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How to speak to tell my passion?
How to make her think me true?
Love soon found a curious fashion,
For he spoke through you.

How I used to search your pages
For the words I wished to say;
And received my labour's wages
Every Sabbath day.

Ah, how sweet it was to hand her

You, with lines I'd marked when found! And how well I'd understand her When she blushed and frowned.

And one day, old book, you wriggled
From my hand and, rattling fell
Upon the floor; and she-she giggled,
Did Miss Isabel.

Then when next we met out walking,
I was told in fearful tones,
How she'd got a dreadful talking
From the Reverend Jones.

Ah me! No man could resist her
In those sweet and buried years,
So I think I think I kissed her,
Just to stop her tears.

Jones I gave a good sound chaffing;
Called his sermon dry as bones;
Soon fair Isabel was laughing—
Said she hated Jones.

It was after that I lost you,
For I needed you no more;
Somewhere-anywhere I tossed you
On a closet floor.

Reverend Samuel still preaches;
Isabel her past atones;

In his Sunday-school she teaches

Mrs. Samuel Jones.

W. J. Henderson.

THE BALLADE OF THE SUMMER-
BOARDER

ET all men living on earth take heed,

LET

For their own soul's sake, to a rhyme well meant;

Writ so that he who runs may read

We are the folk that a-summering went, Who while the year was young were bentYea, bent on doing this self-same thing Which we have done unto some extent. This is the end of our summering.

We are the folk who would fain be freed

From wasteful burdens of rate and rentFrom the vampire agents' ravening breed— We are the folk that a-summering went.

We hied us forth when the summer was blent With the fresh faint sweetness of dying spring, A-seeking the meadows dew besprent This is the end of our summering.

For O the waiters that must be fee'd,

And our meat-time neighbour, the travelling "gent";

And the youth next door with the ophicleide!

We are the folk that a-summering went!

Who from small bare rooms wherein we were

pent,

While birds their way to the southward wing,
Come back, our money for no good spent-
This is the end of our summering.

ENVOY

Citizens! list to our sore lament—

While the landlord's hands to our raiment clingWe are the folk that a-summering went:

This is the end of our summering.

H. C. Bunner.

I

INTERESTING

ROWED her out on the broad bright sea,
Till the land lay purple upon our lee.

The heavens were trying the waves to outshine, With never a cloud to the far sea-line.

On the reefs the billows in kisses broke-
But oh, I was dying for one small smoke.

She spoke of the gulls and the waters green—
But what is nature to Nicotine?

She spoke of the tides, and the Triton myth;
And said Jones was engaged to the blonde Miss
Smith.

She spoke of her liking lemon on clams;
And Euclid, and parallelograms.

For her face was fair and her eyes were brown, And she was a girl from Boston town.

And I rowed and thought-but I never said— "Does Havana tobacco trouble your head?"

She talked of alge-she talked of sand—
And I thought: "Tobacco you cannot stand."

She talked of the ocean-steamer's speed-
And I yearned for a whiff of the wicked weed.

And at last I spoke, between fright and fret: "Would you mind if I smoked a cigarette?”

She dropped her eyes on the ocean's blue,
And said: "Would you mind if I smoked too?"
H. C. Bunner.

Ο

THE WAY TO ARCADY

H, what's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;

Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry?

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
The spring is rustling in the tree—
The tree the wind is blowing through—
It sets the blossoms flickering white.
I knew not skies could burn so blue
Nor any breezes blow so light.
They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,

Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the wayworn russet shoon?

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