THE OLD WOMAN'S HOUSE ROCK, SCILLY.
"Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I,
"'Tis a mighty queer place to be building a home
In the teeth of the gales and the wash of the foam,
With nothing in view but the sea and the sky;
It cannot be cheerful or healthy or dry.
Why don't you go inland and rent a snug house,
With fowls in the garden and blossoming boughs,
Old woman, old woman, old woman?" said I.
"A garden have I at my hand
Beneath the green swell,
With pathways of glimmering sand
And borders of shell.
There twinkle the star-fish and there
Red jellies unfold;
The weed-banners ripple and flare
All purple and gold.
And have I no poultry? Oh, come
When the Equinox lulls;
The air is a-flash and a-hum
With the tumult of gulls;
They whirl in a shimmering cloud
Sun-bright on the breeze;
They perch on my chimneys and crowd
To nest at my knees,
And set their dun chickens to rock on the motherly
Lap of the seas."
"Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I,
"It sounds very well, but it cannot be right;
This must be a desolate spot of a night,
With nothing to hear but the guillemot's cry,
The sob of the surf and the wind soughing by.
Go inland and get you a cat for your knee
And gather your gossips for scandal and tea,
Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I.
"No amber-eyed tabby may laze
And purr at my feet,
But here in the blue summer days
The seal-people meet.
They bask on my ledges and romp
In the swirl of the tides,
Old bulls in their whiskers and pomp
And sleek little brides.
Yet others come visiting me
Than grey seal or bird;
Men come in the night from the sea
And utter no word.
Wet weed clings to bosom and hair;
Their faces are drawn;
They crouch by the embers and stare
And go with the dawn
To sleep in my garden, the swell flowing over them
Like a green lawn."
Patlander.
Labour Leaders on the Links.
Under a photograph in a London evening paper runs the following legend:—
"Mr. John Hodge and another official of the Iron and Steel Founders Union enjoy a game of golf after the Trade Union Congress at Portsmouth adjourns for the day. Our picture shows Mr. John Hodge Putting."
Some idea of the forceful and unconventional methods of our Labour leaders may be gathered from the attitude of Mr. John Hodge, whose club is raised well over his shoulder.
Prisoner. "Sorr, I object to Mr. Clancy servin' on the jury."
Mr. Clancy. "Bedad, an' for why, Michael? I'm for yez!"