II THE ETERNAL FEMININE (continued 2)

FALSE LOVE AND TRUE LOGIC

THE DISCONSOLATE My heart will break—I'm sure it will: My lover, yes, my favorite—he Who seemed my own through good and ill— Has basely turned his back on me. THE COMFORTER Ah! silly sorrower, weep no more; Your lover's turned his back, we see; But you had turned his head before, And now he's as he ought to be. Laman Blanchard.

PET'S PUNISHMENT

O, if my love offended me, And we had words together, To show her I would master be, I'd whip her with a feather! If then she, like a naughty girl, Would tyranny declare it, I'd give my pet a cross of pearl, And make her always bear it. If still she tried to sulk and sigh, And threw away my posies, I'd catch my darling on the sly, And smother her with roses. But should she clench her dimpled fists, Or contradict her betters, I'd manacle her tiny wrists With dainty jewelled fetters. And if she dared her lips to pout, Like many pert young misses, I'd wind my arm her waist about, And punish her—with kisses! J. Ashby-Sterry.

AD CHLOEN, M.A.

FRESH FROM HER CAMBRIDGE EXAMINATION

Lady, very fair are you, And your eyes are very blue, And your hose; And your brow is like the snow, And the various things you know, Goodness knows. And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your Algebra and Greek Perfect are; And that loving lustrous eye Recognizes in the sky Every star. You have pouting piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse Calculate; But for your cerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate. If by some arrangement dual I were Adams mixed with Whewell, Then some day I, as wooer, perhaps might come To so sweet an Artium Magistra. Mortimer Collins.

CHLOE, M.A.

AD AMANTEM SUAM

Careless rhymer, it is true, That my favourite colour's blue: But am I To be made a victim, sir, If to puddings I prefer Cambridge [pi]? If with giddier girls I play Croquet through the summer day On the turf, Then at night ('tis no great boon) Let me study how the moon Sways the surf. Tennyson's idyllic verse Surely suits me none the worse If I seek Old Sicilian birds and bees— Music of sweet Sophocles— Golden Greek. You have said my eyes are blue; There may be a fairer hue, Perhaps—and yet It is surely not a sin If I keep my secrets in Violet. Mortimer Collins.

THE FAIR MILLINGER

By the Watertown Horse-Car Conductor

It was a millinger most gay, As sat within her shop; A student came along that way, And in he straight did pop. Clean shaven he, of massive mould, He thought his looks was killing her; So lots of stuff to him she sold: "Thanks!" says the millinger. He loafed around and seemed to try On all things to converse; The millinger did mind her eye, But also mound his purse. He tried, then, with his flattering tongue, With nonsense to be filling her; But she was sharp, though she was young: "Thanks," said the millinger. He asked her to the theatre, They got into my car; Our steeds were tired, could hardly stir, He thought the way not far. A pretty pict-i-ure she made, No doctors had been pilling her; Fairly the fair one's fare he paid: "Thanks!" said the millinger. When we arrived in Bowdoin Square, A female to them ran; Then says that millinger so fair: "O, thank you, Mary Ann! She's going with us, she is," says she, "She only is fulfilling her Duty in looking after me: Thanks!" said that millinger. "Why," says that student chap to her, "I've but two seats to hand." "Too bad," replied that millinger, "Then you will have to stand." "I won't stand this," says he, "I own The joke which you've been drilling her; Here, take the seats and go alone!" "Thanks!" says the millinger. That ere much-taken-down young man Stepped back into my car. We got fresh horses, off they ran; He thought the distance far. And now she is my better half, And oft, when coo-and-billing her, I think about that chap and laugh: "Thanks!" says my millinger. Fred W. Loring.

TWO FISHERS

One morning when Spring was in her teens— A morn to a poet's wishing, All tinted in delicate pinks and greens— Miss Bessie and I went fishing. I in my rough and easy clothes, With my face at the sun-tan's mercy; She with her hat tipped down to her nose, And her nose tipped—vice versa. I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks, And a hamper for lunching recesses; She with the bait of her comely looks, And the seine of her golden tresses. So we sat us down on the sunny dike, Where the white pond-lilies teeter, And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike, And she like Simon Peter. All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes, And dreamily watched and waited, But the fish were cunning and would not rise, And the baiter alone was baited. And when the time of departure came, My bag hung flat as a flounder; But Bessie had neatly hooked her game— A hundred-and-fifty-pounder. Unknown.

MAUD

Nay, I cannot come into the garden just now, Tho' it vexes me much to refuse: But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow, With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues. I am sure you'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear That our ball has been quite a success. As for me—I've been looking a monster, my dear. In that old-fashion'd guy of a dress. You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed; It is getting so dreadfully late. You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head If you linger so long at our gate. Don't be obstinate, Alfy; come, take my advice— For I know you're in want of repose: Take a basin of gruel (you'll find it so nice), And remember to tallow your nose. No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away, For De Boots has implor'd me to sing. As to you—if you like it, of course you can stay, You were always an obstinate thing. If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs About "babble and revel and wine," When you might have been snoring for two or three hours, Why, it's not the least business of mine. Henry S. Leigh.

ARE WOMEN FAIR?

"Are women fair?" Ay, wondrous fair to see, too. "Are women sweet?" Yea, passing sweet they be, too. Most fair and sweet to them that only love them; Chaste and discreet to all save them that prove them. "Are women wise?" Not wise, but they be witty; "Are women witty?" Yea, the more the pity; They are so witty, and in wit so wily, Though ye be ne'er so wise, they will beguile ye. "Are women fools?" Not fools, but fondlings many; "Can women fond be faithful unto any?" When snow-white swans do turn to colour sable, Then women fond will be both firm and stable. "Are women saints?" No saints, nor yet no devils; "Are women good?" Not good, but needful evils. So Angel-like, that devils I do not doubt them, So needful evils that few can live without them. "Are women proud?" Ay! passing proud, an praise them. "Are women kind?" Ay! wondrous kind, an please them. Or so imperious, no man can endure them, Or so kind-hearted, any may procure them. Francis Davison.

THE PLAIDIE

Upon ane stormy Sunday, Coming adoon the lane, Were a score of bonnie lassies— And the sweetest I maintain Was Caddie, That I took unneath my plaidie, To shield her from the rain. She said that the daisies blushed For the kiss that I had ta'en; I wadna hae thought the lassie Wad sae of a kiss complain: "Now, laddie! I winna stay under your plaidie, If I gang hame in the rain!" But, on an after Sunday, When cloud there was not ane, This selfsame winsome lassie (We chanced to meet in the lane), Said, "Laddie, Why dinna ye wear your plaidie? Wha kens but it may rain?" Charles Sibley.

FEMININE ARITHMETIC

LAURA On me he shall ne'er put a ring, So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble— For I was but eighteen in spring While his age exactly is double. MAMMA He's but in his thirty-sixth year, Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty, And should you refuse him, my dear, May you die an old maid without pity! LAURA His figure, I grant you, will pass, And at present he's young enough plenty; But when I am sixty, alas! Will not he be a hundred and twenty? Charles Graham Halpine.

LORD GUY

When swallows Northward flew Forth from his home did fare Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu. Swore he to cross the brine, Pausing not, night nor day, That he might Paynims slay In Palestine. Half a league on his way Met he a shepherdess Beaming with loveliness— Fair as Young Day. Gazed he in eyes of blue— Saw love in hiding there Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu. "Let the foul Paynim wait!" Plead Love, "and stay with me. Cruel and cold the sea— Here's brighter fate." When swallows Southward flew Back to his home did fare Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu. Led he his charger gay Bearing a shepherdess Beaming with happiness— Fair as Young Day. White lambs, be-ribboned blue— Tends now with anxious care, Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu. George F. Warren.

SARY "FIXES UP" THINGS

Oh, yes, we've be'n fixin' up some sence we sold that piece o' groun' Fer a place to put a golf-lynx to them crazy dudes from town. (Anyway, they laughed like crazy when I had it specified, Ef they put a golf-lynx on it, thet they'd haf to keep him tied.) But they paid the price all reg'lar, an' then Sary says to me, "Now we're goin' to fix the parlor up, an' settin'-room," says she. Fer she 'lowed she'd been a-scrimpin' an' a-scrapin' all her life, An' she meant fer once to have things good as Cousin Ed'ard's wife. Well, we went down to the city, an' she bought the blamedest mess; An' them clerks there must 'a' took her fer a' Astoroid, I guess; Fer they showed her fancy bureaus which they said was shiffoneers, An' some more they said was dressers, an' some curtains called porteers. An' she looked at that there furnicher, an' felt them curtains' heft; Then she sailed in like a cyclone an' she bought 'em right an' left; An' she picked a Bress'ls carpet thet was flowered like Cousin Ed's, But she drawed the line com-pletely when we got to foldin'-beds. Course, she said, 't 'u'd make the parlor lots more roomier, she s'posed; But she 'lowed she'd have a bedstid thet was shore to stay un-closed; An' she stopped right there an' told us sev'ral tales of folks she'd read Bein' overtook in slumber by the "fatal foldin'-bed." "Not ef it wuz set in di'mon's! Nary foldin'-bed fer me! I ain't goin' to start fer glory in a rabbit-trap!" says she. "When the time comes I'll be ready an' a-waitin'; but ez yet, I shan't go to sleep a-thinkin' that I've got the triggers set." Well, sir, shore as yo''re a-livin', after all thet Sary said, 'Fore we started home that evenin' she hed bought a foldin'-bed; An' she's put it in the parlor, where it adds a heap o' style; An' we're sleepin' in the settin'-room at present fer a while. Sary still maintains it's han'some, "an' them city folks'll see That we're posted on the fashions when they visit us," says she; But it plagues her some to tell her, ef it ain't no other use, We can set it fer the golf-lynx ef he ever sh'u'd get loose. Albert Bigelow Paine.

THE CONSTANT CANNIBAL MAIDEN

Far, oh, far is the Mango island, Far, oh, far is the tropical sea— Palms a-slant and the hills a-smile, and A cannibal maiden a-waiting for me. I've been deceived by a damsel Spanish, And Indian maidens both red and brown, A black-eyed Turk and a blue-eyed Danish, And a Puritan lassie of Salem town. For the Puritan Prue she sets in the offing, A-castin' 'er eyes at a tall marine, And the Spanish minx is the wust at scoffing Of all of the wimming I ever seen. But the cannibal maid is a simple creetur, With a habit of gazin' over the sea, A-hopin' in vain for the day I'll meet 'er, And constant and faithful a-yearnin' for me. Me Turkish sweetheart she played me double— Eloped with the Sultan Harum In-Deed, And the Danish damsel she made me trouble When she ups and married an oblong Swede. But there's truth in the heart of the maid o' Mango, Though her cheeks is black like the kiln-baked cork, As she sets in the shade o' the whingo-whango, A-waitin' for me—with a knife and fork. Wallace Irwin.

WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES

O reverend sir, I do declare It drives me most to frenzy, To think of you a-lying there Down sick with influenzy. A body'd thought it was enough To mourn your wife's departer, Without sich trouble as this ere To come a-follerin' arter. But sickness and affliction Are sent by a wise creation, And always ought to be underwent By patience and resignation. O, I could to your bedside fly, And wipe your weeping eyes, And do my best to cure you up, If 'twouldn't create surprise. It's a world of trouble we tarry in, But, Elder, don't despair; That you may soon be movin' again Is constantly my prayer. Both sick and well, you may depend You'll never be forgot By your faithful and affectionate friend, Priscilla Pool Bedott. Frances Miriam Whitcher.

UNDER THE MISTLETOE

She stood beneath the mistletoe That hung above the door, Quite conscious of the sprig above, Revered by maids of yore. A timid longing filled her heart; Her pulses throbbed with heat; He sprang to where the fair girl stood. "May I—just one—my sweet?" He asked his love, who tossed her head, "Just do it—if—you dare!" she said. He sat before the fireplace Down at the club that night. "She loves me not," he hotly said, "Therefore she did but right!" She sat alone within her room, And with her finger-tips She held his picture to her heart, Then pressed it to her lips. "My loved one!" sobbed she, "if you—cared You surely would have—would have—dared." George Francis Shults.

THE BROKEN PITCHER

It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well, And what the maiden thought of I cannot, cannot tell. When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo— Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo. "Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring? Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide, And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?" "I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, Because an article like that hath never come my way; And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell, Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell. "My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,— A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss; I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke, But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke. "My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home, And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. I cannot bring him water—the pitcher is in pieces— And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces." "Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me! So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three; And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè." He lighted down from off his steed—he tied him to a tree— He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three: "To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!" He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in. Up rose the Moorish maiden—behind the knight she steals, And caught Alphonso Guzman up tightly by the heels; She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,— "Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!" A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo; She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo. I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well. William E. Aytoun.

GIFTS RETURNED

"You must give back," her mother said, To a poor sobbing little maid, "All the young man has given you, Hard as it now may seem to do." "'Tis done already, mother dear!" Said the sweet girl, "So never fear." Mother. Are you quite certain? Come, recount (There was not much) the whole amount. Girl. The locket; the kid gloves. Mother.Go on. Girl. Of the kid gloves I found but one. Mother. Never mind that. What else? Proceed. You gave back all his trash? Girl.Indeed. Mother. And was there nothing you would save? Girl. Everything I could give I gave. Mother. To the last tittle? Girl.Even to that. Mother. Freely? Girl.My heart went pit-a-pat At giving up ... ah me! ah me! I cry so I can hardly see ... All the fond looks and words that past, And all the kisses, to the last. Walter Savage Landor.