freezes the frost is bright;
What noodles do with fear and fright
I do with all my might."

Florian began:--

"It's just a week to-day, to-day,
My sweetheart told me to go away:
She cried, and she sobb'd,
But I was gay."

And

"Three weeks before Easter
The snow will be flush,
My girl will be married,
And I in the slush."

"That's not the way," said Constantine: "turn round the handle:"--

"Three weeks before Easter,
There'll be slush in the snow:
The jade will be married
And I'll courting go."

Laughter and applause from all sides of the room were the reward of
this poetic effort. Peter then struck up:--

"Sweetheart, you thief,
You're all my grief;
And while I live,
No comfort you'll give."

And

"If I but knew
Where my sweetheart has gone,
My heart wouldn't be
Half so weary and lone."

Florian sang again:--

"If you would live like a little bird,
And have no cares to shend ye;
Just marry, till the summer's round,
Whome'er the spring may send ye."

Constantine sang again:--

"I come to see you;
It pleased me to come;
But I won't come any longer:
It's too far from home.

"It wouldn't be too far,
And it wouldn't be too rough,
But, just understand,
You're not near good enough."

Ivo sat at the table, absorbed in unpleasant reflections. He called to
mind how at this hour he was usually to be found at his solitary lamp,
struggling to penetrate the mysteries of creation and redemption,--how
far he was then removed from all the doings of men, from all the wishes
and aims of individuals; and he contrasted all this with what he now
saw of the life led by his natural comrades in age and station. The
nucleus of all their thoughts and actions was love, whether they made
it the subject of wanton jibes or of strains of tender longing. Once
more existence lay before him, severed, as by a