DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW ACT THE THIRD. Or so it proved. For while I still Believed them gone for ever, Half raised above the window sill, I saw the lattice quiver; And lo, once more appeared the head, Flushed, while the round mouth pouted; "Give Tom a kiss," the red lips said, In style the most undoubted. The girl came back without a thought; For these your code was all too stiff, Then on the scene,-by happy fate, Upon a rover chicken, And bore him sourly off, despite The girl stood silent, with a look Then, with a sudden gesture took The torn doll from the gravel; Hid the whole face, with one caress, Exeunt omnes. End of play. It made the dull room brighter, The Gladiator almost gay, And e'en "The Lancet " lighter. AN AUTUMN IDYLL AN AUTUMN IDYLL "Srveet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song." LAWRENCE. -SPENSER. FRANK. JACK. LAWRENCE. HERE, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses, Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore. Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses; Here let us sit. We landed here before. FRANK. Jack's undecided. Say, formose puer, Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer, JACK. Hist! That's a pike. Look-nose against the river Gaunt as a wolf,-the sly old privateer! Enter a gudgeon. Snap,-a gulp, a shiver ;— Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here. FRANK (in the grass). Jove, what a day! Black Care upon the crupper Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun; Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper, Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun! Sing to us then. LAWRENCE. Damœtas in a choker, Much out of tune, will edify the rooks. FRANK. Sing you again. So musical a croaker JACK. Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas! am old. Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis ; Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. FRANK. Listen, O Thames! His budding beard is riper, Say-by a week. sing? Well, Lawrence, shall we LAWRENCE. Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, AN AUTUMN IDYLL JACK. Here then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted LAWRENCE. Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers, FRANK. Me too, O Muse! And when the Umpire slumbers, Sting him with gnats a summer evening long. LAWRENCE. Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders, Not where the brook traditionally "purls," No, in the Row, supreme among the riders, Seek I the gem, the paragon of girls. FRANK. Not in the waste of column and of coping, |