IN MEMORY OF DORA.

Walk very softly here and very slowly;

Let no sound pass the barrier of your teeth;

Not that the spot whereon you tread is holy,

But lest you rouse her up that lies beneath.

She ruthlessly curtailed our golf and skittles;

She vetoed daily sprees and nightly jinks;

She doled our baccy and weighed out our victuals,

And watered (cruellest of all) our drinks.

Anathema (by order) were our races;

Joy-riding was taboo in car or train;

And when they ventured to kick o'er the traces

She strafed her victims till they roared again.

Now where she sleeps the sleep that knows no waking

A simply graven sentence marks the place

(The Latin's shaky but bears no mistaking):—

"Hic jacet DORA and hic let her jace."

"A number of persons have booked dooms for Yuletide."—Scottish Paper.