Billy, in one of his nice new sashes,
Fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes;
Now, although the room grows chilly,
I haven't the heart to poke poor Billy.

JM. B

(From) Ruthless Rhymes

Baby roused its father's ire
By a cold and formal lisp,
So he placed it on the fire,

And reduced it to a crisp.
Mother said, "O stop a bit!
This is overdoing it!"

91

HARRY GRAHAM.

Companions

A Tale of a Grandfather

I know not of what we ponder'd

Or made pretty pretence to talk,
As, her hand within mine, we wander'd

Tow'rd the pool by the lime-tree walk,

While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers And the blush rose bent on her stalk.

I cannot recall her figure:

Was it regal as Juno's own?

Or only a trifle bigger

Than the elves who surround the throne Of the faery Queen, and was seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone?

What her eyes were like I know not:

Perhaps they were blurr'd with tears;
And perhaps in your skies there grew not
(Or the contrary) clearer spheres.
No! as to her eyes I am just as wise
As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly,"

But which was she, brunette or blonde?

Her hair, was it quaintly curly,

Or straight as a beadle's wand?

That I fail'd to remark-it was rather dark
And shadowy round the pond.

Companions

And I was I brusque and surly?
Or oppressively bland and fond?
Was I partial to rising early?

Or why did we twain abscond,

All breakfastless too, from the public view,
To prowl by a nasty pond?

What pass'd, what was felt or spoken-
Whether anything pass'd at all—
And whether the heart was broken

That beat under that shelt'ring shawl
(If shawl she had on, which I doubt)-has gone,
Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor?

Or her uncle? I can't make out-
Ask your governess, dears, or tutor,
For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt

As to why we were there, who on earth we were,
And what this is all about.

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

93

An Unsuspected Fact

If down his throat a man should choose
In fun, to jump or slide,

He'd scrape his shoes against his teeth,
Nor dirt his own inside:

But if his teeth were lost and gone,
And not a stump to scrape upon,
He'd see at once how very pat
His tongue lay there by way of mat,
And he would wipe his feet on that!

EDWARD CANNON.