So here your Hun, denouncing this condition Of his uncleanly city's upper crust, Flatly declines to have his earthly vision Clogged with material dust,
Yet, all unconscious of the draught he's taking, Swallows the stuff in pharisaic wise With which his rulers have for years been making A dustbin of his eyes.
DAYLIGHT SAYING.
A Nursery View.
Last Sunday morning an hour was lost. The children had been discussing the question beforehand.
"Where will it go?" asked one.
"I suppose the fairies will take it," said Joyce.
"Perhaps it will go behind the clock," said another.
"Well, I'll tell you what I'd like to do," said Joyce deliberately. "I'd like to get up in the middle of the night, when the hour is going to be lost, and put on my dressing-gown without waking Nannie, and go out into the garden and see for myself how they lose it. It's sure to be about somewhere."