I wonder if you give your mind
At all to angels. "Which?" you say?
Why, angels of the hymn-book kind,
Not imitation ones in clay.
I often do. They fascinate
My fancy to a strange degree;
And meditating much of late
There came two serious points to me.
You notice in the Holy Writ
Angels are never feminine;
But, wheresoever they may flit,
_He_ came, _he_ spake, _he_ gave the sign.
The men who wrote of them were sage,
And knew their subject out and out;
But _we_ live in a wicked age,
That twists the angels' sex about.
And painters paint them girls. And then
The question sets one's brains afire--
Why choristers on earth are men,
If women form the heavenly choir?
And if they _do_ paint here or there
A man among the cherubim,
I claim to know why not a hair
May grow upon the face of him?
I know the Roman Church decreed
"A priest shall wear a shaven face."
But what of angels? There indeed
Razor and strop seem out of place.
Then why this hairless cheek and chin?
I ask, and Echo answers Why?
Have angel-cheeks no roots within?
--Here comes my keeper. So, good-bye!
* * * * *
RECKLESS.--"Mr. ALLEN, Senator of Albraska, a prominent silverite,
spoke for fifteen hours." "Speech is silver. Silence golden." If all
silverites go on at this length, there'll be no silence, _ergo_, no
gold. Q. E. D.
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[Illustration: "L'UNION FAIT LA-FARCE!"]
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[Illustration: "OUT FOR AN OTTER-DAY!"]
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