Part 114 (1/2)

”If that's the case,” I stammer'd out, ”Of course you've had eleven.”

The maiden answer'd with a pout, ”I ain't had more nor seven!”

I wonder'd hugely what she meant, And said, ”I'm bad at riddles; But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles.

”Now, if you won't reform,” said I, ”You'll never go to Heaven.”

But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, ”I ain't had more nor seven!”

POSTSCRIPT

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I'd better call my song, ”Lines after Ache-Inside.”

_Henry S. Leigh._

'TWAS EVER THUS

I never rear'd a young gazelle, (Because, you see, I never tried); But had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died.

My rich and aged Uncle John Has known me long and loves me well But still persists in living on-- I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower; But, if I had, I beg to say The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower Would soon have withered it away.

I've dearly loved my Uncle John, From childhood to the present hour, And yet he will go living on-- I would he were a tree or flower!

_Henry S. Leigh._

FOAM AND FANGS

O nymph with the nicest of noses; And finest and fairest of forms; Lips ruddy and ripe as the roses That sway and that surge in the storms; O buoyant and blooming Bacchante, Of fairer than feminine face, Rush, raging as demon of Dante-- To this, my embrace!

The foam and the fangs and the flowers, The raving and ravenous rage Of a poet as pinion'd in powers As a condor confined in a cage!

My heart in a haystack I've hidden, As loving and longing I lie, Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden-- I gaze and I die!

I've wander'd the wild waste of slaughter, I've sniffed up the sepulchre's scent, I've doated on devilry's daughter, And murmur'd much more than I meant; I've paused at Penelope's portal, So strange are the sights that I've seen, And mighty's the mind of the mortal Who knows what I mean.

_Walter Parke._

X

NARRATIVE

LITTLE BILLEE