its
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 space 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 scrape!" 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'