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What She Said About It.

Reflections. Lyrics to Inez and Jane,

Those are kind who give us, not what they think Dolores and Ethel and May;

is fine, but what we ourselves want. Señoritas distant as Spain,

THE whim of to-day is the impulse of to-morrow And damsels just over the way!

the wish of next week — the good or bad taste of next It is not that I'm jealous, not that,

month — the habit of next year - the instinct of your Of either Dolores or Jane,

descendants. Of some girl in an opposite flat,

Some people have to have their sunshine warm; Or in one of his castles in Spain.

others are satisfied just with its being sunshine. But it is that, salable prose

The perfumes that women wear so extravagantly are Put aside for this profitless strain,

a great mistake. Instead of reminding us sweetly of I sit the day darning his hose,

flowers, the flowers are beginning to remind us painAnd he sings of Dolores and Jane.

fully of perfumes. I am beginning to hate violets. Though the winged horse we know must be free There is such a thing as too much kindness; as is

To "spurn [for the pretty) the plain," one should carefully toast the bread for a bird, or Should the team-work fall wholly on me spread with mayonnaise the lettuce for a rabbit. While he soars with Dolores and Jane ?

She rules me merely by expecting things of me I am neither Dolores nor Jane,

which I should be ashamed not to be equal to. But to lighten a little my life

She demanded the story of his past; but the ques. Might the Poet not spare me a strain

tion is less what our past has been, than what our past Although I am only his wife !

has made of us. Not“ What were you?” but “ What

are you? Charles Henry Webb.

PERHAPS the gods will forgive us for having loved a

little things we ought not to have loved at all, if only A Metrical Miniature.

we have loved most the things that we ought to love. Her eyes display a blended hue

Like a serenade, outwardly wishing sweet rest and Of summer skies and violets blue,

sleep to the beloved, but cunningly adapted to keep With just a hint of April dew

her very wide awake and attentive to the serenader. To make her glances bright;

TOLERATION of the intolerant is the hardest thing But, lest their luster be too fair,

for a bigoted radical. And brighter than the world could bear, Long lashes, like a silken snare,

He was willing to forgive them himself, but he Besringe her lids of white.

hoped the Lord would n't. Shy apple-blossoms flushed with morn

The test of a great love — yes, even of a supreme Have lent their color to adorn

passion - is not what it demands, but what it consents Her cheek, whereon is gaily born

to do without. A dimple with each smile.

Some people think that they are good if they are doHer wayward tresses scorn to rest

ing good. Others think they are doing good merely By ribbon bound or fillet prest,

by being good. Both are frequently mistaken, and And ever weave at their behest

certainly neither is complete. . Again, some people Fresh graces to beguile.

think to make up for doing one thing very wrong by Her curving lips by turns recall

doing a great many little things that are very good, like Red roses, poppies, cherries - all

a child who, planning to go fishing in the afternoon That wins the eye or could enthrall

without asking for a permission which he fears may

be refused, comforts his conscience by being particuA hermit or a saint.

larly gentle and obedient all the forenoon in matters Her gleaming teeth 't were vain to hymn: The brightest words are all too dim;

of no consequence. We call it hypocrisy when we find The artist who their light would limn

the sorger or embezzler joining the church; but it is Must crush a pearl for paint.

entirely possible that his feeling in doing so is no:

the culpable one of trying to conceal his sins, but the Beneath her kirtle peeps a foot

perfectly genuine wish to restore his self-respect by at That charms in slipper, gaiter, boot;

least doing right somewhere. Whose music makes the birds grow mute

I wonder why it is that the charm of the wholly With bended heads to hear.

reliable becomes monotonous, compared with the inHer hand can boast perfection's mold,

herent witchery of moods which you never can predict. In winter warm, in summer cold,

The perfectly delightful woman would perhaps be one And just the temperature to hold

of whom you would never feel quite sure as to what At any time of year.

she was going to do, and then always find that she in. A snowy neck, a witching chin,

variably did do the right thing. An ear in tint the sea-shell's twin,

We speak sometimes of a “dominant "trait or pas. A saucy nose -just put that in

sion or mode of thought; but it is often probable in a The bonnie little belle !

mind of this sort that there are really no other traits Her name? Ah, there I hesitate;

or passions or modes of thought. Mastery in one With many a rival at her gate, Her name, until I know my fate,

thing may mean merely the monotony of the whole. 'T were wiser not to tell.

It is so much more fun to be richer than merely to

be rich! Samuel Minturn Pack.

Alice Wellington Rollins.

THB DE VINNS PRESS, NEW YORK.

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What She Said About It.

Lyrics to Inez and Jane,

Dolores and Ethel and May; Señoritas distant as Spain,

And damsels just over the way!
It is not that I'm jealous, not that,

Of either Dolores or Jane,
Of some girl in an opposite flat,

Or in one of his castles in Spain.
But it is that, salable prose

Put aside for this profitless strain, I sit the day darning his hose,

And he sings of Dolores and Jane. Though the winged horse we know must be free

To "spurn [for the pretty) the plain," Should the team-work fall wholly on me

While he soars with Dolores and Jane? I am neither Dolores nor Jane,

But to lighten a little my life Might the Poet not spare me a strain Although I am only his wife !

Charles Henry Webb.

Reflections. Those are kind who give us, not what they think is fine, but what we ourselves want.

The whim of to-day is the impulse of to-morrow the wish of next week — the good or bad taste of next month – the habit of next year — the instinct of your descendants.

Some people have to have their sunshine warm; others are satisfied just with its being sunshine.

The perfumes that women wear so extravagantly are a great mistake. Instead of reminding us sweetly of flowers, the flowers are beginning to remind us painfully of perfumes. I am beginning to hate violets.

There is such a thing as too much kindness; as if one should carefully toast the bread for a bird, or spread with mayonnaise the lettuce for a rabbit.

She rules me merely by expecting things of me which I should be ashamed not to be equal to.

She demanded the story of his past; but the question is less what our past has been, than what our past has made of us. Not" What were you ?” but “ What

a

are you?”

A Metrical Miniature.

Her eyes display a blended hue
Of summer skies and violets blue,
With just a hint of April dew

To make her glances bright;
But, lest their luster be too fair,
And brighter than the world could bear,
Long lashes, like a silken snare,

Befringe her lids of white.
Shy apple-blossoms flushed with morn
Have lent their color to adorn
Her cheek, whereon is gaily born

A dimple with each smile.
Her wayward tresses scorn to rest
By ribbon bound or fillet prest,
And ever weave at their behest

Fresh graces to beguile.
Her curving lips by turns recall
Red roses, poppies, cherries — all
That wins the eye or could enthrall

A hermit or a saint.
Her gleaming teeth 't were vain to hymn:
The brightest words are all too dim;
The artist who their light would limn

Must crush a pearl for paint. Beneath her kirtle peeps a foot That charms in slipper, gaiter, boot; Whose music makes the birds grow mute

Perhaps the gods will forgive us for having loved a little things we ought not to have loved at all, if only we have loved most the things that we ought to love.

Like a serenade, outwardly wishing sweet rest and sleep to the beloved, but cunningly adapted to keep her very wide awake and attentive to the serenader.

TOLERATION of the intolerant is the hardest thing for a bigoted radical.

He was willing to forgive them himself, but he hoped the Lord would n't.

The test of a great love - yes, even of a supreme passion - is not what it demands, but what it consents to do without.

Some people think that they are good if they are doing good. Others think they are doing good merely by being good. Both are frequently mistaken, and certainly neither is complete. Again, some people think to make up for doing one thing very wrong by doing a great many little things that are very good ; like a child who, planning to go fishing in the afternoon without asking for a permission which he fears may be refused, comforts his conscience by being particularly gentle and obedient all the forenoon in matters of no consequence. We call it hypocrisy when we find the sorger or embezzler joining the church; but it is entirely possible that his feeling in doing so is not the culpable one of trying to conceal his sins, but the perfectly genuine wish to restore his self-respect by at seast doing right somewhere.

I WONDER why it is that the charm of the wholly reliable becomes monotonous, compared with the inherent witchery of moods which you never can predict. The perfectly delightful woman would perhaps be one of whom you would never feel quite sure as to what she was going to do, and then always find that she in. variably did do the right thing.

We speak sometimes of a "dominant "trait or passion or mode of thought; but it is often probable in a mind of this sort that there are really no other traits or passions or modes of thought. Mastery in one thing may mean merely the monotony of the whole.

It is so much more fun to be richer than merely to be rich !

Alice Wellington Rollins.

1

With bended heads to hear.
Her hand can boast perfection's mold,
In winter warm, in summer cold,
And just the temperature to hold

At any time of year.
A

snowy neck, a witching chin, An ear in tint the sea-shell's twin, A saucy nose -just put that in

The bonnie little belle !
Her name? Ah, there I hesitate;
With many a rival at her gate,
Her name, until I know my fate,

'T were wiser not to tell.

Samuel Minturn Pock.

THE DE VINNS PRESS, NEW YORK.

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