And so I held her, trusting That none was by to see; A sad mistake--for low, but clear, This feminine comment reached my ear: "Married for ages--it's just disgusting-- Such actions--and, Fred, they've got our tree!"

THE MOTHERS OF THE SIRENS.

The debutantes are in force to-night, Sweet as their roses, pure as truth; Dreams of beauty in clouds of tulle; Blushing, fair in their guileless youth.

Flashing bright glances carelessly-- Carelessly, think you! Wait and see How their sweetest smile is kept for him Whom "mother" considers a good _parti_.

For the matrons watch and guard them well-- Little for youth or love care they; The man they seek is the man with gold, Though his heart be black, and his hair be gray.

"Nellie, how _could_ you treat _him_ so!

You know very well he is Goldmore's heir,"

"Jennie, look modest! Glance down and blush,-- Here comes papa with young Millionaire."

On a cold, gray rock, in Grecian seas, The sirens sit, and _their_ glamour try-- Warm white bosoms press harps of gold, The while Ulysses' ship sails by.

Fair are the forms the sailors see, Sweet are the songs the sailors hear And--cool and wary, shrewd and old, The sirens' mothers are watching near,

Whispering counsel--"Fling back your hair, It hides your shoulder." "Don't sing so fast!"

"Darling, _don't_ look at that fair young man, Try that old fellow there by the mast, _His_ arms are jewelled"--let it go!

Too bitter all this for an idle rhyme; But sirens are kin of the G.o.ds, be sure, And change but little with lapse of time.

PER ASPERA AD ASTRA.

A canvas-back duck, rarely roasted, between us, A bottle of Chambertin, worthy of praise-- Less n.o.ble a wine at our _age_ would bemean us-- A salad of celery _en mayonnaise_, With the oysters we've eaten, fresh, plump, and delicious, Naught left of them now but a dream and the sh.e.l.ls; No better _souper_ e'en Lucullus could wish us-- Why, even our waiter regards us as swells.

Your dress is a marvel, your jewels show finely, Your friends in the circle all envied your box; You say Lilli Lehman sang quite too divinely-- I know I can't lose on that last deal in stocks.

Without waits our footman to call for our carriage-- Gad, how he must hate us, out there in the cold!-- We rode in a hack on the day of our marriage, Number two forty-six--I was rolling in gold,

For I'd quite fifty dollars; and don't you remember We drove down to Taylor's, a long cherished dream: How grandly I ordered--just think, in December!-- Some cake, and two plates of vanilla ice-cream.

And how we enjoyed it! Your glance was the proudest Among the proud beauties, your face the most fair; I'm rather afraid, too, your laugh was the loudest; I know we shocked every one--we didn't care.

Now we'd care a great deal--with two sons at college, And daughters just out, whose sneers make you wince, We've tasted the fruit of Society's knowledge-- I don't think we've quite enjoyed anything since.

All through, dear? Now, _don't_ wipe your mouth with the doily!

They're really not careful at all with their wine; It wasn't half warmed--the salad was oily-- And I don't think the duck was remarkably fine.

THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE.

Oh! he was a student of mystic lore; And she was a soulful girl All nerves and mind, of the cultured kind The paragon, pride, and pearl.

They loved with a neo-Concordic love, Woofed weirdly with wistful woe.

They sat in a glen, remote from men, Their converse was high and low.

"What marvellous words of marvellous love, Speak marvellous souls like these?"

I drew me nigh till their faintest sigh Was heard with the greatest ease.

"'Oo's 'ittle white lammy is 'oo?" breathed he; "'Oors. 'Oo's lovey-dovey is 'oo?"

"'Oors! 'Oors! Would 'oo k'y if dovey should die?"

"No'p!--tause 'ittle lammy'd die too."

How truthful we poets! The "language of Love"

Is a phrase we employ full oft; But whenever we do, we prefix thereto, You've noticed, the adjective "soft."