Cousin Maud tells her illnesses, ancient and recent, In a most minute way which is almost indecent!

Vivisecting herself, with some medical chatter, She serves us her portions--as if on a platter, Never noting how I am but waiting to stir My dregs of diseases to offer to her.

And I hear (such a joke!) that your chronic gastritis Stands silent forever before her nephritis.

Mrs. Henderson's Annie goes out every night, And Bertha, before her, was simply a fright, While Agnes broke more than the worth of her head, And Maggie--well, some things are better unsaid.

Such manners to talk of her help--when she knows My wife's simply aching to tell of _our_ woes!

And I hear that she never lets you get a start On your story of Rosy we all know by heart.

You'd hardly believe that I've heard Bunson tell The Flea-Powder Frenchman and Razors to Sell, The One-Legged Goose and that old What You Please-- And even, I swear it, The Crow and the Cheese.

And he sprang that old yarn of He Said 't was His Leg, When you wanted to tell him Columbus's Egg, While I wanted to tell my own whimsical tale (Which I recently wrote) of The Man in the Whale!

THE CHOICE.

The little it takes to make life bright, If we open our eyes to get it!

And the trifle which makes it black as night, If we close our lids and let it!

Behold, as the world goes whirling by, It is gloomy, or glad, as it fits your eye.

As it fits your eye, and I mean by that You find what you look for mostly; You can feed your happiness full and fat, You can make your miseries ghostly, Or you can forget every joy you own By coveting something beyond your zone.

In the storms of life we can fret the eye Where the guttering mud is drifted, Or we can look to the world-wide sky Where the Artist's scenes are shifted.

Puddles are oceans in miniatures, Or merely puddles; the choice is yours.

We can strip our n.i.g.g.ardly souls so bare That we haggle a penny between us; Or we can be rich in a common share Of the Pleiades and Venus.

You can lift your soul to its outermost look, Or can keep it packed in a pocketbook.

We may follow a phantom the arid miles To a mountain of cankered treasure, Or we can find, in a baby's smiles, The pulse of a living pleasure.

We may drink of the sea until we burst, While the trickling spring would have quenched our thirst.

THE SAVING CLAUSE.

Kerr wrote a book, and a good book, too; At least I[A] managed to read it through Without finding very much room for blame, And a good many other folks did the same.

But when any one asked me[A]: "Have you read?"

Or: "How do you like?" I[A] only said: "Very good, very good! and I'm glad enough; For his other writings are horrible stuff."

Banks wrote a play, and it had a run.

(That's a good deal more than ever I've[A] done.) The interest held with hardly a lag From the overture to the final tag.

But when any one asked me[A]: "Have you seen?"

Or: "What do you think?" I[A] looked serene And remarked: "Oh, a pretty good thing of its kind, But I guess Mr. Shakespeare needn't mind!"

Phelps made a machine; 't was smooth as grease.

(I[A] couldn't invent its smallest piece In a thousand years.) It was tried and tried, Until everybody was satisfied.

But when any one asked me[A]: "Will it pay?"-- "Is it really good?"--I[A] could only say: "It's a marvelous thing! Why, it almost thinks!

And Phelps is a wonder--too bad he drinks!"

[Footnote A: (Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these p.r.o.nouns should all read "You.")]

[Ill.u.s.tration: Mr. Shakespeare needn't mind

_Page 70._]

BETWEEN TWO THIEVES.

Sure! I am one who disbelieves In thieves; At which you interrupt to cry "Aye, aye, and I."

Hmf! you're so sudden to agree.

Suppose we see.

I know a thief. No matter whether I ought to know a thief, or not.

Perhaps "we went to school together;"

That old excuse is worked a lot.

One day he "copped a rummy's leather,"

Which means--I hate to tell you what.

It's such a vulgar thing to steal A drunkard's purse to buy a meal.

"Hey, pal," said he, "come help me dine; I've hit a pit and got the swag; To-day, Delmonico's is mine; To-morrow once again a vag.

Come on and tell me all the stunts Of all the boys who knew me--once."

"Did I go with him?" I did not.

Would you have gone? Could you be bought By dinners--when the trail was hot And any hour he might be caught?

I know a thief, whose operations Are colored by a kindly law.

Your income and a beggar's rations Contribute to his cunning claw; Cities and counties, courts and nations Pay portion to his monstrous maw.

He gave a dinner not long since In honor of some played-out Prince.

The decorations, ah, how chaste!

And how delicious was the wine!

For Mrs. Thief has perfect taste And Mr. Thief knows how to dine.

And so the world has long agreed Quite to forgive, forget--and feed.

But really I was shocked to see How many decent folks could be Induced to come and bow the knee; I think you were my _vis-a-vis_.

Yes, yes, I quite despise him, too, Like you; And (though it's not a thing to brag) I somehow like the vag.

But, oh, the difference one perceives Between two thieves!

THE SPECTATOR.

Look at the man with the crown Weighing him down.