THE SCREEN IN THE LUMBER

YES

ROOM

'ES, here it is, behind the box,
That puzzle wrought so neatly—

That paradise of paradox

We once knew so completely;
You see it? 'Tis the same, I swear,
Which stood, that chill September,
Beside your Aunt Lavinia's chair

The year when . . You remember?

Look, Laura, look! You must recall
This florid "Fairy's Bower,"

This wonderful Swiss waterfall,

And this old "Leaning Tower"; And here's the "Maiden of Cashmere," And here is Bewick's "Starling,"

And here the dandy cuirassier

You thought was "such a Darling!"

Your poor dear Aunt! you know her way She used to say this figure

Reminded her of Count D'Orsay "In all his youthful vigour ";

And here's the "cot beside the hill"
We chose for habitation,

The day that.. But I doubt if still
You'd like the situation!

Too damp-by far!

She little knew,

Your guileless Aunt Lavinia,

Those evenings when she slumbered through "The Prince of Abyssinia,"

That there were two beside her chair

Who both had quite decided

To see things in a rosier air

Than Rasselas provided!

Ah! men wore stocks in Britain's land,
And maids short waists and tippets,
When this old-fashioned screen was planned
From hoarded scraps and snippets ;
But more far more, I think-to me
Than those who first designed it,
Is this in Eighteen Seventy-Three
I kissed you first behind it.

DAISY'S VALENTINES

ALL night through Daisy's sleep, it seems,

Have ceaseless "rat-tats" thundered;

All night through Daisy's rosy dreams
Have devious Postmen blundered,
Delivering letters round her bed,-
Mysterious missives, sealed with red,
And franked of course with due Queen's-head,—
While Daisy lay and wondered.

But now, when chirping birds begin,
And Day puts off the Quaker,—
When Cook renews her morning din,
And rates the cheerful baker,—
She dreams her dream no dream at all,
For, just as pigeons come at call,
Winged letters flutter down, and fall
Around her head, and wake her.

Yes, there they are! With quirk and twist,
And fraudful arts directed;

(Save Grandpapa's dear stiff old "fist,"
Through all disguise detected ;)

But which is his, her young Lothair's,--
Who wooed her on the school-room stairs
With three sweet cakes, and two ripe pears,
In one neat pile collected?

'Tis there, be sure.

Though truth to speak

(If truth may be permitted),

I doubt that young "gift-bearing Greek"

Is scarce for fealty fitted;

For has he not (I grieve to say)

To two loves more, on this same day,
In just this same emblazoned way,
His transient vows transmitted?

He may

be true.

Yet, Daisy dear,

That even youth grows colder
You'll find is no new thing, I fear;

And when you're somewhat older,
You'll read of one Dardanian boy
Who "wooed with gifts" a maiden coy,——
Then took the morning train to Troy,
In spite of all he'd told her.

But wait. Your time will come.
Obliging Fates, please send her
The bravest thing you have in men,

And then,

Sound-hearted, strong, and tender ;-
The kind of man, dear Fates, you know,
That feels how shyly Daisies grow,
And what soft things they are, and so
Will spare to spoil or mend her.

IN TOWN

"The blue fly sung in the pane."-TENNYSON,

TOILING in Town now is "horrid,"

(There is that woman again!)—

June in the zenith is torrid,

Thought gets dry in the brain.

There is that woman again:

"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!'

Thought gets dry in the brain;
Ink gets dry in the bottle.

"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"

Oh for the green of a lane !—

Ink gets dry in the bottle;
"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!

Oh for the green of a lane,

Where one might lie and be lazy! "Buzz" goes a fly in the pane; Bluebottles drive me crazy!

Where one might lie and be lazy,

Careless of Town and all in it!—

Bluebottles drive me crazy:

I shall go mad in a minute!