MY LADY ON PARADE.

A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet, With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it. And that the other maidens of the little town might know it, She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday just to show it. But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime, The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time; So when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing, And when she came to meeting, sure enough, the folks were singing. So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door; And as she shook her ruffles out behind, and smoothed them down before. "Hallelujah! hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head— "Hardly knew you! hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said. This made the little maiden feel so very, very cross, That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss; For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet, With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it. And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer, But pattered down the silent street and hurried up the stair, Till she reached her little bureau, and in a bandbox on it Had hidden, safe from critic's eye, her foolish little bonnet. Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind; And that the little head that's filled with silly little airs Will never get a blessing from sermons or from prayers.

One for her Club and her own Latch-key fights, Another wastes in Study her good Nights. Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go, Nor heed the grumble of the Women's Rights! And she who saved her coin for Flannels red, And she who caught Pneumonia instead, Will both be Underground in Fifty Years, And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead. Th' exclusive Style you set your heart upon Gets to the Bargain counters—and anon Like monograms on a Saleslady's tie Cheers but a moment—soon for you 'tis gone. They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keep The dernier cri that once was far from cheap; Green Veils, one season chic—Department stores Mark down in vain—no profits shall they reap. Exchange.

I saw her go shopping in stylish attire, And she felt Of her belt At the back. Her walk was as free as a springy steel wire, And many a rubberneck turned to admire As she felt Of her belt At the back. She wondered if all the contraptions back there Were fastened just right—'twas an unceasing care, So she felt Of her belt At the back. I saw her at church as she entered her pew; And she felt Of her belt At the back. She had on a skirt that was rustly and new, And didn't quite know what the fastenings might do, So she felt Of her belt At the back. She fidgeted round while the first prayer was said, She fumbled about while the first hymn was read— Oh she felt Of her belt At the back. Jack told her one night that he loved her like mad; And she felt For her belt At the back. She didn't look sorry, she didn't look glad— She looked like she thought, "Well, that wasn't so bad." And she felt For her belt At the back. But—well, I don't think 'twas a great deal of harm, For what should the maiden have found but an arm When she felt For her belt At the back? Los Angeles Herald.

I cannot wear the old gowns I wore a year ago, The styles are so eccentric, And fashion changes so; These bygone gowns are out of date; (There must be nine or ten!) I cannot wear the old gowns, Nor don those frocks again. I cannot wear the old gowns, The skirts are far too tight; They do not flare correctly, and The trimming isn't right. The Spanish flounce is fagoted, The plaits are box, not knife; I cannot wear the old gowns— I'd look like Noah's wife. I cannot wear the old gowns, The sleeves are so absurd; They're tightly fitted at the top, And at the wrist they're shirred! The shoulder seams are far too long, The collars too high-necked; I cannot wear my old gowns And keep my self-respect! Saturday Evening Post.

My aunt! My dear unmarried aunt! Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her—though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span. My aunt, my poor deluded aunt! Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a springlike way? How can she lay her glasses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell? Her father—grandpa! Forgive This erring lip its smiles— Vowed she would make the finest girl Within a hundred miles. He sent her to a stylish school; 'Twas in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon." They braced my aunt against a board To make her straight and tall; They laced her up, they starved her down, To make her light and small; They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, They screw it up with pins— Oh, never mortal suffered more In penance for her sins! So when my precious aunt was done, My grandsire brought her back (By daylight, lest some rabid youth Might follow on the track); "Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook Some powder in his pan, "What could this lovely creature do Against a desperate man?" Alas, nor chariot nor barouche Nor bandit cavalcade Tore from the trembling father's arms His all-accomplished maid. For her how happy had it been! And heaven had spared to me To see one sad, ungathered rose On my ancestral tree.