My lady hath a garden fair,
Wherein she whiles her hours:
She chides me that I do not share
Her rage for springing flowers.
I tell her I've a garden, too,
Wherein I have to toil--
The kind that Epicurus knew,
If not so good a soil.
And I must till my patch with care,
And watch its daily needs;
For lacking water, sun, and air,
The place would run to weeds.
In this the garden of the mind,
My flowers are all too few;
Yet am I well content to find
A modest bloom or two.
My lady hath a garden fair,
Or will when buds are blown:
I've but a blossom here and there--
Poor posies, but mine own.
* * *
"Very well, here is a constructive criticism," declared Col. Roosevelt,
tossing another grenade into the administration trenches. The Colonel is
our favorite constructive critic. After he has finished a bit of
construction it takes an hour for the dust to settle.
* * *
Judgment day will be a complete performance for the dramatic critics.
They will be able to stay for the last act.
* * *
Why is it that when a woman takes the measurements for a screen door she
thinks she has to allow a couple of inches to turn in?
* * *
"Woman Lights 103 Candles With One Match."
Huh! Helen, with one match, lit the topless towers of Ilium.
* * *
It may be--nay, it is--ungallant so to say, but---- Well, have you, in
glancing over the beauty contest exhibits, observed a face that would
launch a thousand ships? Or five hundred?
* * *
"Learn to Speak on Your Feet," advertises a university extension. We
believe we could tell all we know about ours in five hundred words.
* * *