“Talk not of men,” she said. “To me,
Diana’s priestess I would be,
And range the woods, heart-free, foot-loose,
To kill the chipmunk and the moose.”
“Ah, well!” he sighed (It is a shame,
And rather mars this graceful verse,
I cannot rhyme his beastly name),
“Ah, well! Perhaps you might do worse.
I longed for grand-sons, but”—a sigh—
“The cost of living sure is high;