And so I do. My argent sphere
Goes speeding through the night's opaque;
No hazards of the sand I fear,
The heavenly huntress keeps me clear
Of thorn and brake;
Not Dionysus' spotted ounce
More featly on the sward may bounce;
I hover like a hawk at pounce,
Putt out——and wake.
Evoe.
Spring Fashions.
"A waistcoat of tan and a limp lawn collar flowing over the shoulders make a good suit."
Times.