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The Legend of Heinz Von Stein
If I cast my eyes around,

Far and near and middle distance,
Still the formula is found

In our everyday existence.
Everywhere I look I see-
Fact or fiction, life or play-—
Still the little game of Three:
B and C in love with A.

While the ancient law fulfills,

Myriad moons shall wane and wax.
Jack must have his pair of Jills,
Jill must have her pair of Jacks.

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Bert Leston Taylor.

TO MINERVA

My temples throb, my pulses boil,

I'm sick of Song and Ode and BalladSo Thyrsis, take the midnight oil,

And pour it on a lobster salad.

My brain is dull, my sight is foul,
I cannot write a verse, or read-
Then Pallas, take away thine Owl,
And let us have a Lark instead.

Thomas Hood.

THE LEGEND OF HEINZ VON STEIN

Our rode from his wild, dark castle
The terrible Heinz von Stein;

He came to the door of a tavern
And gazed on its swinging sign.

He sat himself down at a table,

And growled for a bottle of wine; Up came with a flask and a corkscrew A maiden of beauty divine.

Then, seized with a deep love-longing,
He uttered, "O damosel mine,
Suppose you just give a few kisses

To the valorous Ritter von Stein!"

But she answered, "The kissing business
Is entirely out of my line;
And I certainly will not begin it

On a countenance ugly as thine!”

Oh, then the bold knight was angry,
And cursed both coarse and fine;
And asked, "How much is the swindle
For your sour and nasty wine?"

And fiercely he rode to the castle
And sat himself down to dine;

And this is the dreadful legend

Of the terrible Heinz von Stein.

Charles Godfrey Leland.

THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE

Ir is very aggravating

To hear the solemn prating
Of the fossils who are stating
That old Horace was a prude;
When we know that with the ladies
He was always raising Hades,
And with many an escapade his
Best productions are imbued.

There's really not much harm in a
Large number of his carmina,
But these people find alarm in a
Few records of his acts;

Propinquity Needed

So they'd squelch the muse caloric,
And to students sophomoric
They'd present as metaphoric

What old Horace meant for facts.

We have always thought 'em lazy;
Now we adjudge 'em crazy!
Why, Horace was a daisy

That was very much alive!
And the wisest of us know him
As his Lydia verses show him,-
Go, read that virile poem,-

It is No. 25.

He was a very owl, sir,
And starting out to prowl, sir,

You bet he made Rome howl, sir,
Until he filled his date;

With a massic-laden ditty
And a classic maiden pretty,

He painted up the city,

And Mæcenas paid the freight!

Eugene Field.

PROPINQUITY NEEDED

CELESTINE Silvousplait Justine de Mouton Rosalie,
A coryphée who lived and danced in naughty, gay Parce,
Was every bit as pretty as a French girl e'er can be

(Which isn't saying much).

Maurice Boulanger (there's a name that would adorn a king), But Morris Baker was the name they called the man I sing. He lived in New York City in the Street that's labeled Spring (Chosen because it rhymed).

Now Baker was a lonesome youth and wanted to be wed,
And for a wife, all over town he hunted, it is said;
And up and down Fifth Avenue he ofttimes wandered
(He was a peripatetic Baker, he was).

!

And had he met Celestine, not a doubt but Cupid's darts

Would in a trice have wounded both of their fond, loving

hearts;

But he has never left New York to stray in foreign parts

(Because he hasn't the price).

And she has never left Paree and so, of course, you see There's not the slightest chance at all she'll marry Morris B. For love to get well started, really needs propinquity

(Hence my title).

Charles Battell Loomis.

IN THE CATACOMBS

SAM BROWN was a fellow from way down East,
Who never was "staggered" in the least.

No tale of marvellous beast or bird
Could match the stories he had heard;
No curious place or wondrous view
"Was ckil to Podunk, I tell yu."

If they told him of Italy's sunny clime,
"Maine kin beat it, every time!"

If they marvelled at Etna's fount of fire,
They roused his ire:

With an injured air

He'd reply, "I swear

I don't think much of a smokin' hill;

We've got a moderate little rill

Kin make yer old volcaner still;

Jes' pour old Kennebec down the crater,

'N' I guess it'll cool her fiery nater!"

They showed him a room where a queen had slept;

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"Twan't up to the tavern daddy kept."

They showed him Lucerne; but he had drunk

From the beautiful Molechunkamunk.

They took him at last to ancient Rome,

And inveigled him into a catacomb:

Our Native Birds

Here they plied him with draughts of wine,
Though he vowed old cider was twice as fine,
Till the fumes of Falernian filled his head,
And he slept as sound as the silent dead;
They removed a mummy to make him room,
And laid him at length in the rocky tomb.

They piled old skeletons round the stone,
Set a "dip" in a candlestick of bone,
And left him to slumber there alone;

Then watched from a distance the taper's gleam,
Waiting to jeer at his frightened scream,
When he should wake from his drunken dream.

After a time the Yankee woke,

But instantly saw through the flimsy joke;
So never a cry or shout he uttered,
But solemnly rose, and slowly muttered:
"I see how it is. It's the judgment day,
We've all been dead and stowed away;
All these stone furreners sleepin' yet,
An' I'm the fust one up, you bet!

Can't none o' you Romans start, I wonder?
United States ahead, by thunder!"

Harlan Hoge Ballard.

OUR NATIVE BIRDS

ALONE I sit at eventide;

The twilight glory pales,

And o'er the meadows far and wide
I hear the bobolinks—
(We have no nightingales!)

Song-sparrows warble on the tree,
I hear the purling brook,
And from the old manse on the lea
Flies slow the cawing crow-
(In England 'twere a rook!)

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