Slowly our souls between
Mists of reserve crept in—
I reck'd not, blindly—
A sister she became,
O chill and veal-like name!
A great deal less than kin,
Much less than kindly.
Then on the old sweet ways
Of thoughtless, chummy days,
Turning severely,
Pride, hooded in dislike,
Struck as a snake might strike,
And, in the public gaze,
Froze me austerely.
Well, all is vanity;
She'll disillusion'd be,
And I—well, as for me,
When these confusions
Clear from my brain away,
Back in my thoughts I'll stray
Where sunbeams ever play
On lost illusions.
ONE THING AT A TIME.
Genial Master (under the painful necessity of discharging his Coachman). "I'm afraid, Simmons, we must part. The fact is, I couldn't help noticing that several times during the last Month you have been—Sober; and I don't believe a Man can attend properly to the Drink if he has Driving to do!"
TO A SCORCHER.
'Arry, 'Arry Smith de Smith,
As wheelman you would win renown!
You are the country districts' pest,
You are the nuisance of the town:
You're wan and wild and dust-defiled;
You think you're awfully admired.
Though winner of a hundred "pots,"
Your fame is not to be desired.