BY JOHN PAUL
It seems to me that talk should be,
Like water, sprinkled sparingly;
Then ground that late lay dull and dried
Smiles up at you revivified,
And flowers—of speech—touched by the dew
Put forth fresh root and bud anew.
But I'm not sure that any flower
Would thrive beneath Niagara's shower!
So when a friend turns full on me
His verbal hose, may I not flee?
I know that I am arid ground,
But I'm not watered—Gad! I'm drowned!
A WINTER FANCY
(Little Tommy Loq)
BY R.K. MUNKITTRICK
My father piles the snow-drifts
Around his rosy face,
And covers all his whiskers—
The grass that grows apace.
And then he runs the snow-plough
Across his smiling lawn,
And all the snow-drifts vanish
And then the grass is gone.