Zig-zagging it went
On the line of the farm,
And the trouble it caused
Was often quite warm,
The old line fence.
It was changed every year
By decree of the court,
To which, when worn out,
Our sires would resort
With the old line fence.
In hoeing their corn,
When the sun, too, was hot,
They surely would jaw,
Punch or claw, when they got
To the old line fence.
In dividing the lands
It fulfilled no desires,
But answered quite well
In "dividing" our sires,
This old line fence.
Though sometimes in this
It would happen to fail,
When, with top rail in hand,
One would flare up and scale
The old line fence!
Then the conflict was sharp
On debatable ground,
And the fertile soil there
Would be mussed far around
The old line fence.
It was shifted so oft
That no flowers there grew.
What frownings and clods,
And what words were shot through
The old line fence!
Our sires through the day
There would quarrel or fight,
With a vigour and vim,
But 'twas different at night
By the old line fence.
The fairest maid there
You would have descried
That ever leaned soft
On the opposite side
Of an old line fence.
Where our fathers built hate
There we builded our love,
Breathed our vows to be true
With our hands raised above
The old line fence.
Its place might be changed,
But there we would meet,
With our heads through the rails,
And with kisses most sweet,
At the old line fence.
It was love made the change,
And the clasping of hands
Ending ages of hate,
And between us now stands
Not a sign of line fence.
No debatable ground
Now enkindles alarms.
I've the girl I met there,
And, well, both of the farms,
And no line fence.
A. W. Bellow.

O-U-G-H

A FRESH HACK AT AN OLD KNOT

I'm taught p-l-o-u-g-h
S'all be pronouncé "plow."
"Zat's easy w'en you know," I say,
"Mon Anglais, I'll get through!"
My teacher say zat in zat case,
O-u-g-h is "oo."
And zen I laugh and say to him,
"Zees Anglais make me cough."

He say "Not 'coo,' but in zat word,
O-u-g-h is 'off,'"
Oh, Sacre bleu! such varied sounds
Of words makes me hiccough!
He say, "Again mon frien' ees wrong;
O-u-g-h is 'up'
In hiccough." Zen I cry, "No more,
You make my t'roat feel rough."
"Non, non!" he cry, "you are not right;
O-u-g-h is 'uff.'"
I say, "I try to spik your words,
I cannot spik zem though!"
"In time you'll learn, but now you're wrong!
O-u-g-h is 'owe.'"
"I'll try no more, I s'all go mad,
I'll drown me in ze lough!"
"But ere you drown yourself," said he,
"O-u-g-h is 'ock.'"
He taught no more, I held him fast,
And killed him wiz a rough.
Charles Battell Loomis.

ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H

'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed;
'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder.
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
It assists at his birth and attends him in death,
Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health,
Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth,
In the heaps of the miser is hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
It prays with the hermit, with monarchs is crowned;
Without it the soldier, the sailor, may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home.
In the whisper of conscience 'tis sure to be found,
Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drowned;
'Twill soften the heart, but, though deaf to the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear;
But, in short, let it rest like a delicate flower;
Oh, breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour.
Catherine Fanshawe.

TRAVESTY OF MISS FANSHAWE'S ENIGMA