The lady’s points to touch on, Her name was JULIA WHITE, Her lineage high, her scutcheon Untarnished; manners, bright; Complexion, soft and creamy; Her hair, of golden hue; Her eyes, in aspect, dreamy, In colour, greyish blue.
For her I sighed, I panted; I saw her in my dreams; I vowed, protested, ranted; I sent her chocolate creams. Until methought one morning I seemed to hear a voice, A still, small voice of warning. “Does JONES approve your choice?”
To JONES of my affection I spoke that very night. If he had no objection, I said I’d wed Miss WHITE. I asked him for his blessing, But, turning rather blue, He said: “It’s most distressing, But
“Then, JONES,” I answered, sobbing, “My wooing’s at an end, I couldn’t think of robbing My best, my only friend. The notion makes me furious— I’d much prefer to die.” “Perhaps you’ll think it curious,” Said JONES, “but so should I.”
Nor he nor I would falter In our resolve one jot. I bade him seek the altar, He vowed that he would not. “She’s yours, old fellow. Make her As happy as you can.” “Not so,” said I, “you take her— You are the lucky man.”
At length—the situation Had lasted now a year— I had an inspiration, Which seemed to make things clear. “Supposing,” I suggested, “We ask Miss WHITE to choose? I should be interested To hear her private views.
“Perhaps she has a preference— I own it sounds absurd— But I submit, with deference, That she might well be heard. In clear, commercial diction The case in point we’ll state, Disclose the cause of friction, And leave the rest to Fate.”
We did, and on the morrow The postman brought us news. Miss WHITE expressed her sorrow At having to refuse. Of all her many reasons This seemed to me the pith: Six months before (or rather more) She’d married Mr. SMITH.
THE HAUNTED TRAM
Ghosts of The Towers, The Grange, The Court, Ghosts of the Castle Keep. Ghosts of the finicking, “high-life” sort Are growing a trifle cheap. But here is a spook of another stamp, No thin, theatrical sham, But a spectre who fears not dirt nor damp: He rides on a London tram.
By the curious glance of a mortal eye He is not seen. He’s heard. His steps go a-creeping, creeping by, He speaks but a single word. You may hear his feet: you may hear them plain, For—it’s odd in a ghost—they crunch. You may hear the whirr of his rattling chain, And the ting of his ringing punch.
The gathering shadows of night fall fast; The lamps in the street are lit; To the roof have the eerie footsteps passed, Where the outside passengers sit. To the passenger’s side has the spectre paced; For a moment he halts, they say, Then a ring from the punch at the unseen waist, And the footsteps pass away.
That is the tale of the haunted car; And if on that car you ride You won’t, believe me, have journeyed far Ere the spectre seeks your side. Ay, all unseen by your seat he’ll stand, And (unless it’s a wig) your hair Will rise at the touch of his icy hand, And the sound of his whispered “Fare!”
At the end of the trip, when you’re getting down (And you’ll probably simply fly!) Just give the conductor half- a-crown, Ask who is the ghost and why. And the man will explain with bated breath (And point you a moral) thus: “‘E’s a pore young bloke wot wos crushed to death By people as fought As they didn’t ought For seats on a crowded bus.”
STORIES
WHEN PAPA SWORE IN HINDUSTANI
“Sylvia!”
“Yes, papa.”
“That infernal dog of yours–-“
“Oh, papa!”
“Yes, that infernal dog of yours has been at my carnations again!”
Colonel Reynolds, V.C., glared sternly across the table at Miss Sylvia Reynolds, and Miss Sylvia Reynolds looked in a deprecatory manner back at Colonel Reynolds, V.C.; while the dog in question—a foppish pug—happening to meet the colonel’s eye in transit, crawled unostentatiously under the sideboard, and began to wrestle with a bad conscience.
“Oh, naughty Tommy!” said Miss Reynolds mildly, in the direction of the sideboard.
“Yes, my dear,” assented the colonel; “and if you could convey to him the information that if he does it once more—yes, just once more!—I shall shoot him on the spot you would be doing him a kindness.” And the colonel bit a large crescent out of his toast, with all the energy and conviction of a man who has thoroughly made up his mind. “At six o’clock this morning,” continued he, in a voice of gentle melancholy, “I happened to look out of my bedroom window, and saw him. He had then destroyed two of my best plants, and was commencing on a third, with every appearance of self-satisfaction. I threw two large brushes and a boot at him.”
“Oh, papa! They didn’t hit him?”
“No, my dear, they did not. The brushes missed him by several yards, and the boot smashed a fourth carnation. However, I was so fortunate as to attract his attention, and he left off.”
“I can’t think what makes him do it. I suppose it’s bones. He’s got bones buried all over the garden.”
“Well, if he does it again, you’ll find that there will be a few more bones buried in the garden!” said the colonel grimly; and he subsided into his paper.
Sylvia loved the dog partly for its own sake, but principally for that of the giver, one Reginald Dallas, whom it had struck at an early period of their acquaintance that he and Miss Sylvia Reynolds were made for one another. On communicating this discovery to Sylvia herself he had found that her views upon the subject were identical with his own; and all would have gone well had it not been for a melancholy accident.
One day while out shooting with the colonel, with whom he was doing his best to ingratiate himself, with a view to obtaining his consent to the match, he had allowed his sporting instincts to carry him away to such a degree that, in sporting parlance, he wiped his eye badly. Now, the colonel prided himself with justice on his powers
