Then, seized with a deep love-longing, He uttered," O damosel mine, But she answered, "The kissing business On a countenance ugly as thine!" Oh, then the bold knight was angry, 66 For your sour and nasty wine?" And fiercely he rode to the castle Of the terrible Heinz von Stein. Charles Godfrey Leland. THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE Ir is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating There's really not much harm in a Few records of his acts; Propinquity Needed So they'd squelch the muse caloric, They'd present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts. We have always thought 'em lazy; That was very much alive! He was a very owl, sir, Until he filled his date; With a massic-laden ditty 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 Paree, every bit as pretty as a French girl e'er can be Was (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 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, No tale of marvellous beast or bird Could match the stories he had heard; If they told him of Italy's sunny clime, If they marvelled at Ætna's fount of fire, 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; 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, They piled old skeletons round the stone, Then watched from a distance the taper's gleam, After a time the Yankee woke, But instantly saw through the flimsy joke; Can't none o' you Romans start, I wonder? Harlan Hoge Ballard. OUR NATIVE BIRDS ALONE I sit at eventide; The twilight glory pales, And o'er the meadows far and wide Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, 53 The last faint golden beams of day And on their lingering homeward way From farmyards, down fair rural glades I could sit here till morning came, (Alas! we have no lark!) We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, It is the rhyme that fails. Nathan Haskell Dole. THE PRAYER OF CYRUS BROWN "THE proper way for a man to pray," Said Deacon Lemuel Keyes, "And the only proper attitude Is down upon his knees." "No, I should say the way to pray," Said Rev. Doctor Wise, "Is standing straight with outstretched arms And rapt and upturned eyes." “Oh, no; no, no," said Elder Slow, "Such posture is too proud: A man should pray with eyes fast closed |