Part 10 (1/2)

No: not wild promiscuous treating, not the winecup's ruby flow, But the female of his species brought the n.o.ble Perkins low.

'Twas a wild poetic fervor, and excess of sentiment, That left the n.o.ble Perkins in a week without a cent.

”Milton Perkins,” said the Siren, ”not thy wealth do I admire, But the intellect that flashes from those eyes of opal fire; And methinks the name thou bearest surely cannot be misplaced, And, embrace me, Mister Perkins!” Milton Perkins her embraced.

But I grieve to state, that even then, as she was wiping dry The tear of sensibility in Milton Perkins' eye, She prigged his diamond bosom-pin, and that her wipe of lace Did seem to have of chloroform a most suspicious trace.

Enough that Milton Perkins later in the night was found With his head in an ash-barrel, and his feet upon the ground; And he murmured ”Seraphina,” and he kissed his hand, and smiled On a party who went through him, like an unresisting child.

Moral.

Now one word to Pogonippers, ere this subject I resign, In this tale of Milton Perkins,--late an owner in White Pine,-- You shall see that wealth and women are deceitful, just the same; And the tear of sensibility has salted many a claim.

What the Wolf Really Said to Little Red Riding-Hood.

Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair, Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare?

”Why are my eyelids so open and wild?”-- Only the better to see with, my child!

Only the better and clearer to view Cheeks that are rosy, and eyes that are blue.

Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms, Swaying so wickedly?--are they misplaced, Clasping or s.h.i.+elding some delicate waist: Hands whose coa.r.s.e sinews may fill you with fear Only the better protect you, my dear!

Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street, Why do I press your small hand when we meet?

Why, when you timidly offered your cheek, Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak?

Why, well: you see--if the truth must appear-- I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear!

The Ritualist.

By a Communicant of ”St. James's.”

He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met; A stole and snowy alb likewise: I recollect it yet.

He called me ”daughter,” as he raised his jewelled hand to bless; And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, ”Would I confess?”

O mother, dear! blame not your child, if then on bended knees I dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise; Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx, I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix.

The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak, And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct ”cheek;”

And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes, May term his mixed chalice ”grog,” his vestments, ”petticoats.”

But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's hope On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope.