Volume 100 — A CAN(NES)DID CONFESSION.

You write to me, sweetest, with envy Of "zephyrs" and "summerlike stars;" You say women, horses, and men vie In chorus of croups and catarrhs; You picture me safe from the snarling Of Winter's tyrannical sway. This isn't, believe me, my darling, The Mediterranean way. You rave of the "shimmering light on An ocean pellucidly fair." You get it, my darling, at Brighton, And coals that can warm you are there: Of "boughs with hot oranges breaking"— Cold comfort, while fortunes we pay For faggots that mock us in making Their Mediterranean way! You dream of me rapt by a casement Mimosa caresses and rose; This window was surely the place meant For mistral to buffet my nose. Of tennis and dances and drums in "That Eden for Eves"—did you say? Apt phrase! Nothing masculine comes in Our Mediterranean way. And "Esterel's amethyst ranges Of gossamer shapes"—and the rest. Good gracious, how scenery changes! They too have a cold on their chest. At "delicate lungs," dear, and so on No more for this climate I'll play, But homeward in ecstasy go on My Mediterranean way.