ISABEL IN SPRINGTIME.
There is a gladness in her eye,
And in the wind her dancing tread
Appears in swiftness to outvie
The scurrying cloudlets overhead;
In brief, her moods and graces are
Appropriate to the calendar.
And yet methinks that Mother Earth,
Awake from sleep, hath less a share
In this, my darling's, present mirth,
Than Madame Chic, costumiére;
My love would barter Spring's display
For Madame's window any day.
"The members at the Club dance last Saturday were rather small—but this is only natural after four dances in 'the week' and the summer approaching."—Pioneer.
Certainly nothing gets the weight down so quickly.