Volume 146 — THE ROCK GARDENESS IN LONDON.
Reading edition
(A Ballad of Labels.)
Dame Fashion, when she calls the tune, Must surely crave my pardon For prisoning me in leafy June Far from my Alpine garden. So that in crowded square or street My Fancy's playful mockery Plants all the pavement at my feet With favourites from the rockery. And so that, heedless to the claims Of passing conversation, I murmur to myself their names By way of consolation. The thread of compliment may run Through many ball-room Babels— I have one language, only one, The language of the labels. In Kedar's tents are festive hours, The noctes and the cœnæ; My heart is where RETUSA flowers, And crimson-starred SILENE. I see the grey stones overhung With lilac and laburnum; I hear the drone of bees among Blue depths of LITHOSPERNUM. And in the box on opera nights Between each thrilling scene I Recall the miniature delights Of MENTHA REQUIENII; Admirers find me deaf and dumb To all their honeyed wheedling, I muse on LONGIFOLIUM And dream of STORMONTH SEEDLINGS. And, when they come to hint their loves Through all the usual stages, I wish I were in gardening gloves Among my Saxifrages.
More Russian Methods.
"East-End Deputation Received by Whip."
Daily News and Leader.
The Daily News, in describing an adventure between the Crown Prince of Germany (in a motor) and a peasant of Saarbrücken, ventures (with a knowledge of the Saarbrücken dialect which we ourselves cannot claim) to give the peasant's actual words:—
"'Ain't 'eard nowt,' said the peasant; 'the lane be narrow like. You must just wait till I be druv ahead.'"
Its likeness to the Loamshire dialect of England will interest the philologist.