THE OLD LINE FENCE

Zig-zagging it went On the line of the farm, And the trouble it caused Was often quite warm, |The old line fence|.

It was changed every year By decree of the court, To which, when worn out, Our sires would resort |With the old line fence|.

In hoeing their corn, When the sun, too, was hot, They surely would jaw, Punch or claw, when they got |To the old line fence|.

In dividing the lands It fulfilled no desires, But answered quite well In "dividing" our sires, |This old line fence|.

Though sometimes in this It would happen to fail, When, with top rail in hand, One would flare up and scale |The old line fence|!

Then the conflict was sharp On debatable ground, And the fertile soil there Would be mussed far around |The old line fence|.

It was shifted so oft That no flowers there grew.

What frownings and clods, And what words were shot through |The old line fence|!

Our sires through the day There would quarrel or fight, With a vigour and vim, But 'twas different at night |By the old line fence|.

The fairest maid there You would have descried That ever leaned soft On the opposite side |Of an old line fence|.

Where our fathers built hate There we builded our love, Breathed our vows to be true With our hands raised above |The old line fence|.

Its place might be changed, But there we would meet, With our heads through the rails, And with kisses most sweet, |At the old line fence|.

It was love made the change, And the clasping of hands Ending ages of hate, And between us now stands |Not a sign of line fence|.

No debatable ground Now enkindles alarms.

I've the girl I met there, And, well, both of the farms, |And no line fence|.

_A. W. Bellow._

O-U-G-H

|a fresh hack at an old knot|

I'm taught p-l-o-u-g-h S'all be p.r.o.nounce "plow."

"Zat's easy w'en you know," I say, "Mon Anglais, I'll get through!"

My teacher say zat in zat case, O-u-g-h is "oo."

And zen I laugh and say to him, "Zees Anglais make me cough."

He say "Not 'coo,' but in zat word, O-u-g-h is 'off,'"

Oh, Sacre bleu! such varied sounds Of words makes me hiccough!

He say, "Again mon frien' ees wrong; O-u-g-h is 'up'

In hiccough." Zen I cry, "No more, You make my t'roat feel rough."

"Non, non!" he cry, "you are not right; O-u-g-h is 'uff.'"

I say, "I try to spik your words, I cannot spik zem though!"

"In time you'll learn, but now you're wrong!

O-u-g-h is 'owe.'"

"I'll try no more, I s'all go mad, I'll drown me in ze lough!"

"But ere you drown yourself," said he, "O-u-g-h is 'ock.'"

He taught no more, I held him fast, And killed him wiz a rough.

_Charles Battell Loomis._

ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H

'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in h.e.l.l, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed; 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder.

'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, It a.s.sists at his birth and attends him in death, Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health, Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth, In the heaps of the miser is h.o.a.rded with care, But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir.

It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, It prays with the hermit, with monarchs is crowned; Without it the soldier, the sailor, may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home.

In the whisper of conscience 'tis sure to be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of pa.s.sion is drowned; 'Twill soften the heart, but, though deaf to the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear; But, in short, let it rest like a delicate flower; Oh, breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour.

_Catherine Fanshawe._

TRAVESTY OF MISS FANSHAWE'S ENIGMA

I dwells in the Hearth, and I breathes in the Hair; If you searches the Hocean, you'll find that I'm there.

The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi, Yet I'm banished from 'Eaven, expelled from on 'igh.

But, though on this Horb I'm destined to grovel, I'm ne'er seen in an 'Ouse, in an 'Ut, nor an 'Ovel.

Not an 'Orse, not an 'Unter e'er bears me, alas!

But often I'm found on the top of a Ha.s.s.

I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam, And yet I'm invariably absent from 'Ome.

Though 'Ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part, I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art.

Only look, and you'll see in the Heye Hi appear; Only 'Ark, and you'll 'Ear me just breathe in the Hear.

Though in s.e.x not an 'E, I am (strange paradox) Not a bit of an 'Effer, but partly a Hox.

Of Heternity I'm the beginning! and, mark, Though I goes not with Noar, I'm first in the Hark.

I'm never in 'Ealth; have with Fysic no power, I dies in a month, but comes back in a Hour.

_Horace Mayhew._

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short,-- It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say That still a G.o.dly race he ran,-- Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad,-- When he put on his clothes.