From the ribbons she wears in her favourite
hat;

For may not a person be only five,
And yet have the neatest of taste alive?—
As a matter of fact, this one has views
Of the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes;
And we never object to a sash or bow,
When "little Blue-Ribbons" prefers it so.

"Little Blue-Ribbons" has eyes of blue,

And an arch little mouth, when the teeth peep through;

And her primitive look is wise and grave,

With a sense of the weight of the word "behave ";
Though now and again she may condescend
To a radiant smile for a private friend;
But to smile for ever is weak, you know,
And "little Blue-Ribbons" regards it so.

She's a staid little woman! And so as well
Is her ladyship's doll, "Miss Bonnibelle";
But I think what at present the most takes up
The thoughts of her heart is her last new cup;

For the object thereon,—be it understood,—
Is the "Robin that buried the Babes in the
Wood""

It is not in the least like a robin, though,

But "little Blue-Ribbons " declares it so.

"Little Blue-Ribbons " believes, I think,
That the rain comes down for the birds to drink;
Moreover, she holds, in a cab you'd get

To the spot where the suns of yesterday set;
And I know that she fully expects to meet
With a lion or wolf in Regent Street!
We may smile, and deny as we like—But, no,
For "little Blue-Ribbons" still dreams it so.

Dear "little Blue-Ribbons"! She tells us all That she never intends to be "great" and "tall"; (For how could she ever contrive to sit

In her "own, own, chair," if she grew one bit!)
And, further, she says, she intends to stay
In her "darling home" till she gets "quite gray";
Alas! we are gray; and we doubt, you know,
But "little Blue-Ribbons " will have it so!

LINES TO A STUPID PICTURE

LINES TO A STUPID PICTURE

"the music of the moon

Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale."

-AYLMER'S FIELD.

FIVE geese,—a landscape damp and wild,—

A stunted, not too pretty, child,
Beneath a battered gingham;
Such things, to say the least, require
A Muse of more-than-average Fire
Effectively to sing 'em.

And yet-Why should they?

Souls of mark

Have sprung from such ;-e'en Joan of Arc Had scarce a grander duty;

Not always ('tis a maxim trite)

From righteous sources comes the right,—
From beautiful, the beauty.

Who shall decide where seed is sown?
Maybe some priceless germ was blown
To this unwholesome marish;

(And what must grow will still increase,
Though cackled round by half the geese
And ganders in the parish.)

Maybe this homely face may hide
A Staël before whose mannish pride
Our frailer sex shall tremble;
Perchance this audience anserine

May hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine !)—
May hiss a future Kemble!

Or say the gingham shadows o'er
An undeveloped Hannah More!—
A latent Mrs. Trimmer!!

Who shall affirm it?-who deny ?—
Since of the truth nor you nor I
Discern the faintest glimmer?

So then-Caps off, my Masters all;
Reserve your final word,-recall
Your all-too-hasty strictures;
Caps off, I say, for Wisdom sees
Undreamed potentialities

In most unhopeful pictures.

A FAIRY TALE

A FAIRY TALE

"On court, hélas! après la vérité;

Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son mérite."

CURL

I find Miss Mary, ætat six,

Blonde, blue-eyed, frank, capricious, Absorbed in her first fairy book,

From which she scarce can pause to look, Because it's "so delicious!"

"Such marvels, too. A wondrous Boat, In which they cross a magic Moat,

That's smooth as glass to row onA Cat that brings all kinds of things; And see, the Queen has angel wingsThen OGRE comes "-and so on.

What trash it is!

How sad to find

(Dear Moralist !) the childish mind,
So active and so pliant,

Rejecting themes in which you mix
Fond truths with pleasing facts, to fix
On tales of Dwarf and Giant!