I says, "BILL, you're bilious!" 'E snorts supercilious, and bolts the 'ard-roe. "Hah, young Daffydowndilly," 'E growls as 'e munches, "of all the green bunches o' Spring inguns _you_ are the greenest. It's silly, Your slop-over sentiment is, _for_ a Cabby!!!"--Fare? "Finsbury Park, and look slippy!" "All right, Sir!"-- "We'll argue it out, BILLY BOGER, some other time." Right away coachman! Kim up mare! Good night, Sir!
The words of that arch-humourist, the late ARTEMUS WARD, on the subject of the New Woman, whom he designated "a he-lookin' female," are worth repeating:--"'O, woman, woman,' I cried, my feelins worked up to a hi poetick pitch, 'you air a angle when you behave yourself; but when you take off your proper appairel and (mettyforically speaken) get into pantyloons--when you desert your firesides, and with your heds full of wimin's rites noshuns go round like roarin lyons, seekin whom you may devour someboddy--in short, when you undertake to play the man, you play the devil and air an emfatic noosence. My female friends,' I continnered, as they were indignantly departin, 'wa well what A. WARD has sed!'"
"WOULDN'T YOU LIKE SOME MUSIC, PROFESSOR?"
"NO, THANKS. I'M QUITE HAPPY AS I AM. TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH, I PREFER THE WORST POSSIBLE CONVERSATION TO THE BEST MUSIC THERE IS!"]
(_With Apologies to the Shade of Keats._)
"The new style of women's head-gear--called mixed plumes--threatens to add the extermination of Birds of Paradise to that of several species of herons.... It is for this 'use' that whole heronries in Florida and elsewhere have been utterly destroyed; it is for this that Birds of Paradise are being persecuted even to extinction."--_Mrs. E. Phillips, Vice-President of the Society for the Preservation of Birds._
Oh, what can ail thee, poet-man, Alone and palely loitering? "The wings are banished from the woods, And no birds sing."
Oh, what can ail thee, bird-lover, So haggard and so woe-begone? "The heronry no more is full, And the cranes are flown."
I see there's sorrow on thy brow, At dawn's rose-flush, at eve's cool dew. "Bird-song is gone from the garden rose, And the field flowers too.
"I met a lady on the way, Fell, beautiful, cold Fashion's child; Her hair was golden, her plume was high, And her eyes were wild.