A STUDY IN ETHNOLOGY.
Upon my luck I still reflect,
That led us to the same Museum:
I greeted you with staid respect,
But my heart sang its own Te Deum,
And blessed your Uncle, ere I wist,
For being an ethnologist!
On old Assyrian spoils intent,
Our very presence he forgot,
While we o'er strings of wampum bent—
We saw them and we saw them not.
He lived within a past long dead,
We, in the seconds as they sped.
Within a carven mirror old,
Suddenly, as we wandered by,
You looked upon your hair of gold
And flushing face, and so did I.
Then on we passed: a vault we found,
And Pharaoh's coffin, underground.
Oh, if his phantom ever stood
Beside the coffin made for him,
And saw you in your joyous mood,
With your bright eyes and figure slim,
King Pharaoh might have envied us
Beside his old sarcophagus!
But, Pharaoh, we, remembering
The ancient creed that souls of men
May see the summer and the spring,
May live again, and love again,
A moment wished the tale were true,
Because—it seemed so hard on you!
Wanted in the World of "Art."—A Spring Clean!