the ways are heavy with mire and rut,
In November fogs, in December snows,
When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,--
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,
And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb,
And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"--
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,
And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,--
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut,
In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"
In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"--
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a soft glance softer grows
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told "that no one knows,"--
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

ENVOY

In the work-a-day world,--for its needs and woes,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

THE CURE'S PROGRESS

Monsieur The Cure down the street
Comes with his kind old face,--
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.

You may see him pass by the little "_Grande Place_,"
And the tiny "_Hotel-de-Ville_";
He smiles as he goes, to the _fleuriste_ Rose,
And the _pompier_ Theophile.

He turns as a rule through the "_Marche_" cool,
Where the noisy fishwives call;
And his compliment pays to the "_belle Therese_,"
As she knits in her dusky stall.

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Cure gropes
In his tails for a _pain d'epice_.

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a "_Ma foi, oui!_"
And a pinch from the Cure's box.

There is also a word that no one heard
To the furrier's daughter Lou;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a "_Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!_"

But a grander way for the _So