rpet, while her orbs in frenzy roll;
What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me grievous pain
That she rose in social gatherings, and Searched among the Slain.

I was forced to look upon her in my desperation dumb,
Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was come
She would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very least,
As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast.

Once, ah! once I fell a-dreaming; some one played a polonaise
I associated strongly with those happier August days;
And I mused, "I'll speak this evening," recent pangs forgotten quite--
Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy, warm romance--
Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in France?
Oh, as she "cul-limbed" that ladder, swift my mounting hope came down,
I am still a single cynic; she is still Cassandra Brown!

_Helen Gray Cone._

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

In letters large upon the frame,
That visitors might see,
The painter placed his humble name:
_O'Callaghan McGee_.

And from Beersheba unto Dan,
The critics with a nod
Exclaimed: "This painting Irishman
Adores his native sod.

"His stout heart's patriotic flame
There's naught on earth can quell;
He takes no wild romantic name
To make his pictures sell!"

Then poets praise in sonnets neat
His stroke so bold and free;
No parlour wall was thought complete
That hadn't a McGee.

All patriots before McGee
Threw lavishly their gold;
His works in the Academy
Were very quickly sold.

His "Digging Clams at Barnegat,"
His "When the Morning smiled,"
His "Seven Miles from Ararat,"
His "Portrait of a Child,"

Were purchased in a single day
And lauded as divine.--

* * * * *

That night as in his _atelier_
The artist sipped his wine,

And looked upon his gilded frames,
He grinned from ear to ear:--
"They little think my _real_ name's
V. Stuyvesant De Vere!"

_R. K. Munkittrick._

TOO LATE

"_Ah! si la jeunesse savait_,--_si la vieillesse pouvait_!"

There sat an old man on a rock,
And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,--
That concern where we all must take stock,
Though our vote has no hearing or weight;
And the old man sang him an old, old song,--
Never sang voice so clear and strong
That it