Puslapio vaizdai

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.'"

She blushed-this time. "If Plato's page No wiser precept teaches,

Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage,

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And walk to Burnham-beeches."

"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.



OOR Rose! I lift you from the street-
Far 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. She gave you then

Behind the oleander

To one, perhaps, of all the men,
Who best could understand her,-

Cyril that, duly flattered, took,
As only Cyril's able,

With just the same Arcadian look
He used, last night, for Mabel;

Then, having waltzed till every star
Had paled away in morning,

Lit up his cynical cigar,

And tossed you downward, scorning.

Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet,— She made my heart-strings quiver; And yet you shan't lie in the street, I'll drop you in the River.


ETWEEN the berried holly-bush


The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush: "Which way did bright-eyed Bella go? Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,— Are those her dainty tracks I see, That wind beside the shrubbery?"

The Throstle pecked the berries still.
"No need for looking, Yellow-bill;
Young Frank was there an hour ago,
Half frozen, waiting in the snow;
His callow beard was white with rime,-
'Tchuck,-'tis a merry pairing-time !"

"What would you?" twittered in the Wren; "These are the reckless ways of men.

I watched them bill and coo as though

They thought the sign of Spring was snow; If men but timed their loves as we, 'Twould save this inconsistency."

"Nay, Gossip," chirped the Robin, "nay; I like their unreflective way.

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