I used to think, should e'er mishap
Betide my crumple-visaged Ti,
In shape of prowling thief, or trap,
Or coarse bull-terrier-I should die.
But ah! disasters have their use,

And life might e'en be too sunshiny;
Nor would I make myself a goose,
If some big dog should swallow Tiny.

Charles Stuart Calverley.

WORDSWORTHIAN REMINISCENCE

I WALKED and came upon a picket fence,
And every picket went straight up and down,
And all at even intervals were placed,

All painted green, all pointed at the top,

And every one inextricably nailed

Unto two several cross-beams, which did go,

Not as the pickets, but quite otherwise,

And they two crossed, but back of all were posts.

O beauteous picket fence, can I not draw
Instruction from thee? Yea, for thou dost teach,
That even as the pickets are made fast
To that which seems all at cross purposes,

So are our human lives, to the Divine,
But, oh! not purposeless, for even as they
Do keep stray cows from trespass, we, no doubt,
Together guard some plan of Deity.

Thus did I moralise. And from the beams
And pickets drew a lesson to myself,-
But where the posts came in, I could not tell.

Unknown.

The Messed Damozel

INSPECT US

OUT of the clothes that cover me
Tight as the skin is on the grape,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable shape.

In the fell clutch of bone and steel
I have not whined nor cried aloud;

Whatever else I may conceal,

I show my thoughts unshamed and proud.

The forms of other actorines

I put away into the shade;
All of them flossy near-blondines

Find and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how straight the tape,
How cold the weather is, or warm-
I am the mistress of my shape-
I am the captain of my form.

471

Edith Daniell.

THE MESSED DAMOZEL

AT THE CUBIST EXHIBITION

THE Messed Damozel leaned out

From the gold cube of Heav'n;

There were three cubes within her hands,
And the cubes in her hair were seven;
I looked, and looked, and looked, and looked-
I could not see her, even.

Her robe, a cube from clasp to hem,
Was moderately clear;

Methought I saw two cubic eyes,

When I had looked a year;

But when I turned to tell the world,
Those eyes did disappear!

It was the rampart of some house
That she was standing on;

That much, at least, was plain to me
As her I gazed upon;

But even as I gazed, alas!

The rampart, too, was gone!

(I saw her smile!) Oh, no, I didn't,
Though long mine eyes did stare;
The cubes closed down and shut her out;
I wept in deep despair;

But this I know, and know full well-
She simply wasn't there!

Charles Hanson Towne.

A MELTON MOWBRAY PORK-PIE

STRANGE pie that is almost a passion,
O passion immoral for pie!
Unknown are the ways that they fashion,
Unknown and unseen of the eye.

The pie that is marbled and mottled,
The pie that digests with a sigh:

For all is not Bass that is bottled,
And all is not pork that is pie.

Richard Le Gallienne.

ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS

IN heaven a Spirit doth dwell

Whose heart strings are a fiddle,

(The reason he sings so well— This fiddler Israfel),

And the giddy stars (will any one tell

Why giddy?) to attend his spell

Cease their hymns in the middle.

Israfiddlestrings

On the height of her go

Totters the Moon, and blushes

As the song of that fiddle rushes
Across her bow.

The red Lightning stands to listen,
And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten
As each of the seven puts its fist in
Its eye, for the mist in.

And they say-it's a riddle-
That all these listening things,
That stop in the middle
For the heart-strung fiddle

With such the Spirit sings,
Are held as on the griddle
By these unusual strings.

Wherefore thou art not wrong,
Israfel! in that thou boastest
Fiddlestrings uncommon strong;
To thee the fiddlestrings belong
With which thou toastest
Other hearts as on a prong.

Yes! heaven is thine, but this

Is a world of sours and sweets,
Where cold meats are cold meats,
And the eater's most perfect bliss
Is the shadow of him who treats.

If I could griddle

As Israfiddle

Has griddled-he fiddle as I,

He might not fiddle so wild a riddle

As this mad melody,

473

While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middle

Hearing my griddle-cry.

Unknown.

AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI

"WHY do you wear your hair like a man, Sister Helen?

This week is the third since you began." "I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can, Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What chickens are these between sea and heaven?)"

"But why does your figure appear so lean, Sister Helen?

And why do you dress in sage, sage green? "Children should never be heard, if seen, Little brother?

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven !)"

"But why is your face so yellowy white, Sister Helen?

And why are your skirts so funnily tight?" "Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write, Little brother?

(O Mother Carey, mother!

How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)"

"And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train, Sister Helen?

And why do you call her again and again?"
"You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain,
Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What work is toward in the startled heaven?) "

“And what's a refrain? What a curious word, Sister Helen!

Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?" "Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd, Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.) "