But dem dat try ter tote erroun' er great big las' ye'r's shote,

An' do lack dey hain't got hit dar-hit mek me t'ar my coat.

Virginia Frazer Boyle.

Ye Laste Wylle and Testymente of Hyr Trewe Luvyer

I, HYR Trewe Luvyer, ryche butte in yntente,

Beeyng of sounde and, eke, dysposeyng mynde,

Welle knoweyng Dethe may clayme me when ynclyned,

Declayre thys my laste wylle and testymente,
Revokeyng anny whych from itte dyssente.
I gyve, devyse, bequeathe, and fyrmlie bynde
Unto my Ladye Luve alle whych I fynde
Worth gyveyng in my spyrite's tenemente;

To witte: One Herte whych throbbes for Hyr alone;

Item, One Soule-ye halle-marque is Hyr Owne;

Item, One Luve whych doth my lyfe uppelyftButte, by Luv'ss Bowe! I gave Hyr these

long syne;

Soe I confyrme my former deedes of gyfte And bidde Hyr tayke whate'er She wylle of myne.

William E. P. French.

A Question

As Wisdom, at his task applied,
Sat high within his tower,
Beneath his window, dewy-eyed,
Youth passed, with sprig of flower.

Tricked out in guise of courtly page,
With cap and dancing feather,

She smiled, and tossed the wondering sage
Her spray of rosy heather.

He left his scroll, he closed his book,-
Alas, for lore and learning!—
And followed that beguiling look
Without a thought of turning.

And since the day his heart has known
Sweet Youth, and learned to prize her,
Some say that Wisdom 's overthrown,
And some that he 's grown wiser.

Margaret Ridgely Schott.

Ballade of the Melancholy Bard No more for me are gauds or gear; Without my threshold, hungerly, The wolf cries loud for all to hear,

And tradesmen lurk with threat and plea. Alas, not thus it used to be! Erstwhile the magazines liked well My lines of dark intensity;

Now only comic verse will sell.

A melancholy bard, the sear,

Sad songs of life meant bread to me. Death and disease, things dank and drear, Drew coin into my treasury.

Why should the magazines agree
That laughter makes subscriptions swell?
My harp is on a willow-tree;
Now only comic verse will sell.

My muse rhymes only doubt and fear
And blasted hopes and tragedy;
And manuscripts that reappear
Fail to awaken lines of glee.
Would I might urge Melpomene
Some tale in dialect to tell,

Or sing a heartbreak wittily!
Now only comic verse will sell.

L'ENVOI

OH, editor, this prayer to thee:
End here this reign of humor fell;
Grant us a round of misery-
Now only comic verse will sell.

Theodosia Garrison.

Train-time

ONE summer, when my funds were low,
And I felt need of relaxation,

I went where Northern breezes blow
The casual tourist to and fro
(At least, the railway guide said so),
To spend a casual vacation;
In fact, to make my story short,
I spent the time at a resort.

It was the last-or should have been,
If Justice had not lost her balance.
As for that wielder of the pen
Who wrote of "many a shady glen,"
That most imaginative of men

Had fructified his native talents;
No napkin hid them from the air,
Nor had the hostel one to spare.

But daily, as each passing train

Stopped, while the engine puffed derision, The band struck up in such a strain Of joyous sound that (I 'll explain That distance caused its charm to gain)

There came of gay delights a vision; And those whose tickets took them past Mourned o'er lost joys unknown and vast.

Nor did they dream, as on their way
They traveled to their destination,
That we were very far from gay;

That not a note that band would play,
Through all the listless, dusty day,

Until the next train passed the station.
Thus did the wily spider try
To lure to him the traveling fly.