showed them their sins,
Said, "No one could have two birthdays but a _twins_."

Says he, "Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or for nine,
Don't be always dividin'--but sometimes combine;
Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark,
So let that be his birthday."--"Amen," says the clerk.
"If he wasn't a _twins_, sure our hist'ry will show--
That, at least, he's worth any _two_ saints that we know!"
Then they all got blind dhrunk--which complated their bliss,
And we keep up the practice from that day to this.

_Samuel Lover._

HER LITTLE FEET

Her little feet!... Beneath us ranged the sea,
She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded,
One shoe above the other danglingly,
And lo! a Something exquisitely graded,
Brown rings and white, distracting--to the knee!

The band was loud. A wild waltz melody
Flowed rhythmic forth. The nobodies paraded.
And thro' my dream went pulsing fast and free:
Her little feet.

Till she made room for some one. It was He!
A port-wine flavored He, a He who traded,
Rich, rosy, round, obese to a degree!
A sense of injury overmastered me.
Quite bulbously his ample boots upbraided
Her little feet.

_William Ernest Henley._

SCHOOL

If there is a vile, pernicious,
Wicked and degraded rule,
Tending to debase the vicious,
And corrupt the harmless fool;
If there is a hateful habit
Making man a senseless tool,
With the feelings of a rabbit
And the wisdom of a mule;
It's the rule which inculcates,
It's the habit which dictates
The wrong and sinful practice of going into school.

If there's anything improving
To an erring sinner's state,
Which is useful in removing
All the ills of human fate;
If there's any glorious custom
Which our faults can dissipate,
And can casually thrust 'em
Out of sight and make us great;
It's the plan by which we shirk
Half our matu-ti-nal work,
The glorious institution of always being late.

_James Kenneth Stephen._

THE MILLENNIUM

TO R. K.

_As long I dwell on some stupendous
And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrendous
Demoniaco-seraphic
Penman's latest piece of graphic._
--|Robert Browning|.

Will there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason
And