(Which she showed me, I think, by mistake). And I conned o'er the forms and the fashions, Till the faded old shapes seemed to wake

All the ghosts of my passed-away "passions";—

From the days of love's youthfullest dream,
When the height of my shooting idea
Was to burn, like a young Polypheme,
For a somewhat mature Galatea.

There was Lucy, who "tiffed" with her first, And who threw me as soon as her third came; There was Norah, whose cut was the worst,

For she told me to wait till my "berd" came;

Pale Blanche, who subsisted on salts;

Blonde Bertha, who doted on Schiller;

Poor Amy, who taught me to waltz;

Plain Ann, that I wooed for the "siller";

All danced round my head in a ring,

Like "The Zephyrs" that somebody painted,

All shapes of the feminine thing—

Shy, scornful, seductive, and sainted,—

To my Wife, in the days she was young
"How, Sir," says that lady, disgusted,
"Do you dare to include ME among
Your loves that have faded and rusted?"

"PREMIERS AMOURS"

"Not at all!"-I benignly retort.
(I was just the least bit in a temper!)
"Those, alas! were the fugitive sort,
But you are my-eadem semper !"

Full stop, and a Sermon. Yet think,—

There was surely good ground for a quarrel,— She had checked me when just on the brink Of-I feel-a remarkable MORAL.

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 ";

THE SCREEN IN THE LUMBER ROOM

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?