A SONNET.
BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
Once a poet wrote a sonnet
All about a pretty bonnet,
And a critic sat upon it
(On the sonnet,
Not the bonnet),
Nothing loath.
And as if it were high treason,
He said: "Neither rhyme nor reason
Has it; and it's out of season,"
Which? the sonnet
Or the bonnet?
Maybe both.
"'Tis a feeble imitation
Of a worthier creation;
An æsthetic innovation!"
Of a sonnet
Or a bonnet?
This was hard.
Both were put together neatly,
Harmonizing very sweetly,
But the critic crushed completely
Not the bonnet,
Or the sonnet,
But the bard.
WANTED, A MINISTER.
BY MRS. M.E.W. SKEELS.
We've a church, tho' the belfry is leaning,
They are talking I think of repair,
And the bell, oh, pray but excuse us,
'Twas talked of, but never's been there.
Now, "Wanted, a real live minister,"
And to settle the same for life,
We've an organ and some one to play it,
So we don't care a fig for his wife.
We once had a pastor (don't tell it),
But we chanced on a time to discover
That his sermons were writ long ago,
And he had preached them twice over.
How sad this mistake, tho' unmeaning,
Oh, it made such a desperate muss!
Both deacon and laymen were vexed,
And decided, "He's no man for us."