She danced among the unfinished ways
That merge into the Strand,
A maid whom none could fail to praise,
And very few withstand.
A sylph, accepted for the run,
Not at a weekly wage;
Fair as a star when only one
Is shining on the stage.
She met a lord, and all men know
How soon she'd done with me;
Now she is in _Debrett_, oh, and,
That's where they all would be!
* * * * *
[Illustration: A FIRST NIGHT.--_Indignant Playwright (to leading actor,
behind the scenes)._ "Confound it, man, you've absolutely murdered the
piece!" _Leading Actor._ "Pardon me, but I think the foul play is
yours!"]
* * * * *
_Smart._ How do, Smooth? (_to theatrical manager, who frowns upon him_).
What's the matter, eh?
_Smooth._ Matter? Hang it, Smart, you wrote me down in "The Stinger."
_Smart (repressing something Shakspearian about "writing down" which
occurs to him, continues pleasantly)._ Wrote you down? No, I said the
piece was a bad one, because I thought it was; a very bad one.
_Smooth._ Bad! (_Sarcastically._) You were the only man who said so.
_Smart (very pleasantly)._ My dear fellow, _I was the only man who saw
it._ Good-bye.
[_Exeunt severally._
* * * * *