THE LITTLE STAR

Scintillate, scintillate, globule orific, Fain would I fathom thy nature's specific.

Loftily poised in ether capacious, Strongly resembling a gem carbonaceous.

When torrid Ph[oe]bus refuses his presence And ceases to lamp with fierce incandescence, Then you illumine the regions supernal, Scintillate, scintillate, semper nocturnal.

Then the victim of hospiceless peregrination Gratefully hails your minute coruscation.

He could not determine his journey's direction But for your bright scintillating protection.

_Unknown._

THE ORIGINAL LAMB

Oh, Mary had a little Lamb, regarding whose cuticular The fluff exterior was white and kinked in each particular.

On each occasion when the la.s.s was seen perambulating, The little quadruped likewise was there a gallivating.

One day it did accompany her to the knowledge dispensary, Which to every rule and precedent was recklessly contrary.

Immediately whereupon the pedagogue superior, Exasperated, did eject the lamb from the interior.

Then Mary, on beholding such performance arbitrary, Suffused her eyes with saline drops from glands called lachrymary, And all the pupils grew thereat tumultuously hilarious, And speculated on the case with wild conjectures various.

"What makes the lamb love Mary so?" the scholars asked the teacher.

He paused a moment, then he tried to diagnose the creature.

"Oh pecus amorem Mary habit omnia temporum."

"Thanks, teacher dear," the scholars cried, and awe crept darkly o'er 'em.

_Unknown._

SAINTE MARGeRIE

Slim feet than lilies tenderer,-- _Margerie!_ That scarce upbore the body of her, Naked upon the stones they were;-- _C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

White as a shroud the silken gown,-- _Margerie!_ That flowed from shoulder to ankle down, With clear blue shadows along it thrown; _C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

On back and bosom withouten braid,-- _Margerie!_ In crisped glory of darkling red, Round creamy temples her hair was shed;-- _C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

Eyes, like a dim sea, viewed from far,-- _Margerie!_ Lips that no earthly love shall mar, More sweet that lips of mortals are;-- _C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

The chamber walls are cracked and bare;-- _Margerie!_ Without the gossips stood astare At men her bed away that bare;-- _C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

Five pennies lay her hand within,-- _Margerie!_ So she her fair soul's weal might win, Little she reck'd of dule or teen;-- _C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

Dank straw from dunghill gathered,-- _Margerie!_ Where fragrant swine have made their bed, Thereon her body shall be laid;-- _C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

Three pennies to the poor in dole,-- _Margerie!_ One to the clerk her knell shall toll, And one to ma.s.ses for her soul;-- _C'est ca Sainte Margerie!_

_Unknown._

ROBERT FROST

RELATES THE DEATH OF THE TIRED MAN

There were two of us left in the berry-patch; Bryan O'Lin and Jack had gone to Norwich.-- They called him Jack a' Nory, half in fun And half because it seemed to anger him.-- So there we stood and let the berries go, Talking of men we knew and had forgotten.

A sprawling, humpbacked mountain frowned on us And blotted out a smouldering sunset cloud That broke in fiery ashes. "Well," he said, "Old Adam Brown is dead and gone; you'll never See him any more. He used to wear A long, brown coat that b.u.t.toned down before.

That's all I ever knew of him; I guess that's all That anyone remembers. Eh?" he said, And then, without a pause to let me answer, He went right on.

"How about Dr. Foster?"

"Well, how _about_ him?" I managed to reply.

He glared at me for having interrupted.

And stopped to pick his words before he spoke; Like one who turns all personal remarks Into a general survey of the world.

Choosing his phrases with a finicky care So they might fit some vague opinions, Taken, third-hand, from last year's _New York Times_ And jumbled all together into a thing He thought was his philosophy.

"Never mind; There's more in Foster than you'd understand.

But," he continued, darkly as before, "What do you make of Solomon Grundy's case?

You know the gossip when he first came here.

Folks said he'd gone to smash in Lunenburg, And four years in the State Asylum here Had almost finished him. It was Sanders' job That put new life in him. A clear, cool day; The second Monday in July it was.

'Born on a Monday,' that is what they said.

Remember the next few days? I guess you don't; That was before your time. Well, Tuesday night He said he'd go to church; and just before the prayer He blurts right out, 'I've come here to get christened.

If I am going to have a brand new life I'll have a new name, too.' Well, sure enough They christened him, though I've forgotten what; And Etta Stark, (you know, the pastor's girl) Her head upset by what she called romance, She went and married him on Wednesday noon.

Thursday the sun or something in the air Got in his blood and right off he took sick.

Friday the thing got worse, and so did he; And Sat.u.r.day at four o'clock he died.

Buried on Sunday with the town decked out As if it was a circus-day. And not a soul Knew why they went or what he meant to them Or what he died of. What would be _your_ guess?"

"Well," I replied, "it seems to me that he, Just coming from a sedentary life, Felt a great wave of energy released, And tried to crowd too much in one short week.

The laws of physics teach--"

"No, not at all.

He never knew 'em. He was just tired," he said.

_Louis Untermeyer._

OWEN SEAMAN

ESTABLISHES THE "ENTENTE CORDIALE" BY RECITING "THE SINGULAR STUPIDITY OF J. SPRATT, ESQ.," IN THE MANNER OF GUY WETMORE CARRYL.