The lines are in honour of one Simon Stock of that order, and they may be freely rendered:—
| W | ho | Si | first beg | pr | |||||
| hen | ly | mon | an his | eaching. | |||||
| T | wi | De | howled to sc | t |
NONSENSE VERSE
IMPROMPTU, BY AN OLD DIVINE
If down his throat a man should choose
In fun to jump or slide,
He’d scrape his shoes against his teeth,
Nor soil his own inside.
Or if his teeth were lost and gone,
And not a stump to scrape upon,
He’d see at once how very pat
His tongue lay there by way of mat,
And he would wipe his feet on that!
EDGAR POE’S RIDDLE
Edgar A. Poe addressed the following puzzle-valentine to a lady, adding, “You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do:”—
For her this rhyme is penned whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines—they hold a treasure
Divine—a talisman—an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure.
The first letter of the first line, the second of the second, the third of the third, and so on spell the lady’s name—Frances.
AN ILLUSION OF TYPE
A curious optical illusion is illustrated by printing a row of ordinary capital letters and figures which are symmetrical, thus:—