--die for it!
O _but_ if Browning were here to apply for it,
_He'd_ rhyme you _Christmas_--
_He'd_ make a _mist pass_
Over--something o' ruther--
Or find you the rhyme's very brother
In lovers that _kissed fast_
_To baffle the moon_,--as he'd lose the _t_-final
In fas-t as it blended with _to_ (mark the spinal
Elision--tip-clipt as exquisitely nicely
And hyper-exactingly sliced to precisely
The extremest technical need): Or he'd _twist glass_,
Or he'd have a _kissed lass_,
Or shake neath our noses some great giant _fist-mass_--
No matter! If Robert were here, _he_ could do it,
Though it took us till Christmas next year to see through it.

MY CIGARETTE[1]

BY CHARLES F. LUMMIS

My cigarette! The amulet
That charms afar unrest and sorrow;
The magic wand that far beyond
To-day can conjure up to-morrow.
Like love's desire, thy crown of fire
So softly with the twilight blending,
And ah! meseems, a poet's dreams
Are in thy wreaths of smoke ascending.

My cigarette! Can I forget
How Kate and I, in sunny weather,
Sat in the shade the elm-tree made
And rolled the fragrant weed together?
I at her side beatified,
To hold and guide her fingers willing;
She rolling slow the paper's snow,
Putting my heart in with the filling.

My cigarette! I see her yet,
The white smoke from her red lips curling,
Her dreaming eyes, her soft replies,
Her gentle sighs, her laughter purling!
Ah, dainty roll, whose parting soul
Ebbs out in many a snowy billow,
I, too, would burn if I might earn
Upon her lips so soft a pillow!

Ah, cigarette! The gay coquette
Has long forgot the flames she lighted,
And you and I unthinking by
Alike are thrown, alike are slighted.
The darkness gathers fast without,
A raindrop on my window plashes;
My cigarette and heart are out,
And naught is left me but the ashes.

[Footnote 1: By permission of Life Publishing Company.]

IT IS TIME TO BEGIN TO CONCLUDE

BY A.H. LAIDLAW

Ye Parsons, desirous all sinners to save,
And to make each a prig or a prude,
If two thousand long years have not made us behave,
It is time you began to conclude.

Ye Husbands, who wish your sweet mates to grow mum,
And whose tongues you have never subdued,