Puslapio vaizdai


Go, if you will. At once! And by express, sir!
Where shall it be? To China-or Peru?
Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir,
If I were you!


No, I remain. To stay and fight a duel

Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to doAh, you are strong,-I would not then be cruel, If I were you!


One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,——


One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,


If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted ?—


I should admit that I was piqué, too.

Ask me to dance.
If I were you!


I'd say no more about it,



"Le temps le mieux employé est celui qu'on perd." CLAUDE TILLIER.


"D"read" three hours. Both notes and text
Were fast a mist becoming;

In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed,
And filled the room with humming,

Then out. The casement's leafage sways,
And, parted light, discloses

Miss Di., with hat and book,- -a maze
Of muslin mixed with roses.

"You're reading Greek?" "I am- -and you?" "O, mine's a mere romancer !" "So Plato is." "Then read him-do; And I'll read mine in answer."

I read. "My Plato (Plato, too,—
That wisdom thus should harden !)
Declares' blue eyes look doubly blue
Beneath a Dolly Varden.""

She smiled. "My book in turn avers

(No author's name is stated) That sometimes those Philosophers Are sadly mis-translated."

"But hear, the next 's in stronger style : The Cynic School asserted

That two red lips which part and smile
May not be controverted !"

She smiled once more-" My book, I find, Observes some modern doctors

Would make the Cynics out a kind
Of album-verse concoctors."

Then I-" Why not? Ephesian law,
No less than time's tradition,
Enjoined fair speech on all who saw
DIANA'S apparition.''

"If Plato's page

She blushed-this time.

No wiser precept teaches,
Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage,
And walk to Burnham-beeches."

"Agreed," I said. "For Socrates (I find he too is talking)

Thinks Learning can't remain at ease
While Beauty goes a-walking."

She read no more. I leapt the sill:
The sequel's scarce essential-
Nay, more than this, I hold it still
Profoundly confidential.

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OOR Rose! I lift you from the streetFar better I should own you, Than you should lie for random feet, Where careless hands have thrown you!

Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn!

Did heartless Mayfair use you, Then cast you forth to lie forlorn, For chariot wheels to bruise you?

I saw you last in Edith's hair.

Rose, you would scarce discover That I she passed upon the stair Was Edith's favoured lover,

A month-"a little month "-ago-
O theme for moral writer !-

'Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know,

She might have been politer;

But let that pass.
Behind the oleander-

She gave you then

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