THE MOON-SELLER.
A man came by at night with moons to sell;
"Moons old and new," he cried;
I hurried when I heard him call for me;
He set his basket on the wall for me
That I might see inside
And watch the little moons curl up and hide.
Each one he touched rang softly like a bell;
He pointed out to me
Great harvest moons with russet light in them,
Pale moons to gleam where snows grow white in them,
Red moons for victory,
And steadfast moons for men in ships at sea.
The man who came with many moons to sell
Opened his basket wide;
Showed me the filmy crescent moons in it,
And the piled discs (like silver spoons) in it
That push and pull the tide,
And small sweet honey-moons to give a bride.
"This moon," he said, "you will remember well;
Its price is wealth untold;"
Took a camp-moon he vowed he stole for me
And softly wrapped to keep it whole for me.
I heaped his feet with gold;
He changed, and said the moon might not be sold.
Then I was angry that with moons to sell
He thought he had the right
To keep that one. Those who were lent to us
Had written the brief notes they sent to us
When it shone out at night.
I caught it to my heart and held it tight.
"Twenty Students Require clean, respectable Board-Residence; would not object to Share Bed."—Provincial Paper.
They should have lived in the days of Og, the King of Basan; his bedstead was a bedstead.
"Calcutta.
During the past few weeks several parties of Afghan merchants and traders have settled up their affairs and come into India. In order to avoid being questioned by British poets in the Khyber, they have entered this country by way of the Sissobi pass."—Indian Paper.
Some of our poets are notoriously curious, and we are hardly surprised to learn that the Afghans could not "abide their question."
