"Can any of the signorine do that?" she crowed triumphantly. "I can knock off a man's hat or black his eye with my foot."
All the Leatherstonepaughs groaned in doleful chorus, "A-a-a-h-h!"
And it was not until young Cain, ostracised from the studio during the séance, whistled in through the keyhole sympathetic inquiries concerning the only woe his little soul knew, "Watty matter in yare? Ennybuddy dut e tummuck-ache?" that they chorused with laughter at their "Giovanni-Bellini Madonna."
Margaret Bertha Wright.
SHELLEY.
Shelley, the wondrous music of thy soul
Breathes in the cloud and in the skylark's song,
That float as an embodied dream along
The dewy lids of Morning. In the dole
That haunts the west wind, in the joyous roll
Of Arethusan fountains, or among
The wastes where Ozymandias the strong
Lies in colossal ruin, thy control
Speaks in the wedded rhyme. Thy spirit gave
A fragrance to all Nature, and a tone
To inexpressive Silence. Each apart—
Earth, Air and Ocean—claims thee as its own,
The twain that bred thee, and the panting wave
That clasped thee like an overflowing heart.
J. B. Tabb.