ss patiences, our very sex,
That should be a protection, one more load
To lade, and chafe, and vex.
No tired ox urged to tramping by the goad
Feels a more mutely-maddening weariness
Than we white, black-garbed spectral girls who stand
Stonily smiling on while ladies grand,
Easily seated, idly turn and toss
The samples; and our Watcher, 'neath the gloss
Of courtly smugness glaring menace, stalks
About us, creaking cruelty as he walks.

Stand! Stand! Still stand!
Clenched teeth and clutching hand,
Swift blanching cheek, and twitching muscle, tell
To those who know, what _we_ know all too well,
Ignored by Fashion, coldly mocked by Trade.
Are we not for the sacrifice arrayed
In dainty vesture? Pretty, too, they say
Male babblers, whom our sufferings and poor pay
Might shock, could they but guess
Trim figure and smart dress
Cover and hide, from all but doctor-ken,
Disease and threatening death. Oh! men, men, men!
You bow, smile, flatter--aught but _understand_!
Long hours lay lethal hand
Upon our very vitals. Seats might save
From an untimely grave,
Hundreds of harried, inly anguished girls;
_You_ see--their snow-girt throats and neatly-ordered curls!

Out to the green fields? Nay,
This all too fleeting day
To rest is dedicate. But not the rest
Of brightened spirit, and of lightened breast.
The dull, dead, half-inanimate leaden crouch
Of sheer exhaustion on this shabby couch
Is all my week's repose.
Read? But the tired eyes close,
The book from nerveless fingers drops;
Almost the slow heart stops.
But the clock halts not on its restless round.
Weariness shudders at the whirring sound,
As the sharp strike declares
Swift to its closing wears
One more of those brief interludes from toil
Which leave us still the labour-despot's spoil,
Slaves of long hours and unrelaxing strain,
Unstrengthened and unsolaced, soon again
To tread the round, and lift the lengthening chain;
_Stand_--till hysteria lays its hideous clutch
On our girl-hearts, or epilepsy's touch
Thrills through tired nerves and palsied brain.
Again--again--again!
_How long?_ Till Death, upon its kindly quest,
Gives a true Day of Rest!

* * * * *

EASTER MANOEUVRES.

[Illustration: BACCHUS ON A BICYCLE!

(A "SAFETY" TOO!!)