(_By a Syndicate of Singers._)
IN the gay play-house mingle
The gallant and the fair;
The married and the single,
And wit and wealth, are there;
And shirt-front spreads in acres,
And collar fathoms high;
Dressmakers and unmakers
In choice confections vie.
A sight to soften rockses!
Yet low my spirit falls,
For _she_ is in the boxes.
And _I_ am in the stalls.
The music's lively measure,
The curtain's plushy fold,
I hear untouched with pleasure,
Unsolaced I behold.
And rank and fashion vainly
My wandering eyes survey,
Though Mrs. B. and Lady C.
Look well in green and grey.
The watchful leader knocks his
Desk, as the prompter calls,
And _she_ is in the boxes,
And _I_ am in the stalls.
How dully moves the drama
To one whose heart is dumb.
In listless panorama
The actors go and come.
The couple just before me
Keep bobbing to and fro.
It doesn't even bore me
To see them doing so.
The lover closely locks his
Emotions one and all,
When _she_ is in the boxes,
And _he_ has got a stall.
But sudden brilliance reaches
The playwright's mouthing shams,
And the long-winded speeches
Grow brisk as epigrams.
My heart, in sudden clover,
With smiles adorns my face,
For, when the Act is over,
I need not keep my place.
I'll chase my fears, like foxes,
When next the curtain falls--
I'll then be in the boxes,
Though now I'm in the stalls.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "TREATMENT."
_Doctor._ "NO, SIR; IT IS NEARLY OBSOLETE IN PRACTICE. WE DON'T BLEED
NOW AS THEY USED TO DO FORMERLY."
_Atrabilious Patient._ "AH?!--NOT WITH THE LANCET, YOU MEAN!"]
* * * * *