Part 21 (1/2)

There she sat--so near me, yet remoter Than a star--a blue-eyed, bashful imp: On her lap she held a happy bloater, 'Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp.

And I loved her, and our troth we plighted On the morrow by the s.h.i.+ngly sh.o.r.e: In a fortnight to be disunited By a bitter fate forevermore.

O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed!

To be young once more, and bite my thumb At the world and all its cares with you, I'd Give no inconsiderable sum.

Hand in hand we tramp'd the golden seaweed, Soon as o'er the gray cliff peep'd the dawn: Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we'd Crunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:--

Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper, That sweet mite with whom I loved to play?

Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper, That bright being who was always gay?

Yes--she has at least a dozen wee things!

Yes--I see her darning corduroys, Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-things, For a howling herd of hungry boys,

In a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil!

But at intervals she thinks, I know, Of those days which we, afar from turmoil, Spent together forty years ago.

O my earliest love, still unforgotten, With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue!

Never, somehow, could I seem to cotton To another as I did to you!

_Charles Stuart Calverley._

WHAT IS A WOMAN LIKE?

A woman is like to--but stay-- What a woman is like, who can say?

There is no living with or without one.

Love bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye, Buzz, buzz, always buzzing about one.

When she's tender and kind She is like to my mind, (And f.a.n.n.y was so, I remember).

She's like to--Oh, dear!

She's as good, very near, As a ripe, melting peach in September.

If she laugh, and she chat, Play, joke, and all that, And with smiles and good humor she meet me, She's like a rich dish Of venison or fish, That cries from the table, Come eat me!

But she'll plague you and vex you, Distract and perplex you; False-hearted and ranging, Unsettled and changing, What then do you think, she is like?

Like sand? Like a rock?

Like a wheel? Like a clock?

Ay, a clock that is always at strike.

Her head's like the island folks tell on, Which nothing but monkeys can dwell on; Her heart's like a lemon--so nice She carves for each lover a slice; In truth she's to me, Like the wind, like the sea, Whose raging will hearken to no man; Like a mill, like a pill, Like a flail, like a whale, Like an a.s.s, like a gla.s.s Whose image is constant to no man; Like a shower, like a flower, Like a fly, like a pie, Like a pea, like a flea, Like a thief, like--in brief, She's like nothing on earth--but a woman!

_Unknown._

MIS' SMITH