When as to shoot my Julia goes, Then, then (methinks), how bravely shows That rare arrangement of her clothes!

So shod as when the Huntress Maid With thumping buskin bruised the glade, She moveth, making earth afraid.

Against the sting of random chaff Her leathern gaiters circle half The arduous crescent of her calf.

Unto th' occasion timely fit, My love's attire doth show her wit, And of her legs a little bit.

Sorely it sticketh in my throat, She having nowhere to bestow't To name the absent petticoat.

In lieu whereof a wanton pair Of knickerbockers she doth wear, Full windy and with s.p.a.ce to spare.

Enlarged by the bellying breeze, Lord! how they playfully do ease The urgent knocking of her knees!

Lengthways curtailed to her taste A tunic circ.u.mvents her waist, And soothly it is pa.s.sing chaste.

Upon her head she hath a gear Even such as wights of ruddy cheer Do use in stalking of the deer.

Haply her truant tresses mock Some coronal of shapelier block, To wit, the bounding billy-c.o.c.k.

Withal she hath a loaded gun, Whereat the pheasants, as they run, Do make a fair diversin.

For very awe, if so she shoots, My hair upriseth from the roots, And lo! I tremble in my boots!

_Owen Seaman._

FAREWELL

PROVOKED BY CALVERLEY's "FOREVER"

"Farewell!" Another gloomy word As ever into language crept.

'Tis often written, never heard, Except

In playhouse. Ere the hero flits-- In handcuffs--from our pitying view.

"Farewell!" he murmurs, then exits R. U.

"Farewell" is much too sighful for An age that has not time to sigh.

We say, "I'll see you later," or "Good by!"

When, warned by chanticleer, you go From her to whom you owe devoir, "Say not 'good by,'" she laughs, "but 'Au Revoir!'"

Thus from the garden are you sped; And Juliet were the first to tell You, you were silly if you said "Farewell!"

"Farewell," meant long ago, before It crept, tear-spattered, into song, "Safe voyage!" "Pleasant journey!" or "So long!"

But gone its cheery, old-time ring; The poets made it rhyme with knell-- Joined it became a dismal thing-- "Farewell!"

"Farewell!" into the lover's soul You see Fate plunge the fatal iron.

All poets use it. It's the whole Of Byron.

"I only feel--farewell!" said he; And always fearful was the telling-- Lord Byron was eternally Farewelling.

"Farewell!" A dismal word, 'tis true (And why not tell the truth about it!); But what on earth would poets do Without it?

_Bert Leston Taylor._

HERE IS THE TALE

AFTER RUDYARD KIPLING

_Here is the tale--and you must make the most of it!

Here is the rhyme--ah, listen and attend!

Backwards--forwards--read it all and boast of it If you are anything the wiser at the end!_

Now Jack looked up--it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to fill, And Jack looked round for a s.p.a.ce and frowned, then beckoned his sister Jill, And twice he pulled his sister's hair, and thrice he smote her side; "Ha' done, ha' done with your impudent fun--ha' done with your games!"

she cried; "You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size--finger and face are black, You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay--now up and wash you, Jack!

Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame-- Well you know the weight of her blow--the supperless open shame!

Wash, if you will, on yonder hill--wash, if you will, at the spring,-- Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!"

"You must wash--you must scrub--you must sc.r.a.pe!" growled Jack, "you must traffic with cans and pails, Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your finger-nails!

The morning path you must tread to your bath--you must wash ere the night descends, And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soap-makers'

dividends!

But if 'tis sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing, Jill, By the sacred right of our appet.i.te--haste--haste to the top of the hill!"

They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled and travelled far, They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the bubbling fountains are, They have taken the bucket and filled it up--yea, filled it up to the brim; But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him: "What, blown already!" Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!) "You boast indeed of your wonderful speed--but what is the boasting worth?

Now, if you can run as the antelope runs and if you can turn like a hare, Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill--and prove your boasting fair!"

"Race? What is a race" (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake the word) "Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard, For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn like a hare:-- The first one down wins half-a-crown--and I will race you there!"

"Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the lesson of humbled pride) The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be denied; Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here is the mark we toe: Now, are you ready, and are you steady? Gird up your petticoats! Go!"

And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from the bow released, But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, with its pathway duly greased; He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer-lightning flash-- Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and fell to the earth with a crash.

Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellations fair, Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser Bear, The swirling rain of a comet's train he saw, as he swiftly fell-- And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud triumphant yell: "You have won, you have won, the race is done! And as for the wager laid-- You have fallen down with a broken crown--the half-crown debt is paid!"

They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the family medicines are, And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of vinegar; While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother fell to earth, She had felt the sting of a walloping--she hath paid the price of her mirth!

_Here is the tale_--_and now you have the whole of it,_ _Here is the story_--_well and wisely planned,_ _Beauty_--_Duty_--_these make up the soul of it_-- _But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand?_

_Anthony C. Deane._

THE WILLOWS