I have not seen this maid, methinks,
Tho she that passed had lips like pinks.

Shepherd

Nay, a simple swain

That tends his flock on yonder plain,
Naught else, I swear by book and bell.

But she that passed-you marked her well.
Was she not smooth as any be
That dwell herein in Arcady?

Pilgrim

Her skin was as the satin bark

Of birches.

Shepherd

Light or dark?

Pilgrim

Quite dark.

Shepherd

Then 't was not she.

Pilgrim

The peach's side

That gets the sun is not so dyed
As was her cheek. Her hair hung down
Like summer twilight falling brown;
And when the breeze swept by, I wist
Her face was in a somber mist.

Shepherd

No, that is not the maid I seek,-
Her hair lies gold against the cheek;
Her yellow tresses take the morn
Like silken tassels of the corn.

And yet-brown locks are far from bad.

Pilgrim

Now I bethink me, this one had
A figure like the willow tree
Which, slight and supple, wondrously
Inclines to droop with pensive grace,
And still retains its proper place;
A foot so arched and very small
The marvel was she walked at all;

Her hand-in sooth I lack the words-
Her hand, five slender snow-white birds;
Her voice tho she but said "Godspeed"—
Was melody blown through a reed;
The girl Pan changed into a pipe
Had not a note so full and ripe.

And her eye-my lad, her eye!
Discreet, inviting, candid, shy,
An outward ice, an inward fire,
And lashes to the heart's desire-
Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.

Shepherd-thoughtfully

Good sir, which way did this one go?

Pilgrim-solus

So, he is off! the silly youth

Knoweth not Love in sober sooth.

He loves-thus lads at first are blind

No woman, only womankind.

49

From the Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Household Edition, by permission of
Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

GIB HIM ONE UB MINE

BY DANIEL WEBSTER DAVIS

A little urchin, ragged, black,
An old cigar "stump" found,
And visions of a jolly smoke,
Began to hover 'round.

But finding that he had no match,
A big store he espied,

And straightway for it made a dash
To have his wants supplied.

"I have no match!" the owner said,
"And, even if I do,

I have no match, you understand,

For such a thing as you!"

Down in the ragged pantaloons,
The little black hand went,
And forth it came, now holding fast
A big old-fashioned cent.

"Gib me a box," the urchin said,
His bosom filled with joy;
And calmly lighted his "cigar,"
A radiant happy boy.

Then handing back the box, he said,
As his face with pride did shine:
"Nex' time a gent'mun wants a match,
Jes' gib him one ub mine!"

A LESSON WITH THE FAN

ANONYMOUS

If you want to learn a lesson with the fan,
I'm quite prepared to teach you all I can.
So ladies, everyone, pray observe how it is done,
This simple little lesson with the fan!

If you chance to be invited to a ball,

To meet someone you don't expect at all,

And you want him close beside you, while a dozen friends divide

you,

Well, of course— -it's most unladylike to call.

So you look at him a minute, nothing more,

And you cast your eyes demurely on the floor,

Then you wave your fan, just so, well-toward you, don't you

know,

It's a delicate suggestion,-nothing more!

When you see him coming to you (simple you),

Oh! be very, very careful what you do;

With your fan just idly play, and look down, as if to say
It's a matter of indifference to you!

Then you flutter and you fidget with it, so!

And you hide your little nose behind it low,

Till, when he begins to speak, you just lay it on your cheek, In that fascinating manner that you know!

And when he tells the old tale o'er and o'er,
And vows that he will love you evermore,—

Gather up your little fan, and secure him while you can,—
It's a delicate suggestion,-nothing more!

THE UNDERTOW

BY CARRIE BLAKE MORGAN

You hadn't ought to blame a man fer things he hasn't done
Fer books he hasn't written or fer fights he hasn't won;
The waters may look placid on the surface all aroun',
Yet there may be an undertow a-keepin' of him down.

Since the days of Eve and Adam, when the fight of life began,
It aint been safe, my brethren, fer to lightly judge a man;
He may be tryin' faithful fer to make his life a go,
And yet his feet git tangled in the treacherous undertow.

He may not lack in learnin' and he may not want fer brains;
He may be always workin' with the patientest of pains,
And yet go unrewarded, an', my friends, how can we know
What heights he might have climbed to but fer the undertow?