DEAR MR. PUNCH,--A touching epitaph has lately come under my notice.
It runs as follows:--
"HIC JACET ANONYMA.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Where yellow asters throve,
A maid whom there were few to praise
And fewer still to love.
She lived unknown, so none can know
The hour she ceased to be,
Enough to know she has, and oh!
Pray, all men, R. I. P."
Is it possible that our old friend, the New Woman, that quite
"impossible she," has left us for "another place"? It seems almost too
good to be true.
Yours unfeelingly,