When I talk and you are heedless, V When your speeches are absurd, VI When you furious argue wrong, VII Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye: To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning. VIII Never more will I suppose, You can taste my verse or prose. IX You no more at me shall fret, While I teach and you forget. X You shall never hear me thunder, ΧΙ Show your poverty of spirit, XII Never will I give advice, Till you please to ask me thrice: 'T will be just as I expect. Thus we both shall have our ends And continue special friends. Dean Swift. ALL-SAINTS IN a church which is furnish'd with mullion and gable, But only could Lucifer, flying from Hades, Gaze down on this crowd with its panniers and paints, He would say, as he look'd at the lords and the ladies, "Oh, where is All-Sinners', if this is All-Saints'?" Edmund Yates. HOW TO MAKE A MAN OF CONSEQUENCE A BROW austere, a circumspective eye. A blustering manner, and a tone of weight, Paradise 281 ON A MAGAZINE SONNET SCORN not the sonnet," though its strength be sapped, Nor say malignant its inventor blundered; The corpse that here in fourteen lines is wrapped Had otherwise been covered with a hundred. Russell Hilliard Loines. PARADISE A HINDOO LEGEND A INDOO died—a happy thing to do In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door, He scarce had entered in the Garden fair, Another Hindoo asked admission there. "Hast been through Purgatory?" "No; what then?" "Thou canst not enter!" did the god reply. "He that went in was no more there than I." "Yes, that is true, but he has married been, And so on earth has suffered for all sin." "Married? 'Tis well; for I've been married twice!" Begone! We'll have no fools in Paradise!" George Birdseye. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY And down in the valleys I take my way; And why I'm so plump the reason I tell: Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar? After supper, of heaven I dream, With a dainty bit of a warden-pie; And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding-dong. Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar? OF A CERTAIN MAN John O'Keefe. THERE was (not certain when) a certain preacher Of erat quidam homo, much perplexed, He seemed the same with study great to scan, Clean Clara 283 CLEAN CLARA WHAT! not know our Clean Clara? Why, the hot folks in Sahara, And the cold Esquimaux, Our little Clara knows! Clean Clara, the Poet sings, Cleaned a hundred thousand things! She cleaned the keys of the harpsichord, Knights with daggers and stomachered dames- Winifreds-all those nice old names! She cleaned the works of the eight-day clock, She cleaned the mirror, she cleaned the cupboard, All the books she India-rubbered! She cleaned the Dutch tiles in the place, To count your teeth you will be able, If you look in the walnut table. She cleaned the tent-stitch and the sampler, She cleaned the tapestry, which was ampler; Joseph going down into the pit, And the Shunammite woman with the boy in a fit. You saw the reapers, not in the distance, And Elisha, coming to the child's assistance, With the house on the wall that was built for the prophet, The chair, the bed and the bolster of it. The eyebrows all had a twirl reflective, There was plenty of color but no perspective. |