Sweet rose! In thee the summer bides;
Thy deep, red breast a secret hides,
Which none may know but only she
Whose eyes are stars lit up for me.
Red rose! Unto her sweetly speak,
And glow against her burning cheek;
Ah! breathe this in her shell-like ear,—
“Thou makest it summer all the year.”
SPURIUS LARTIUS.—I should imagine the rose to be a waiter, from the
instruction to “breathe in her shell-like ear.”
POET.—A moment. There is a third stanza to this poem, written on
receiving the florist’s bill:—
Great Scott! List to my heart’s dull thud!
Thou hast a dollar cost a bud.
She is now my rival’s bride;
Again I’ll wear that ulster tried.
The PRESIDENT.—And now the gentleman at the end of the long table
will tell one of his inimitable anecdotes.
THE GENTLEMAN AT THE END OF THE LONG TABLE.—Trade is so dull now that
the anecdote market is overstocked. The _bon-mot_ and jest mills are
rolling up their products; but middlemen are cautious, and consumers
wary. The stock of last year’s “chestnuts”[30] is being worked off;
and I have one, a little shop-worn, which I have dusted for the
occasion:—
_The Fable of the Inquisitive old Broker and the Queer Bundle._
An inquisitive old broker noticed a queer bundle upon the lap of a
man sitting opposite him in the horse-car. He looked at the bundle,
in wonder as to what it might contain, for some minutes; finally,
overmastered by curiosity, he inquired:—
“Excuse me, sir; but would you mind telling me what is in that
extraordinary bundle?”
“Certainly; a mongoose,” replied the man, who was reading “Don’t,” and
learning how to be a real, true gentleman.
“Ah, indeed!” ejaculated the broker, with unslacked curiosity.... “But
what is a mongoose, pray?”
“Something to kill snakes with.”
“But why do you wish to kill snakes with a mongoose?” asked the broker.
“My brother has the _delirum tremens_ and sees snakes all the time. I
am going to fix ‘em.”
“But, my dear sir, the snakes which your brother sees in his
delirium are not real snakes, but the figments of his diseased
imagination,—not real snakes, sir!”
“Well! this is not a real mongoose.”—_Moral. Ask me no questions, and
I’ll tell you no lies._
SPURIUS LARTIUS.—I always liked that story. My father used to tell it.
MARCENAS.—Hush, Spurius; the club _Vers de société_ writer is about to
favor us.
THE CLUB VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ WRITER.—I have, in my pocket, some dainty
verses. I have long written rondeaux, triolets, and pantouns.