Out she swung, far out—(Now here is where you've got to do your best;
Let your head be twisted backward, let great sobs heave up your chest,
Swing your right foot through an arc of ninety lineal degrees,
Then come down and swing your left foot, and be sure don't bend your knees;
Keep this up for fifteen minutes till your face is worn and white,
Then gaze at your mangled fingers)—"Curfew shall not ring to-night!"
O'er the distant hills came Cromwell—(Right hand to the brow once more;
Let your eyes look down the distance, say above the entrance door)—
At his foot she told her story—(Lift your hands as tho they hurt)—
And her sweet young face so haggard—(Now your pathos you assert,
Then you straighten up as Cromwell, and be sure you get it right;
Don't say "Go, your liver loves!")—well: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"
Reprinted from Harper's Magazine, by permission of Harper and Brothers.
MELPOMENUS JONES
BY STEPHEN LEACOCK
Some people find great difficulty in saying good-by when making a call or spending the evening. As the moment draws near when the visitor feels that he is fairly entitled to go away, he rises and says abruptly, "Well, I think——" Then the people say, "Oh, must you go now? Surely it's early yet!" and a pitiful struggle ensues.
I think the saddest case of this kind of thing that I ever knew was that of my poor friend Melpomenus Jones, a curate—such a dear young man and only twenty-three! He simply couldn't get away from people. He was too modest to tell a lie, and too religious to wish to appear rude. Now it happened that he went to call on some friends of his on the very first afternoon of his summer vacation. The next six weeks were entirely his own—absolutely nothing to do. He chatted a while, drank two cups of tea, then braced himself for the effort and said suddenly:
"Well, I think I——"
But the lady of the house said, "Oh, no, Mr. Jones, can't you really stay a little longer?"
Jones was always truthful—"Oh, yes, of course, I—er—can."