MR. O. HERFORD:

Children, observe the Purple Cow,
You cannot see her, anyhow;

And, little ones, you need not hope
Your eyes will e'er attain such scope.
But if you ever have a choice

To be, or see, lift up your voice
And choose to see. For surely you
Don't want to browse around and moo.

my eyes to ope;

On such a sight
But as I sing in merry glee
Along the road to Arcady,
Perchance full soon I may espy
A Purple Cow come dancing by.
Heigho! I then shall see one.
Her horns bedecked with ribbons gay,
And garlanded with rosy may,—

A tricksy sight. Still I must say
I'd rather see than be one.

MR. A. SWINBURNE:

(Who was so enthused that he made a second attempt.)

Only in dim, drowsy depths of a dream do I dare to delight in deliciously dreaming

Cows there may be of a passionate purple,-cows of a violent violet hue;

Ne'er have I seen such a sight, I am certain it is but a

demi-delirious dreaming

Ne'er may I happily harbour a hesitant hope in my heart that my dream may come true.

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521

Sad is my soul, and my senses are sobbing so strong is my strenuous spirit to see one.

Dolefully, drearily doomed to despair as warily wearily watching I wait;

Thoughts thickly thronging are thrilling and throbbing; to see is a glorious gain-but to be one!

That were a darker and direfuller destiny, that were a fearfuller, frightfuller fate!

MR. R. KIPLING:

In the old ten-acre pasture,
Lookin' eastward toward a tree,
There's a Purple Cow a-settin'
And I know she thinks of me.
For the wind is in the gum-tree,
And the hay is in the mow,
And the cow-bells are a-calling
"Come and see a Purple Cow!"

But I am not going now,
Not at present, anyhow,

For I am not fond of purple, and
I can't abide a cow;

No, I shall not go to-day,

Where the Purple Cattle play.

But I think I'd rather see one

Than to be one, anyhow.

Carolyn Wells.

STYX RIVER ANTHOLOGY

ALICE BEN BOLT

I COULDN'T help weeping with delight

When the boys kissed me and called me sweet.

It was foolish, I know,

To weep when I was glad;

But I was young and I wasn't very well.

I was nervous, weak, anemic,

A sort of human mimosa; and I hadn't much brains,

And my mind wouldn't jell, anyhow.

That's why I trembled with fear when they frowned.

But they didn't frown often,

For I was sweetly pretty and most pliable.

But, oh, the grim joke of asking Ben Bolt if he remembered me!

Me!

Why, it was Ben Bolt who

Well, never mind. He paid for this granite slab,

And it's as stylish as any in the church yard.

But I wish I had a more becoming shroud.

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL

I was one of those long, lanky, loose-jointed girls

Who fool people into believing

They are willowy and psychic and mysterious.

I was always hungry; I never ate enough to satisfy me,
For fear I'd get fat.

Oh, how little the world knows of the bitterness of life
To a woman who tries to keep thin!

Many thought I died of a broken heart,

But it was an empty stomach.

Then Mr. Rossetti wrote about me.

He described me all dolled up in some ladies' wearing apparel

That I wore at a fancy ball.

I had fasted all day, and had had my hair marcelled

And my face corrected.

And I was a dream.

But he seemed to think he really saw me,

Seemed to think I appeared to him after my death.
Oh, fudge!

Those spiritualists are always seeing things!

ENOCH ARDEN

Yes, it was the eternal triangle,

Only they didn't call it that then.

Of course everybody thought I was all broken up

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523

When I found Annie wed to Philip,

But, as a matter of fact,

I didn't care so much;

For she was one of those self-starting weepers,

And a man can't stand blubbering all the time.

And, then, of course,

When I was off on that long sea trip

Oh, well, you know what sailors are.

LITTLE EVA

To be honest,

I didn't mind dying,

For I had

One of these here now

Dressy deaths.

It was staged, you know,

And, like Samson,

My death brought down the house.

I was a smarty kid,

And they were less frequent then than later.
Oh, I was the Mary Pickford of my time,

And I rest content

With my notoriety.

LUCY

Yes, I am in my grave,

And you bet it makes a difference to him!

For we were to be married, at least, I think we were,

And he'd made me promise to deed him the house.

But I had to go and get appendicitis,

And they took me to the hospital.

It was a nice hospital, clean,

And Tables Reserved For Ladies.

Well, my heart gave out.

He came and stood over my grave,

And registered deep concern.

And now, he's going round with that

Hen-minded Hetty What's-her-name!

Her with her Whistler's Mother and her Baby Stuart

On her best-room wall!

And I hate her, and I'm glad she squints.

Well, I suppose I lived my life,

But it was Life in name only.

And I'm mad at the whole world!

OPHELIA

No, it wasn't suicide,

But I had heard so much of those mud baths,
I thought I'd try one.

Ugh! it was a mess!

Weeds, slime, and tangled vines! Oh, me!

Had I been Annette Kellerman

Or even a real mermaid,

I had lived to tell the tale.

But I slid down and under,

And so Will Shaxpur told it for me.

Just as well.

But I think my death scene is unexcelled

By any in cold print.

It beats that scrawny, red-headed old thing of Tom Hood's All hollow!

CASABIANCA

I played to the Grand Stand!

Sure I did,

And I made good.

Ain't I in McGuffey's Third Reader?

Don't they speak pieces about me Friday afternoons?
Don't everybody know the first two lines of my story,-
And no more?

Say, I was there with the goods,

Wasn't I?

And it paid.

But I wish Movin' Pitchers had been invented then!