LONE amid the festive throng
One infant brow is sad!
One cherub face is wet with grief,—
What ails you, little lad?
Why still with scarifying sleeve
That woful visage scrub?
Ah, much I fear, my gentle boy,
You don't enjoy your grub.
Here, on a sympathetic heart,
Your tale of suffering pour.
Come, darling! Tell me all. "Boo—boo—
I can't eat any more!"
H. Cholmondeley Pennell, Puck on Pegasus.
EVER take a sheet-bath—never. Next to meeting a lady acquaintance who, for reasons best known to herself, don't see you when she looks at you, and don't know you when she sees you, it is about the most uncomfortable thing in the world.
Mark Twain, Choice Works.
HE critic's lot is passing hard—
Between ourselves, I think reviewers,
When call'd to truss a crowing bard,
Should not be sparing of the skewers.
Frederick Locker, London Lyrics.