And raise their halos gladly. 17 A LAWYER'S DAUGHTER O me, I swear, you're a volume rare" But she said with judicial look, f Your oath's not valid at Common Law Until you've kissed the Book." f. H. Thacher. 18 THE BOOKS I OUGHT TO READ ON dusty shelves in serried rows they stand, Reproachful thousands, quaint and grave and great ; My guilty conscience feels their mute command, Yet day by day they wait. More formidable grow their ranks each year, Their very names I cannot call to mind ; A friend amid this chaos would, I fear, Be very hard to find. But to a corner shelf, by most forgot, I steal, and give reproach no further heed 'Mid boon companions all yet these are not The books I ought to read. Abbie Farwell Brown. 19 THEIR TURN A MARYLL1S, Chloris, J\ Phyllis, Inspirations of the poet, Tell us now of your affec- tions, Adoration, as you know it. Write for us a clever sonnet, Tender love song, dainty lyric, On the virtues of your lovers : You compose a panegyric. In this time of Woman's Congress, Bloomers, wheels and other crazes, You've no need to wait till leap year To resound your lovers' praises. Do not hide your admiration, But in graceful verses show it, And we'll read with eager pleasure " Lines (by Chloris) to a Poet." K. H. A. THE SLOTH 1SING that charming thing, The sloth the wisest beast That moves by leg or wing, Because he moves the least. He does not rise to see The sun the day begin. It can be done, thinks he, Without advice from him. He knows 'tis deeds men do That cause all suffering. Humanitarian true, He never does a thing. He simply eats and drinks And cherishes ideals, And indolently thinks Of things he never feels. He knows his theories In practice would not fit. And so he never tries To put them into it. You may choose power or fame I grant you, gladly, both But when I'm born again I want to be a sloth. Ruth Kintball-Gardiner. 21 THE SECRET COMBINATION HER heart she locked fast in her breast Away from moles- tation ; The lock was warranted the best, A patent combination ; She knew no simple lock and key Would serve to keep out Love and me. But Love a clever cracksman is And cannot be resisted ; He likes such stubborn jobs as this, Complex and hard and twisted, And though we worked a many day At last we bore her heart away. For Love has learned full many tricks In his strange avocation ; He knew the figures were but six In this, her combination ; Nor did we for a minute rest Until we had unlocked her breast. First, then, we turned the knob to " Sighs," Then back to " Words Sincerest," Then " Gazing Fondly in Her Eyes," Then " Softly Murmured ' Dearest ; ' " Then, next, " A Warm Embrace," we tried, And at " A Kiss," the door flew wide. Ellis Parker Butler. A BOSTON LULLABY DOFF thy new spectacles, Peregrine, darling one ; Minds are but obstacles When work is overdone. Lullaby, hushaby, slumber thou festinate, Hushaby, lullaby, never procrastinate. Lay down thy Ibsen, dear, Browning and Emerson ; Sealed be thy cultured ear Save to my benison. Lullaby, hushaby, cherish obedience, Hushaby, lullaby, captivate somnolence. Dream thou of Lohengrin, Siegfried, Briinnhilde fair; Banish, my Peregrine, Thoughts of the Pilgrims spare. Lullaby, hushaby, sleep, dear, till night is done, Hushaby, lullaby, mother's phenomenon. MOONSHINE THE fairest thing in all the world Is the light of the moon in the sea ; For it flutters along like a ribbon unfurled By a maiden's hand in another world, And tossed down here to me. The rose is fair in the rose tree green, And the violet sweet in the grasi, ; But the rose must die, like every queen, And the violet fades in her cloister green, As the winds, lamenting, pass. The sunset sky is softly fair When the first white star appears ; 24 But the light grows pale as the fireflies flare, And the primrose cloud forgets to be fair, And the dewdrops shine like tears. And passing fair is the slender maid, Who springs like the lily tall ; But, though as a child she stands arrayed In her sheer, white gown, she's a marble maid, Unheeding the sculptor's call. So the fairest thing in the whole wide world Is the moon-streak in the sea ; For it falls like a fairy's hair unfurled, And always, wherever we go in the world, There's one for you for me. W. S. Moody, Jr. A POST-NUPTIAL REVERIE THE wedding, last night, was a royal affair According to all of the papers, The perfume of flowers afloat in the air, The mellowing light of the tapers, And Nellie leaned proud on the arm, so they say, Of papa, clear up to the altar, Repeating the vows in a confident way, With no inclination to falter. The bridesmaids arrayed in their virginal white, Were symphony's sweetest creations, The music soared up to the regions of light As though it were Heaven's oblations 26 To Nellie, and yet a grim sense of unrest The whole of the evening enthralled me ; My senses went whirling, my heart was distressed, The scene at the altar appalled me. It seemed that I lived through a troublesome dream, E'en Nellie was thrilled with emotion, I once caught her eye and its sparkle and gleam Seemed soft in its sense of devotion. The crowd lingered late, all their homage to pay, And yet even longer I tarried. 1 jealously wanted to steal her away, Since I was the fellow she married. Roy Far r ell Greene DE TROP BETWEEN the dreamy waltzes In the intervening calm, They sat on the veranda, Beneath a spreading palm ; And he whispered love in rapture, " Alone, at last, are we !" And she murmured, " Yes, it's lovely, But it's horrid when there's three." : ' Aha !" laughed little Cupid, As he hurled a final dart, Then gathered up his arrows And made ready to depart. While a shadow crossed their dreaming, A cloud rose in their sky The summer night grew colder, And each, sadly, wondered why. Nor guessed at all the reason ; But the little love god knew, And scoffed at human wisdom, As the fickle sprite will do. ' Alas ! poor foolish mortals, Perhaps you've never heard That three's delightful company If Cupid is the third." L. W. I ADVICE THE poet, mussed my hair, , Then turned me to my muse in gingham And said : " My love, prythee repair And hunt my fillets up and bring 'em." f he dear girl thought, and thought, and thought ; And high and low she vainly sought 'em Where they should be, where they should not Then thought at last : " The rag-man bought 'em My tripod ? Gone, too ; for therein The soup was cooking for our dinner. Set-backs enough, I wot, to win, From rhyme the maddest rhyming sinner. But not for me the chair of ease, And not for me the lotus diet ; I took my rhymster on my knees While Thalia kept the baby quiet. * # * The rhyme was finished, but, alack ! Less something even I detected ; And, like the cat, it wandered back From every editor, rejected. And so conviction comes to me, And, if " available," I'll give it : The man who'd write his poetry Would better not attempt to live it. L. L. H. 29 AT THE OPERA OFT I see her at the opera In her box soft clad in white With her fair young face bent forward, Feeling all a child's delight In the music's sensuous measures Rising o'er that radiant throng, While her silken fan is swaying To the rhythm of the song. 30 And I see men crowd about her, Lingering o'er her lightest words, And her voice has all the music Of the sweetest forest birds. Blessed are they to be the subjects Of her tender tyranny ; Ah ; why in that Circean circle Is there not a place for me ? How I envy all those foplings Who can win her sweetest smile, Worship near her now unchided, Be her courtiers for the while. But, alas ! 'Tis out the question, I must bear my lot with grace, For I only am her husband, And I've learned to know my place ! E. De Lancey Pterson. REJECTED fell in love with a < "%|fpj|^ > trim, And over his love went loony, But the ^^pJfg> declared that she wouldn't have him, Because he was much too T JUSTICE HE saleswoman's form was like this, And the customers' forms were like these, And the saleswoman sold, so I'm told, Gowns from Paris by Worth and Elise, 32 Made charmingly, just as you please. And the saleswoman's duty was this : To put on the gowns, and to say, With a sweet, honeyed smile, " Here is style," " 'Twill suit you in every way." (Such lies she would tell every day.) So the gowns were all rap- idly sold, And the dollars came rap- idly in, And it can't be denied that she lied, Which in business is not thought a sin. But one day the saleswoman died! And when at Heaven's gate she applied St. Peter would not let her in. The Saint, with a sneer, said, " Not here, For lying's considered a sin, Which to sanction we cannot begin." The saleswoman answered, "Those lies Are on the wrong list, sir and so A liar, esteemed saint, I ain't, 'Tis the firm who should go down below." And the Saint answered justly " That's so." Jessie M. Wood. I/. VANITY FAIR VANITY FAIR, Vanity Fair, What can we purchase in Vanity Fair ? Hearts, perhaps broken, but passing for new ; Vows, false when spoken, but warranted true. Colors, they're faded, but fit still for wear ; Nothing is wasted in Vanity Fair. Vanity Fair, Vanity Fair, How goes the trading in Vanity Fair ? Worn, pale cheeks for red ones, and young hearts for old ; Fresh roses, for dead ones ; brass passing for gold. Some lose all in the struggle, but none know or care, No room for the failures in Vanity Fair. Vanity Fair, Vanity Fair, I pray you come join us in Vanity Fair. Bring youth and bring gladness, your high aims, bright desires, Purchase old age and sadness, burnt out ashes of fires. Naught else will be left you, but why should you care, You have danced with the gayest in Vanity Fair. 35 COULD IT BE ? WILL you and I grow like the rest Of stupid married folks ? Will love's sweet savor lose its zest ? Is happiness a hoax ? There is the Major and his wife, And Uncle and Aunt Kate. Could we be like them ? What a life ! Perhaps we'd better wait. Oh, Will, could ever you and I Grow stuffy, mean and old ? And could my voice grow shrill and high ] And could you swear and scold, And throw out spiteful little things ? Oh, dear ! it's not too late ! If we could do such horrid things, Perhaps we'd better wait. 36 It breaks my heart ; I tell you, Will, Let's always be engaged, And then we'll love each other till Our hearts are worn and aged ; For married people don't reflect Much credit on their state ! They show us what we may expect, Unless unless we wait ! Harry Rotnaine. J TO NARCISSA I'VE a mistress, passing fair, Loves me well aye ; that I'll swear ! For of all the joys she knows, None suth rapture keen bestows, As an hour's commune with me, Spent in speechless ecstasy. Her sweet lips, too modest far To admit such folly are ; But her blue eyes, grown more bold, Make confessions manifold, As into mine they smile, Seeking homage to beguile. Do I flatter her ? Well, no ; She is fair, I tell her so. For I'm framed in such a wise To reflect the truth -not lies. Yet, to compliment a lass Natural is to French plate glass. E. P. Train. AT LAST SHE let her hand be taken, and with confidence un- shaken he tried his best to waken in her heart some sentiment. With a wondrous burst of feeling round her waist his arm was stealing, yet her face showed no revealing of her mind's ingenuous bent. His voice, quite low and pleading, for himself was interced- ing, but the maiden paid no heeding to the words that he might say. And no lover persevering ever had so dumb a hearing to his terms of love endearing as she gave to him that day. Until his chance he waited with a guile premeditated, and with cheek unmitigated up and kissed her. Then she cried : 40 1 There, you monster ! I just knew it ! I was sure, or quite near to it, if I waited you would do it. Now I hope you're satisfied." Tom MassoH. "FOR SALE" (Ballade of a Poet on quitting bis business.) FOR sale : a poet's quills and pen, A shabby muse, a laurel band, A Pegasus who'll trot again If guided by a skillful hand. For sale : a muse, a glass of sand ; Proclaim it where they most are seen Who deal in verses through the land. For sale : a case of Hippocrene ! It's just the thing for rhyming men, It makes a fellow's brain expand, Transforms the trappings of his den To groves and hills where breezes fanned Anacreon's brow, and Sappho planned Her splendid lyrics, lithe and green. For sale : a wreath, a rhyming wand, For sale : a case of Hippocrene ! 42 Those things at auction, all, at ten ; Come early, or I fear you'll stand. For sale : proclaim it loudly then, A muse, a Pegasus, a strand Of bays that's marked " Apollo's brand." Come early, if your taste is keen At least one visit I demand. For sale : a case of Hippocrene ! ENVOI O muse ! look not so big and grand, I have a right to sell, I ween ; I've broken now with your command, For sale : a case of Hippocrene ! Pitts Duffield. THE CHASE OF THE LAUREL WREATH A Minor Poet chased a Laurel Wreath ; His hopes were high, his verses light and airy. He longed for nuts while yet he had his teeth ; He'd pens and ink and Rhym- ing Dictionary. The Public said, with careless, pitying jeers, He'd everything in life but the IDEAS ! The Minor Poet, having no IDEAS, In vain pursuit of Laurels sighed and sorrowed ; Forgetting quite that, strange as it appears, IDEAS can always easily be borrowed From some Past Poet silent, lost and dead Provided he's torgotten and unread. Not knowing this, the Poet chased the Wreath Till Age came on, and Minor still he chased it ; He gained no nuts, although he'd lost his teeth, While Men snatch'd Fame who'd earned no right to taste it. He knew the trick, when far too late to know it, So lost the Wreath and died a Minor Poet. Jessie M. Wood. TO PHYLLIS RETURNED TO TOWN ALL summer I've worn a shocking hat, And confined myself to beer. I've smoked a pipe* and economized Against your coming, dear. I've slaved all day in the tor- rid town, And saved like a paltry Jew, order to make a modest sum To spend, my dear, on you. My toil shall pay for your roses rare, And I'll buy with hard-earned fees The choicest bon-bons I can find, Your girlish taste to please. Now what have you brought me back to town ? Oh, tell me, what do you bring? The heart of last winter true to me, Or another's engagement ring ? Mac G r ego r Jenkins . 45 LENT NOW, is it contrition, Without intermission, That keeps her devoted head bent ] Or is it confession Of wicked transgression ? Oh ; no ! 'tis the advent of Lent. For feeling compunction Is Fashion's pet " function," At about this same time every year ; The time for reflection And for the collection Of Easter gowns soon to appear. George Hyde. 47 FOR sale : A very fine line of hearts At prices far below cost, A circumstance which affords you a chance To replace the one you have lost. Hearts that are tender ; hearts that are brave ; One that's been worn on a sleeve Is marked down so low it surely must go, Though it is somewhat soiled, you perceive. Broken hearts, too, that have been " restored ;' One that has only a crack ; And hearts that are set on a coronet, For lovers of bric-a-brac. Sad hearts, glad hearts, hearts of gold, Hearts that gold only can buy ; And a heart so true it will just suit you If you'll only take it to try. Maud Hosford. 49 THE GOLF FIEND NOW who shall tackle the Golfer Mad While his brassie beats the ground ? Do ye ken that a golfer loon, my lad, It's nae safe to fool around ? The court to the committee has cried lt To a keeper let him be thrall, For he squanders his gold and he leaves his bride To harrie a foolish ball." O, a cannie way the committee have found, And they've laid out a course right well. For the links lead round the asylum ground, And the home hole lies in his cell. R. F. B. THE DIRGE OF THE HOUSEHOLDER HOW can I sing of my mistress's chiding ? How can I liken her hair to the sun ? Rather I'd dwell on the ruin that's hiding In anthracite coal at six dollars the ton ! How is it possible, prithee, I question, To rhyme of the graces of Madeline's boot, While comes despair at the very suggestion Of gas at one dollar the vanishing foot ? How can I give my attention to verses, Gladsome and dainty as finely wove silk, Mentally damning with deep basso curses The man who invented the drinking of milk ? Searching a rhyme, my poor brain doth but bonow Figures and worry till all seems a blank ! How can I pay out two hundred to-morrow With only one hundred and eight in the bank ? Richard Stillman Poui+tt. THE FULL SUITE WHEN hearts are trumps and Dolly leads My hand I closely scan, For Dolly has a tricky way When playing with a She plays the Deuce in every game, A Jack she's caught already. Herself the Queen, the King I'd be Though it's Ten to Nine on Freddie. She Eight her way into my heart, It's Seven to win her kiss, I am Six any man, Five really lost this bliss. Be Four I'd give up Dolly's heart, If it should come my way, My country, faith, my dearest friend, My brother, I'd be Tray. Metcalfe. 53 THE buds that bloom on Easter Day Are fairer far, I trow, Than those that grace the days of May When gentler zephyrs blow. The lily nodding in the breeze Can by no circumstance, In raiment, be compared with these Conservatory plants. They toiled not, neither did they spin, But thirty days they spent In idleness repenting sin The slow fast-time of Lent. Lent's last ten suns looked down on more Than penitence and gloom ; It saw corollas forming for The buds to burst in bloom. Ah ! fairer than the blooms of May, When gentle zephyrs blow, Are buds that bloom on Easter Day And go to church, I trow ! Wood Levette Wilson. I KNOW of a street on the edge of the town Where blithely the sunshine of spring-time looks down And lilacs lean over, all purple and white, To make for the passing a path of delight Though Fashion ignores with profoundest disdain The very existence of Marigold Lane. And often and often when homeward I'm bound I find myself taking the longest way 'round, With smiles at my thoughts as there comes into view A dear little house, that would just do for two, Announcing "To Let," like a tender refrain Of songs that my heart sings in Marigold Lane. In fancy sometimes at the window I see Her curly head nodding a welcome to me, And sometimes at twilight she stands by the gate, Half-hid by the shadows, to listen and wait For footsteps she loves Ah, the castles in Spain I build as I wander through Marigold Lane ! 57 I So dreaming and hoping, I'm biding the day When 'round flies the news that there's raising of pay; And then in the gloaming when Nellie and I, Arm over, arm under, go loitering by It may be the sign will not hang out in vain On the cottage I covet in Marigold Lane. M. E. w. A SAFE ATTACH- MENT THE door of many a maiden's heart Is slightly fastened, ill de- fended ; A whispered word, a blush, a start, The key has turned, the siege is ended. But she I worship will but mock At thoughts of such sweet perturbation, Her heart has got a patent lock, And no "one knows the combination. Ah, if the word be " love," my dear Which opens all your heart's fair treasure, I'll strive for entrance without fear, For my devotion knows no measure. But if it opes to " money," I Can never even dare to try it ; Your dear perfection comes too high For me to ever hope to buy it. S. St. G. Lawrence. OUR HERO S center-rush he was our pride ; He killed a man or two ; He merely touched them and- they died ! He rowed upon the crew. He wore the mask and caught in-shoots From off the gleaming bat. The umpire trembled in his boots When Slasher said " How's that ?" He broke the record with the shot, And when we fought the town It took three proctors and a lot Of cops to hold him down. But since he's left the college stage And vanished from the scene, We hear he writes the Woman's Page For Duffy's Magazine ! Harry Romaine. FOOD OF LOVE F music be the food of love, I am rejoiced to find My passion is a key above All viands of that kind. No part of the domestic cat, Vexed by a horse's tail, Can make my famished love grow fat With its lugubrious wail. The banjo and the mandolin, The zither and the drum, The brass band, with its fearful din, Are not a single crumb. My love has far a daintier choice, And strong and hearty grows, Upon the music of Her voice, In plain, untortured prose. Harry Rotnaine. 61 TWO KISSES BELOW me in the garden there She treads the winding path, And all the world seems newly fair, Such wondrous ways Love hath. I am not seen : were I to throw A kiss, 'twould be no harm, Since as the thing she'd never know She could not take alarm. SHE There at the window high he works And with no thought nor care That here amongst the flowers lurks A maid who thinks him fair. Were I to throw a kiss to him Unmaidenly 'twould be ; But modesty no need to dim If he should fail to see. Go little kiss to those dear lips And nestle there awhile, And mayhap at thy gentle sips They'll greet thee with a smile ; Then hasten back and bear with thee Some little echo for me ; Fly, little kiss, fly speedily HE ( Great Scott ! The deuce! She Richard Stillman Powell AN ACROSTIC PLAINT Never a fairer maiden breathed In fabled times or modern days Than she around whose forehead wreathed Night's sable locks, with stars ablaze ! In distant adoration long This soul and heart in worship knelt, Nor dared approach to breathe their song Into the shrine where Beauty dwelt : Till Ah, that Memory still can live Now joyous Hope is cold and dead ! If you'll read down, these lines will give The cruel, blighting words she said ! R. S. P. TO A MODERN GIRL I'VE conned the daintiest of poets lyrical, Searched for jewels in the muse antique, Delved in lines romantic and satirical, And know whereof I chance to speak. But find no conceit, image or reflection, No gem from genius' pen, however true, That hints the beauty and the rare perfection Possessed unconsciously, dear heart, by you. A\ cJiibald Douglas. LOVE TAPPED UPON MY LATTICE LOVE tapped upon my lattice As he was passing by, Laden with young June roses, And "Come in, Love," cried I. Now dost know what thou askest ?" Quoth Love, with dimpling chin ; I caught the roses' fragrance, And begged again, " Come in." He tripped across my threshold ; I took the load he bore Alas, the day I opened To little Love my door ! The roses' crimson petals Conceal the cruel thorn ; Sharp in the throb of passion The bitter pang is born. And aye, and aye, forever, Since earth was first awake, There's somewhat in Love's kisses A woman's heart doth break. Yet, oh, the roses' fragrance ! And, oh, Love's dimpling chin ! Were they outside my lattice, Again I'd bid them in ! A. M. L. Hawet. 66 IN MAMMA S DAY GIRLS didn't wear a tailor-suit, Mannish gloves and calf-skin boot, Drive four-in-hand, and smoke, and shoot, In Mamma's day. Maids never yearned for politics, Nor rode a wheel, like Toms and Dicks, Nor tore around, with big golf-sticks, In Mamma's day. They couldn't swim with grace and ease, In bathing suits cut to their knees, And sail a boat through stormy seas, In Mamma's day. From what I have been told, and know, Life must have been quite dull and slow In that pathetic long ago My Mamma's day. Curtey. 67 TO ST. VALENTINE IN days gone by, St. Valentine, My heart was as you see ; Because the maidens at your shrine Would never look at me. What deadly valentines they were This mutilation shows ; For all those darts implanted there Are simple, girlish "noes." But now, I've no. such sad complaint Of maidens, shy and cold ; Because those cavities, dear Saint, Have all been filled with gold. Madeleine Reese. 68 BAGGED THE WRONG BIRD YOUNG Hardupp vowed a mighty vow, "I'll wed a girl with cash/' said he ; "I'll bag a millionairess, though I sue a year on bended knee." He sued a year on bended knee With constancy that never flagged ; But, oh, no maiden rich bagged he 'Twas but his trousers that he bagged. John P. Lyons. MISS JONES YOU may mention her name, but it never conveys An idea of the exquisite tones Of her voice or her sparkling, bewildering ways, For her name it is simply, " Miss Jones !" It gives you no hint of her golden-brown hair ; Of her eyes that outshine precious stones ; Of the flash of her wit, or her highly bred air When they merely allude to " Miss Jones." It leaves you to guess at the men in her train, And her suitors' expiring groans ; At the charm that proves fatal to many a swain- Unexpected in every-day " Jones." But when you have seen the effect of her glance On raw youth or decrepit old bones, You'll admit that a knight never shattered a lance For a "Queen of the Lists" like " Miss Jones." If her name could be changed, what a gain it would be A fact which she cheerfully owns ; But, at present, you see, she's confided to me, She prefers to stay simply " Miss Jones !" Harry Romaine. ^uz cryin'. An' nen I 'Tend-like I " run play " an' cry. 79 This-here house o' Aunty's wher' They 'uz borned my Ma an' her ! An' her Ma 'uz my Ma's Ma, An' her Pa 'uz my Ma's Pa Ain't that funny ? An' they're dead : An' this-here's "Th' ole Homestead." An' my A'nty said, an' cried, It's mine, too, ef my Ma died Don't know what she mean 'cause my Ma she's nuver go' to die ! When Pa bringed me here t'uz night 'Way dark night ! An' A'nty spread Me a piece An' light the light An' say I must go to bed. I cry not to but Pa said " Be good boy now, like you telled Mommy 'at you're go' to be ! " An', when he 'uz kissin' me My good-night, his cheek's all wet An' taste salty. An' he held Wite close to me an' rocked some An' laughed-like 'tel A'nty come Git me while he's rockin' yet. A'nty he'p me, 'tel I be Purt'-nigh strip-pud nen hug me In bofe arms an' lif me 'way Up in her high bed an' pray Wiv me, 'Bout my Ma an' Pa An' ole Santy Glaus an' Sleigh An' Reindeers an' little drum Yes, an' Picture-books, "Tom Thumb," So An' " Three Bears/' an' ole " Fee-Faw " Yes, an' "Tweedledee" an' " Dum," An' " White Knight" an' " Squidjicum," An' 'most things you ever saw ! An' when A'nty kissed me, she 'Uz all cryin' over me ! Don't want Santy Glaus nerthings Anykind he ever brings ! Don't want A'nty ! don't want Pa ! I ist only want my Ma ! James Whitcomb Riley, '" jSViJ /' . j O&tefc, T F she knew that I am Cupid I could never, never win, For she'd close the door upon me And I'd ne'er be taken in. But she'll think that I'm an angel, (The disguise perhaps is thin), So she'll let me enter freely And then she'll be taken in. D. D. P. TO ' HP WAS at a ball. In vain I tried 1 To feel less like a social martyr, When, lying on the floor I spied A thing of yellow silk a ! I put a dash there, for 'tis said To write it plainly out amiss is ; Yet England's motto may be read Upon just such a thing as this is. I stoop'd, and hid it in my hand, And wonder'd who might be the loser. She c^uld not ask me for the band ! How such a question would confuse her ! Returning with it to my place, I wonder'd if my cheek were flushing ; In turn I scann'd each lovely face, Until I saw how you were blushing ! 84 My own perception I had wrong'd To think that I would not have known her, To whom this dainty band belong'd ; No one but you could be the owner. So thus I send it back to you, Around this bunch of blushing roses ! One found it whom you never knew ; Whose name no hint of mine discloses. I would not have you guess 'twas I, For that might put constraint upon you. Perhaps you'll know me by-and-by ; Perhaps you'll love me ! When I've won you. I'll whisper that* 'twas I who found This clinging silken band of yellow. We're strangers, still I will be bound, You, and no other have its tellow ! And now may my respect for you Plead pardon for these rhyming fancies ; For never motto was more true Than f{ Honi soit qui mal y pense " is ! Denison Eldridge. 86 HER WISH THREE maids together sat one eve And chatted, in the gloaming, Of what they'd wish for, most of all, Through all their fancy roaming. The first one said, and heaved a sigh, " Could I have one wish granted, I'd long for wealth ; I am so poor, 'Tis what I've always wanted." " But I have wealth," the second said, " And still I'm sad and lonely ; And so I long for lover true, Who'd love me for love only." " And I have wealth and lover both, Yet I don't think it wrong or Wicked," the third one said. " But, oh ! I long for something to long for ! " E. If. Graham Dewey. LAY OF THE GRATEFUL PATIENT TO HIS NURSE ONE fully enjoys being wracked with diseases, Afflicted with sneezes, And subject to chills ; Be hers but the hand that pours oil on one's spasms, Applies cataplasms, Administers pills. Oh! poisons in general, avoided as frightful, Are simply delightful ; Yes, wormwood and myrrh, And jalap and strychnine and raw jaborandi, Are luscious as candy, If given by her! Oh! Who would not highly appreciate anguish, And cheerfully languish, When Agony smote His frame on its way through this lachrymal valley, If only Miss Sally Were spraying his throat! F. D. A ROMANCE OF TO-DAY WHERE are you going ? My pretty maid. Into "Society," Sir, she said. Well, I'll not marry you, My pretty maid. You won't ? then I'll sue you, Sir, she said. FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN O UPERINTINDINT was Flannigan ; ^5 Boss av the siction was Finnigin ; Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, Finnigin writ it to Flannigan, Afther the wrick wuz all on agin ; That is, this Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan. Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan, He writed tin pages did Finnigin. An' he tould jist how the smash occurred ; Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd Did Finnigin write to Flannigan Afther the cars had gone on agin. That wuz how Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan. Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin- He'd more idjucation had Flannigan ; An' it wore'm clane an' complately out To tell what Finnigin writ about In his writin' to Muster Flannigan. So he writed back to Finnigin : Don't do sich a sin agin ; Make 'em brief, Finnigin ! " Whin Finnigin got this from Flannigan, He blushed rosy rid did Finnigin ; An' he said : " I'll gamble a whole month's pa-ay That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay Before Sup'rintindint, that's Flannigan, Gits a whack at this very same sin agin. From Finnigin to Flannigan Repoorts won't be long agin." Wan da-ay on the siction av Finnigin, On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan, A rail gave way on a bit av a curve An' somekyars went off as they made the swerve " There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin, " But repoorts must be made to Flannigan." An' he winked at McGorrigan, As married a Finnigin. He wuz shantyin' thin wuz Finnigin, As minny a railroader's been agin, An' th' shmoky oP lamp wuz burnin' bright In Finnigin 's shanty all that night Bilin' down his repoort, was Finnigin ! An' he writed this here : " Muster Flannigan : Off agin, on agin, Gone agin. Finnigin." S. W. Gittilan. THE FAD OBSOLETE I HAVE no foolish fad for pets Nor spoons procured from famous places ; No fad for ancient amulets, Or jewels, bric-a-brac, or laces. No fad for beggars smirched and small, Nor any crying craze excessive ; I do not yearn no, not at all For fads that fit I a fetnme progressive. The sewerage of the city may Be very bad, for all my knowledge; I have no fad to form the way Our modern maids are taught at college. For female clubs no love have I, Nor congresses of gadding mothers ; For politics I do not sigh I want no place possessed by others. I'm just a silly, simple soul My club is by my study fire ; And round its warmth I find the whole Sweet sum that fills my heart's desire. A little gold, and lots of love And faith, and all things high and human ; So if a fad my motives move, It is to be a normal woman. Maude Andrews, TO A WOULD-BE NEW WOMAN AND thou wouldst know this wicked world ? Try not that task, my sweet ; Tne paths that wander through the marsh Are not for thy dear feet. Deep in the depths, back of the gaze Of thy sweet wondering eyes, Far happier thought, far better hope Of future gladness lies. There's love untold and store of joy And wealth of happiness for thee, Gaze not then forth with saddened look To know the world's iniquity. Think rather of the Joys of life, Love's bliss and rapture, And let some other, uglier maid The suffrage capture. Metcalfe. 95 A CRITIC SHE wanders through St. Peter's, And makes herself at home; She shudders at the Altar, But quite approves the Dome. With coldly cultured glasses, And discriminating frown, She calmly does the Vatican, And turns old masters down. An {l Unknown " Nymph may please her, If " rapturously Greek/' But Raphael is " spotty " And lacking in ll technique." He doesn't "satisfy" her, But Titian was " a dear." Del Sarto " knew his colors " And she likes his atmosphere." To hear her on mosaics, On frescoes or on jade, You never would believe her A breezy Western maid, Or dream, before she went abroad, With wild expectant joy, She'd never traveled twenty miles From Cairo, Illinois ! Harry Romaine. PRISCILLA hath come back to town 1 A little bandit queen, Her cheek hath robbed the berry's brown, Her eye the dewdrop's sheen. Upon her lips there brightly glows The poppy's crimson hue, With Autumn music in her toes She charms the avenue. Alas ! how wildly hearts will beat _ That late kept slowest time ; Alas ! how many a snowy sheet Will meet its fate in rhyme ! Laugh, Cupid laugh, with saucy glee At all the pangs in store, But never point thy dart at me My heart was hers before. Samuel Minturn Peck. THE RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX (BROUGHT UP TO DATE) I SPRANG to the saddle and Joris and he ; I pedaled, Dirck hustled, we scorched all three ; " Good-speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; " Speed ! " echoed the wall as our safeties went through; Not a word to each other, we kept the great pace, Neck by neck, wheel for wheel, never changing our place I turned on my saddle and set the gear higher, Inspected each pedal, examined each tire, Then lowered the handle, leaned over a bit ; Nor pedaled less steadily Joris a whit. At Aorschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, Just like a new wheel ere the spokes are begun, And his light through the mist as we whizzed along fast Gave me sight of my speedy new safety at last. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay foot ! Your wheel has done bravely the pace it was put ; We will tell them at Aix " then we heard the quick wheeze Of the air from his tires, as he fell on his knees ; And we left him there, cursing each card in the deck, Slowly dragging his wheel, with the tires 'round his neck. 96 So we were left pedaling, Joris and I Just the whizz and the whir and the sun in the sky ; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white ; And " Scorch ! " gasped old Joris, " for Aix is in sight ! " c How they'll greet us ! " and all in a moment his wheel Struck a tree with a crash and a hideous squeal ; And there was my safety, to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With its tires getting soft, and its good sprocket chain Making sounds like the eld oaken bucket again. Then I cast loose my sweater, each glove 1 let fall ; Rode up on the sidewalk with pitiless gall ; Threw down my "ki-yi gun," leaned over my bar, Till right into Aix I had pedaled from far. And all I remember is friends flocking 'round, As' I sate with my wheel 'twixt my knees and the ground. And all of the crowd were so pleased that they grinned As I pumped down its tires their last measure of wind, Which the burgesses voted, by common consent, To the safety which safely brought safety from Ghent. Irwin Beaumont. 97 THE FALL OF CORYDON IN Arcady, wherever that may be, A shepherd sat beneath a spreading tree ; A happy youth who dearly loved to dream, Down by the shady margin of the stream, Of that fair maiden whom he loved the best. The thought of her made all his life seem blessed ; And when the fit was on him he would play Upon his pipes some simple, childish lay, And verses make in honor of the maid. This was a task that he had oft essayed, Nor ever failed ; his voice rose sweet and wild, For Corydon was joyous Nature's child. At last there came into the realm of light, I grieve to say, a very wicked sprite, Who said to Corydon, " Why spend your days 98 In this drear solitude, nor know the ways Of those who throng the city and the town 'Tis only there that thou canst gain renown. Wilt be a child and never be a man ? Renounce thy pipes and give them back to Pan ; The town alone can lasting pleasure give. Oh, come with me, I'll teach thee how to live ! " Ah, foolish swain ! can this indeed be thou ? I must confess I hardly know thee now, With thy new friends the city's best, they say A " chappie " thou art called. Alack-a-day ! Such trousers, canes, and coats if one should see He'd say with S., " What fools these mortals be! " The joys of Nature thou hast left behind ; Thy vacant stare reveals an empty mind. Thou and thy kind have long abjured love's reign, And bags of gold are all ye seek to gain ; Live clothes-racks are ye, neither more nor less, But soul and body given up to dress. How sad a fall ! Alas, can these be men ? Let's have the child of Nature back again. W. B. A. T TRACED [ S this the office of Cupid's Express And Transfer Company ? Yes? Well, see This bill of lading for nothing less Than somebody's shipment of love to me. 1 1 send you all and my best of love ' ; It's properly written and here's my name As consignee, with her own above ; Where have you been since the package came ? (l Why didn't you forward the same at once ? How much delaying do you allow ? This place is run by a perfect dunce ! Why don't you offer it over now ? " The little, spectacled Cupid-clerk Replied, " Directly." With that he took A heavy volume and fell to work At keenly searching the mighty book. " 'Twas shipped correctly," he muttered li Oh ! I understand," and he wagged his head. " The parcel didn't directly go To where you're living, because," he said, " She sent instructions oh, quit that fuss ! As plain as any could ever be, (First signing papers relieving us) To change the name of the consignee." Layton Brewer. AN ARCADIAN, FLIRTATION , " T T'S very odd/ dekr' Chloe,' to 'me," ' ' 1 Said Corydon one day, 1 ' That I should always Strephon see, Whene'er I come this way. " You tell me that you like him not, But it seems very queer That he should always be about Whenever I'm not here." " Oh, silly, silly Corydon," Chloe answered in a minute, " You know you are the only one, And Strephon isn't in it." " Nay, nay, I will not be cajoled I'll leave you unto Strephon, He's welcome to a flirt so bold " And exit Corydon. Then up rose Strephon where he lay Behind a knoll of grass, And said, " Good-bye, I will not stay To court such fickle lass." So like the dog who wanted both The shadow and the bone, Chloe wanted lovers two, forsooth, So she was left alone. L'ENVOI. To have .two strings unto your bow Is quite the proper thing, But it is hard to keep, dear Chloe, Two beaux upon a string. (WRITTEN AFTER READING MUCH SOCIETY VERSE) WHEN first I saw fair-featured Grace, In dainty, tailor-fashioned gown, I fell in love with her sweet face And pooh-poohed at her escort, Brown. The fellow's rich, but such a clown ! I did not fear he'd rival me, I, Reginald de Courcy Browne, With wealth and looks, and pedigree. I set the man a red-hot pace ; It was the talk of all the town ; I knew that I was loved by Grace I knew it by that yokel's frown. My ancestors won great renown, While Brown has no ancestral tree. I knew I could the fellow down With wealth and looks, and pedigree. She's married now ; has rare point lace, And jewels fit to deck a crown. The man who calls her " darling Grace " Is not the fellow they call Brown. No, I'm the happiest man in town ; I knew she 'd not say no to me, One rarely sees Dame Fortune frown On wealth and looks, and pedigree. You thought that Grace would marry Brown, As in most ballads that you see, But she did not. For her no clown But wealth and looks, and pedigree. Charles Battell Loomis. WHEN NELLY HANGS HER STOCKING UP THE sun deserts his flaming car, Night ends the winter's day; Each moon-kissed snowflake seems a star In earth's white Milky Way. The lights go out about the town, Mid crash and clang of locking up, And some one wears a snowy gown, When Nelly hangs her stocking up. 104 I rarely pine for earthly dross, 'Tis just my simple way, But being poor 's the cruel cross I bear each Christmas day. As chiming bells betray its birth I drain the dregs in sorrow's cup, And sighing, wish I owned the earth, When Nelly hangs her stocking up. Earle H Eaton. 105 FORTY YEARS AFTER WE climbed to the top of Goat Point hill, Sweet Kitty, my sweetheart, and I ; And watched the moon make stars on the waves ; And the dim white ships go by, While a throne we made on a rough stone wall, And the king and the queen were we ; And I sat with my arm about Kitty, And she with her arm about me. The water was mad in the moonlight, And the sand like gold where it shone. And our hearts kept time to its music, As we sat in the splendor alone. And Kitty's dear eyes twinkled brightly, And Kitty's brown hair blew so free, While I sat with my arm about Kitty, And she with her arm about me. Last night we drove in our carriage, To the wall at the top of the hill ; And though we're forty years older, We're children and sweethearts still. And we talked again of that moonlight, That danced so mad on the sea, When I sat with my arm about Kitty, And she with her arm about me. 106 The throne on the wall was still standing, But we sat in the carriage last night ; For a wall is too high for old people Whose foreheads have linings of white. And Kitty's waist measure is forty, While mine is full fifty and three ; So I can't get my arm about Kitty, Nor can she get both hers round me. H. H. Porter. Y E SLEIGHRIDE PARTIE YE noisie sleighride starts with merrie din, Eche gentil mayde ben well y tucken In, And oftenwhyles illnatured urchins shy Ye festive snow-balle swift as they passe bye. Ye bashfulle swayne hyme thinks, tho' yet afraid, To haply hugge some comely simple mayde, And ever and anon a voice commands, Betwixt ye trumpets' peales: " Hold uppe your hands! " When as returns eche manne and mayden faire, Nonne sound brasts out uponne ye frostie aire, Save when perchannce in shawl-enveloped blisse A blundering yokel gives too loud a kisse ; Or when ye uninformed, foolish wight, Well meaning, hugges ye tender mayde too tight. Nonne word is spoke, for in ye mone-light dimme, Eche felloe kens ye reste ben onto hym. Jack Stevens. 107 TWO VERSES He AVERSE to thee, dear one, I send And in it let my pen repeat The words my heart doth ever lend To coward tongue. Here at thy feet Lie heart and verse and both are fain 108 To prove how loyal love may be ; Oh, stoop, sweet heart, do not disdain A verse to thee ! Sbe A verse to thee, sweet sir, I send : Forgive its lines if halt and lame; Words that from out the heart do wend On paper do not look the same. So, should this poor verse not impart What I would say know that it be To prove that I am not, Sweetheart, Averse to thee ! Richard Sfillman Powell. MY POEMS MY " Hope " and " Faith " bought a modish gown, My " Longings " a decentish hat. My " Fond Heart " went for the latest in gloves, And my " Moods " for this and that. My " Song of Peace " meant a stylish wrap. I squandered my " Spring" for a muff, And spent every cent of my " Hoarded Gold " For the quaintest, furriest ruff. And still my wardrobe is incomplete, O, ye editors, cruel cranks, For the " Sonnet " that ought to furnish shoes Has been thrice " returned with thanks." Ida Warden Wbeder. 109 LINES ON AN X-RAY PORTRAIT OF A LADY SHE is so tall, so slender ; and her bones Those frail phosphates, those carbonates of lime, Are well produced by cathode rays sublime, By oscillations, amperes, and by ohms. Her dorsal vertebras are not concealed By epidermis, but are well revealed. Around her ribs, those beauteous twenty-four, Her flesh a halo makes, misty in line, Her noseless, eyeless face looks into mine, And I but whisper, " Sweetheart, Je t' adore." Her white and gleaming teeth at me do laugh. Ah lovely, cruel, sweet cathodograph ! Lawrence K. Russel. AFFINITY IN cycles past, when here on earth before, I met and wooed a maid, the sweetest maid, With face so like to thine, and smile as sweet, And deep brown eyes, that beamed as bright As those that window forth thy soul, And steal away my heart and peace of mind. I wooed her, soon to lose her, how I know not, And ever since have sought her, far and wide, Feeling that I would know her, and she, me ; Full oft have thought I saw her coming, And, with glad rush, sprang forth to meet her, To find, on nearer look, that 'twas some other soul, And, saddened, turned to seek again for her, my own. But O, glad thought ! when, in this latest life, Mine eyes first met thine own, my heart stood still, Then sang, and sang again, " 'Tis she, 'tis she, at last," And clear thy spirit answered back " 'Tis thee at last." Our quest was done. B A MODERN PSYCHE (SHE SPEAKS) UT do not go I like to have you near me, Not quite so near sit there, sir, if you please, The orchestra is silent ; you can hear me ; And distance puts us both more at our ease. I missed you yesterday past all expression, Though winged with song and mirth the bright hours flew ; Because I think pray mark my frank confession That no one loves me quite so well as you. It may be as you say, that I am taking A false step that I never can retrace ; Perhaps some day will come a bitter waking, When love has fled with youth and youth's sweet grace. Listen ! there's someone singing " Traviata : " " Gayly through life " Ah, yes ! 'tis apropos ! Your arm, mon ami. A swift waltz will scatter And turn to blissful breath those sighs of woe. 'Tis strange ! I do not care to take your heart, sir, In fair exchange ; and yet, strong jealous wrath Would kindle all my soul, should you depart, sir, To lay it in some other woman's path. Selfish," am I, and "void of feelings tender? " Perhaps ; but, then, I'm sure you can but own That for a foot so finely arched and slender A heart is just the fittest stepping-stone. And if you bade me cease my idle playing On the tired chords my hands have swept for years, I think the moonlight o'er my pillow straying Would find it slightly wet with " idle tears." And yet I love you not. Nay, do not start ! The reason, sir, you never could discover ; Another mystery of a woman's heart I love the love, but cannot love the lover. Eti% a Calvert Hall. THE HAPPY MAN THE news ran fast the man of mirth was dead ! They brought the tidings to the young king's door, And royal heads were bowed, and masses said, While women wept, and men lamented sore. But said the king to one, a trusted slave : " Go thou at night to where the dead man lies And search and find the amulet that gave Him power from Sorrow's all-embracing eyes To hide; for sleepless on my couch I toss, Vext lest my foe overtake me with his guile, The day is darkened by some cloud of loss ; I know not how this man could jest and smile ! " Then came the slave again, and answer made : " No charm, O king, that happy man did wear, Save this a dagger with a two-edged blade, This bore he in his heart ; we found it there, And while we stood amazed such thing to see, Upon his couch arose and spake the dead : ' Death was the sweetest boon Life gave to me, My jests and smiles scarce hid my pain,' he said." Annie M. L. Halves. 115 A B C OF LITERATURE A IS tor Anthony Hope, Who gives to his fancy free scope ; In turret and tower His characters cower, Or make hairbreadth escapes by a rope. BIS for bashful James Barrie, From the land of the kilt and Glengarry : We've read him to date, And his next we await, For we wonder whom Tommy will marry. CIS for colorful Crane, Who has a phenomenal brain ; His language amazes, He writes in blue blazes, And his verses are really insane. 116 DIS for R. Harding Davis, And jolly good stones he gave us ; Van Bibber will do, And Gallagher too, But from his war-notes, the saints save us. EIS for George Egerton, Whose Keynotes were rather good fun But her themes pathologic, And terms pedagogic, Are things the Young Person should shun. FIS for Frances Burnett, Who revels in plain epithet ; Her people of quality, Though given to jollity, Are the worst that we ever have met. GIS tor Mr. Grant Allen, Who pours out his views by the gallon ; His books are improper, But he's a Hill-Topper, So he tears not the critic's sharp talon. HIS for William Dean Howells, As wise as the wisest of owls ; The subject of jokes Of frivolous folks, At which he good-naturedly growls. [IS for Ian Maclaren, Who knows about Moses and Aaron ; But in stories and tales He signally fails, For ot artistic interest they're barren. 117 JIS for jimp Henry James, Who expounds lofty motives and aims With sentences long And arguments strong, And the most unpronounceable names. KIS for capable Kipling, Who, though he's accounted a stripling ? Writes stories and rhymes Right up to the times About loving and fighting and tippling. LIS for lean Andrew Lang, Who recently saw, with a pang, That a man up in Maine Stole the work of his brain, And he gave him a lengthy harangue. MIS Maurice Maeterlinck, Whose dramas are graveyards in ink j Abstract, esoteric, Symbolic, hysteric To read him would drive us to drink. NIS for noxious Nordau, Who pictures the terrible woe In store for the race Since we've fallen from grace, And surely the Doctor should know. OIS for Miss Olive Schreiner, Whose writings grow finer and finer ; She certainly seems To be given to dreams, Of which she's the only diviner. PIS for Popular Parker, Who writes of the North, where it's darker ; His Pretty Pierre Is drawn with great care, But y almond he isn't a marker. IS for quick-witted U Q_," At home on a staff or a crew ; With vigor and skill He handles a quill, Or paddles his well-loved canoe. RIS for Richard Le Gallienne, Who really deserves a medallion That his Fancies and Q^iest Were never suppressed ; But they ought to be writ in Italian. SIS for Sad Sarah Grand^ Who marital happiness banned ; Her public she vexes With problems of sexes Which most of us can't understand, TIS for terse Thomas Hardy ; Whose works we with wonder regard. He Has written for years, But it somehow appears His moral convictions were tardy. UIS for dear Uncle Remus, To praise him 'twould surely beseem us ; We've contracted a habit Of quoting Br'er Rabbit, Or poor old Br'er Wolf in extremis. n9 VIS Victoria Crosse, Who wouldn't be much of a loss, For her Woman who Wouldn't Or Couldn't, or Shouldn't, Is nothing but driveling dross WIS Mrs. Ward, By whom we are awfully bored ; Robert Elsmere we stood, And Marcella was good, But when Tressady came we were floored. XIS the author unknown, Who signs any name but his own ; And though nobody claims The Descendant and James, In their pages good writing is shown. ZIS for Zangwill the Zealous, Of whom our own critics are jealous, But in epigram keen, Free from malice or spleen, Those foreigners seem to excel us. Carolyn Wells, WHEN MABEL SMILES WHEN Mabel smiles my heart beats high, A softer azure tints the sky, And zephyrs sweet flit laughing by, With strains unheard before, While I look in her peerless eyes, And envy not the rich and wise, Nor heavenward gaze with wistful sighs ; For heaven can yield no more. When Mabel frowns the world is drear, Each trembling dewdrop seems a tear, The roses droop in grief and fear, And cease to breathe perfume. Alas, for me, a mournful swain, The dismal moments drag in pain, For who could bear to meet disdain From lips so full of bloom ! When Mabel smiles my heart is proud. When Mabel frowns my heart is bowed ; But be she dark or sunny browed She reigns my bosom's queen ; And well she knows who rules in state, That joy and pain must alternate ; And so fair Mabel hides my fate, A smile and frown between. Samuel Mint urn Peck. WHEN Ruby sings the songs of praise, I quite forget my worldly ways, And only list angelic lays, Her voice soars high and higher ; It seems that e'en the minister In glances gives his love to her, Nor text to him doth e're recur, When Ruby's in the choir. Her prayerful pleadings seem to rise, Appealing both to weak and wise, Until they reached the vaulted skies And join with angel lyre ; And yet I fear the songs that roll In tuneful rhyme to Heaven's goal Beseech the heart instead of soul When Ruby's in the choir. Roy Farrcll Greene. 123 AT THE OPERA THE Opera Season cannot fail To capture rich society, For those who are not musical At least love notoriety ; And box-holders are put on show Each night with grave formality (The programmes name them in a row, Explaining their locality). They all belong to the Elite, Their blood is blue supposedly ; Though some have known the smell of meat, And some sold socks composedly. Their daughters make a rare display The mothers in complicity With costumes cut decollete, Regardless of publicity. The intermission curtain drops A thousand glasses glare at them ; While half as many naughty fops Their printed names compare with them. The " gallery god " looks smiling down, Informing all the neighbors that : " The fat girl in the ermine gown Is Miss De Vere Von Taborstadt. " That bald-head, seated by the rail, Who parts his hair so tastily, Once languished in the county jail For getting rich too hastily. The red-haired girl in salmon pink Her maiden name was Ogleman Has been divorced three times, I think, And now has hooked a nobleman." So while the tongue of scandal wags, The exhibition flourishes ; And, as the gossip never flags, The interest never perishes. They cannot miss this scrutiny, But we will grant, in charity, There is one thing they fail to see Their manifest vulgarity. HER SOFA 'HPWAS built for some great -grandmamma 1 Whose memory is but dim, A Pilgrim dame of tastes inclined To be precise and prim. 126 And as he wrought the joiner droned Slow psalm-tunes till it grew Beneath his pious hands to bear The likeness of a pew. Severe ol angle, high of back, Decorous in design ; Its spacious stretch was meant to hold A row of eight or nine Shy, simple maids and homespun swains, Like doves upon the thatch, Who met on winter nights to sing A sober glee or catch. Or busy gossips stiffly ranged, Who set the stocking-heel With flashing needles as they watched Askance a youthful reel ; And shook their knowing heads to see Such tripping to and fro, Opining that the times must change, The staid old customs go. 'Tis so, good gossips. Times do change- To-day the sofa wears A coquetry of gay brocade And little modish airs ; While heaps of cushions, silken, soft, Of every dainty hue, Now leave upon that ample seat Just room enough for two ! M. E. W. 128 THE TRIUMPH OF CUPID HE came in busy hours My holidays are few He brought the scent of flowers, And whispered, dear, of you. I vowed that I would flay him, And scourge him out of sight ; Nay more, I vowed to slay him, The mischief-making sprite. I gave him caustic chiding, Let fly a poisoned dart, Presto ! the lad was hiding Safely within my heart ! There all day long he chatters Of someone's charm and grace ; Till nothing really matters, Except to see your face. I would I had not chidden, Nor tried the sprite to kill ; For in my heart safe hidden He works his wayward will. Geraldine Meyrick. 129 THE WRATH OF CUPID WHEN Venus roamed Olym- pia's height, In radiant heavenly beauty, And sought to set all ill things right By arts of love and duty, She found her Cupid weeping sore, His bow and arrows broken, And thus did he his griefs deplore, And legends told in token : " I sought to win a blonded maid She fled, and went to voting ; A ballot on my bow she laid, Her virgin scorn denoting. I begged her kisses she cried ' Nay/ And said I was a bear if I joined not in the License fray, And fought not 'gainst the Tariff. " Again I found a lovely lass, She was a platform preacher ; A gentler creed I dreamed, alas ! That I could eftsoons teach her. She gave me Spencer, Huxley, Strauss, I found no way to fault her, 130 With texts she did my transports douse, My bow broke on her altar. " When next I sieged a maiden's heart, And wooed her toward com- pliance, She nipped the point from off my dart, Because she'd studied science. And when I sang an am'rous lay Of Venus and Apollo, She turned on me a Roentgen ray And said my brain was hollow . " At last I met a cycling girl r In bloomers she was riding The chemic art made gold each curl ; Her native beauty hiding. She had no use for ardent ways, She pitied not my torture, But said she might Love's ante raise If I'd become a scorcher." Then Venus fair embraced the lad, And bade him calm his sorrow, Nor worry o'er each earth-maid's fad, But hope success to-morrow. " Dear child," she said, " you must not cry. These fads thy work ne'er covers ; For bloomers never reach too high To hide the hearts of lovers." 131 LOVES SACRIFICE HEAP high the coals until the fire Upleaps with lambent light, For love upon the blazing pyre Will sacrifice to-night. He'll offer first the rose she pressed, Then feed the flame's red core With snowy lace, that on her breast She once so sweetly wore. A knot of ribbons will he toss, And watch their swift eclipse ; A moucboir soft as silken floss, That must have touched her lips. The fans and favors from the wall, And note on tender note, Each one of which he used to call " Griefs blissful antidote." And last he'll fling some fluffy strands Of amber hair, that he Once cherished with caressing hands, And thoughts of sanctity. Why, do you ask, this direful hap ? Forsooth, she married Gold, And Love, poor little, luckless chap, Is left out in the cold ! 132 THE BLIND BEGGAR "T)-L-E-A-S-E h-e-l-p a p-o-o-r b-1-i-n-d m-a-n," Said a wheedling voice in my ear. I could not choose but hear, (To charity inclined), My dole his pocket over ran ! And now, God wot, I him sore wounded. I forgot That Cupid's blind. M. E. M. Davis. 133 "JL 4' CUPID S EASTER COMPOSITION KING CUPID sang his song of love While circling through the sky above ; And, calling to the cherub throngs, Which force unto his staff belongs, He cried, " Bring forth the funds of joy And all the fixings we employ To conjure up a new delight, And let us work with all our might. Now, boil the pot with passion's fire, And add a little heart's desire. But, lest the heat should grow intense, We'll temper well with common sense. Add, now, the freshness of the Spring, Then, blushes from the pink rose bring. Drop in a thorn of jealous pride, A sprig of folly, too, beside. A little wealth there'll have to be, For love oft lights on Fortune's tree. Throw in the points of many darts, For we shall wound some score of hearts." 135 LOVE ON THE LINKS 1SEE her face in the distance, From under her jaunty cap ; They're over the run ! they've nearly won ! My love, and the other chap. They sit on a stile together, And wait ; it is still our " lie; " I flourish my club, and the skin I rub From over the caddy's eye. Confound that chap who's with her he will utter The words I've had as yet no chance to speak ; The devil take the driver and the putter ! The lofter and the mashy and the cleek ! At last, on the green, we join them, But what does he whisper so low ? I very much doubt if it's " you hole out," Or as to the score, you know ! Foursomes are gruesome, I'm thinking, You've pain from the time you start, When a winsome maid, in a gay Scotch plaid Tees off, and the ball 's your heart ! You've lost the game you fear you've lost the lassie Because of t'other fellow, and his cheek ; You mutter low " the devil take the brassey ! The lofter and the driver and the cleek ! " G. M Winter. 136 A USURPER YOUNG Love with sorry draggled wings, His eyes bedimmed, his bow unstrung, Moped in a corner, sad and still, With listless hands and idle tongue. 1 What, ho! My whilom, saucy lad ! No arrows for the heedless crowd ? No flying darts with reckless aim For stupid men and maidens proud ? " The youngster shook his curly head. " My span of life is well nigh run, I've done for millions in my time, And, oh ! It has been lots of fun. But now my bow has lost its power, My arrows glance and turn aside. Tailor-made girls are flint and steel, My days are spoiled, my rules defied I've got a younger brother, too, Who's taking in my ancient trade ; He used to run down all my game And help me on in many a raid, His victims all with promptness bring For me to lay upon the shelf But now he sets them free as air, Won't even keep them for himself. Flirtation is this fellow's name, He's called an entertaining lad ; But he has killed Love's ancient power, His ways are wrong, his heart is bad." The boy's voice low and fainter grew, And heavy hung his curly head. Ah ! Love hath passed away from earth, Flirtation reigneth in his stead. 137 THE SPINNING WHEEL (NEW AND OLD) FICKLE custom ! Nothing stays ! There is no controlling Fate or Fortune in these days, Now the wheel is rolling. Here's Priscilla in a gown Nothing less than shocking Short ? It hardly reaches down To Priscilla's stocking ! Years ago when at the wheel Sat Priscilla spinning, Exercising toe and heel, And the homespun winning That was different from this Spinning home, and saying : " Miles are good for any miss " With the proverb playing. 138 Yet for all it seems that she Girlish ways would banish, Knickerbockered to the knee In a manner mannish Give me Her ! I little care So we go out " biking ; " What she chooses she may wear ; It quite suits my liking ! Felix Carmen. AN ASTRAL ROMANCE HE was a bold Theosophist Who dwelt in far Calcutta. To see his astral shape none wis He dealt in eggs and butter. She was a lovely Boston maid, A maid of haughty manner, Who gazed askance on men of trade, And talked well of Nirvana. One day their astral bodies met Somewhere by the Sahara. Said she, " He is the noblest yet ! " Said he, " No maid is lairer ! " Then for a week or more these two, In soulfulness disporting, Spent many a moment in the blue Of ether coyly courting. And later by the Pyramids Their astral selves were wedded Down where the Sphynx up to its lids In hot sand lay embedded. He never knew this Boston maid Was quite a snob in manner, And looked askance on men of trade When outside of Nirvana. She never knew the soul she'd wed, That dwelt in far Calcutta, Had always earned his daily bread By selling eggs and butter ; And as their souls seemed always glad While they twain were communing, I never told them 'twere too bad To spoil such blissful spooning. Gustav K. Drake. 141 THE FALL OF J. W. BEANE A GHOST STORY IN all the Eastern hemisphere You wouldn't find a knight, a peer, A viscount, earl or baronet, A marquis or a duke, nor yet A prince, or emperor, or king, Or sultan, czar, or anything That could in family pride surpass J. Winthrop Beane, of Boston, Mass. 142 His family tree could far outscale The bean-stalk in the fairy tale ; And Joseph's coat would pale before The blazon'd coat-of-arms he bore, The arms of his old ancestor, One Godfrey Beane, " who crossed, you know, About two hundred years ago." He had it stamped, engraved, embossed, Without the least regard to cost, Upon his house, upon his gate, Upon his table-cloth, his plate, Upon his knocker, and his mat, Upon his watch, inside his hat ; On scarf-pin, handkerchief and screen, And cards ; in short, J. Winthrop Beane Contrived to have old Godfrey's crest On everything that he possessed. And lastly, when he died, his will Proved to contain a codicil Directing that a sum be spent To carve it on his monument. But it you think this ends the scene You little know J. Winthrop Beane. To judge him by the common host Is reckoning without his ghost. And it is something that befell His ghost I chiefly have to tell. At midnight of the very day They laid J. Winthrop Beane away, No sooner had the clock come round To 12 P. M. than from the ground Arose a spectre, lank and lean, With frigid air and haughty mien, 143 No other than J. Winthrop Beane, Unchanged in all, except his pride If anything, intensified. He looked about him with that air Of supercilious despair That very stuck-up people wear At some society affair When no one in their set is there. Then, after brushing from his sleeves Some bits of mold and clinging leaves, And lightly dusting off his shoe, The iron gate he floated through, Just looking back the clock to note, As one who fears to miss a boat. Ten minutes later foinid him on The ghost's Cunarder- -Oregon ; And ten days later by spook time He heard the hour of midnight chime From out the tower of Beanley Hall, And stood within the graveyard wall Beside a stone, moss-grown and green, On. which these simple words were seen ; IN MEMORY OF SIR GODFREY BEANE. The while he gazed in thought serene A little ghost of humble mien, Unkempt and crooked, bent and spare, Accosted him with cringing air : ' Most noble sir, 'tis plain to see You are not of the likes of me ; You are a spook of high degree." ' My good man," cried J. Winthrop B., '44 " Leave me a little while, 1 pray, I've traveled very far to-day, And I desire to be alone With him who sleeps beneath this stone, I cannot rest till I have seen My ancestor, Sir Godfrey Beane." " Your ancestor ! How can that be ? " Exclaimed the little ghost, " when he, Last of his line, was drowned at sea Two hundred years ago ; this stone Is to his memory alone. I, and I only, saw his end. As he my master and my friend, Leaned o'er the vessel's side one night I pushed him no ; it was not right, I own that I was much to blame ; I donned his clothes, and took the name Of Beane I also took his gold, About five thousand pounds all told ; And so to Boston, Mass.,. I came To found a family and name I, who in former times had been Sir Godfrey's" " Wretch, what do you mean? Sir Godfrey's what ? " gasped Winthrop Beane. " Sir Godfrey's valet ! " That same night When the ghost steamer sailed, you might. Among the passengers have seen A ghost of very abject mien, Faded and shrunk, forlorn and frayed, The shadow of his former shade, 145 Who registered in steerage class, J. W. Beane, of Boston, Mass. Now, gentle reader, do not try To guess the family which I Disguise as Beane enough that they Exist on Beacon Hill to-day, In sweet enjoyment of their claims It is not well to mention names. Oliver Her ford. 146 883831 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY