Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles

But there's truth in the heart of the maid o'
Mango,

Though her cheeks is black like the kiln-
baked cork,

As she sets in the shade o' the whingo-whango,
A-waitin' for me-with a knife and fork.

195

Wallace Irwin.

WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES

O REVEREND sir, I do declare
It drives me most to frenzy,
To think of you a-lying there
Down sick with influenzy.

A body'd thought it was enough

To mourn your wife's departer,
Without sich trouble as this ere
To come a-follerin' arter.

But sickness and affliction
Are sent by a wise creation,
And always ought to be underwent
By patience and resignation.

O, I could to your bedside fly,
And wipe your weeping eyes,
And do my best to cure you up,
If 'twouldn't create surprise.

It's a world of trouble we tarry in,
But, Elder, don't despair;

That you may soon be movin' again
Is constantly my prayer.

Both sick and well, you may depend
You'll never be forgot

By your faithful and affectionate friend,
PRISCILLA POOL BEDOTT.

Frances Miriam Whitcher.

UNDER THE MISTLETOE

SHE stood beneath the mistletoe
That hung above the door,
Quite conscious of the sprig above,
Revered by maids of yore.

A timid longing filled her heart;
Her pulses throbbed with heat;
He sprang to where the fair girl stood.
"May I-just one-my sweet?"

He asked his love, who tossed her head,
"Just do it-if-you dare!" she said.

He sat before the fireplace

Down at the club that night.
"She loves me not," he hotly said,
"Therefore she did but right!"
She sat alone within her room,
And with her finger-tips

She held his picture to her heart,

Then pressed it to her lips.

"My loved one!" sobbed she, "if you-cared

You surely would have-would have-dared."

George Francis Shults.

THE BROKEN PITCHER

IT was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
And what the maiden thought of I cannot, cannot tell,
When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of
Oviedo-

Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo.

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring?

Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?
Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide,
And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?"

The Broken Pitcher

197

"I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
Because an article like that hath never come my way;
And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,
Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.

"My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,-
A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;
I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke,
But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.

"My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home,
And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come.
I cannot bring him water-the pitcher is in pieces-
And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces."

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me! So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three; And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,

To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè.”

He lighted down from off his steed-he tied him to a tree

He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three: "To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!" He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.

Up rose the Moorish maiden-behind the knight she steals, And caught Alphonso Guzman up tightly by the heels; She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,

"Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!"

A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo;
She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo.
I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell,
How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.
William E. Aytoun.

GIFTS RETURNED

"You must give back," her mother said,
To a poor sobbing little maid,
"All the young man has given you,

Hard as it now may seem to do."

""Tis done already, mother dear!"

Said the sweet girl, "So never fear."

Mother. Are you quite certain? Come, recount

(There was not much) the whole amount.

Girl. The locket; the kid gloves.

Mother.

Go on.

Girl. Of the kid gloves I found but one.

Mother. Never mind that. What else? Proceed. You gave back all his trash?

Girl.

Indeed.

Mother. And was there nothing you would save?
Girl. Everything I could give I gave.

Mother. To the last tittle?

Girl.

Mother. Freely?

Girl.

Even to that.

My heart went pit-a-pat

At giving up ah me! ah me!

I cry so I can hardly see...

All the fond looks and words that past,

And all the kisses, to the last.

Walter Savage Landor.

III

LOVE AND COURTSHIP

NOUREDDIN, THE SON OF THE SHAH

THERE once was a Shah had a second son
Who was very unlike his elder one,

For he went about on his own affairs,

And scorned the mosque and the daily prayers;
When his sire frowned fierce, then he cried, "Ha, ha!"
Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

But worst of all of the pranks he played

Was to fall in love with a Christian maid,—
An Armenian maid who wore no veil,

Nor behind a lattice grew thin and pale;

At his sire's dark threats laughed the youth, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

"I will shut him close in an iron cage,"

The monarch said, in a fuming rage;

But the prince slipped out by a postern door,
And away to the mountains his loved one bore;
Loud his glee rang. back on the winds, "Ha, ha!"
Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

And still in the town of Teheran,

When a youth and a maid adopt this plan,—
All frowns and threats with a laugh defy,

And away from the mosques to the mountains fly,-
Folk meet and greet with a gay "Ha, ha!"

Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

199

Clinton Scollard.