’Twas there they were stopped; ’twas there they were scaled;
’Twas there with the forceps that I was assailed.
Say it is folly, and call me weak,
While the raging nerves puff out my cheek,
But I hate it to-day in my toothless despair,
And I’ll hate it for ever, that vile arm-chair.
A. L. D.
Modern Society. April 17, 1886.
——:o:——
Song of November.