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,
And walk to Burnham-beeches."

"Agreed," 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.

THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE.

POOR

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.

LOVE IN WINTER.

ETWEEN the berried holly-bush

BE

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.