(_A Ballad of Labels._)
Dame Fashion, when she calls the tune,
Must surely crave my pardon
For prisoning me in leafy June
Far from my Alpine garden.
So that in crowded square or street
My Fancy's playful mockery
Plants all the pavement at my feet
With favourites from the rockery.
And so that, heedless to the claims
Of passing conversation,
I murmur to myself their names
By way of consolation.
The thread of compliment may run
Through many ball-room Babels--
I have one language, only one,
The language of the labels.
In Kedar's tents are festive hours,
The _noctes_ and the _coenæ_;
My heart is where _RETUSA_ flowers,
And crimson-starred _SILENE_.
I see the grey stones overhung
With lilac and laburnum;
I hear the drone of bees among
Blue depths of _LITHOSPERNUM_.
And in the box on opera nights
Between each thrilling scene I
Recall the miniature delights
Of _MENTHA REQUIENII_;
Admirers find me deaf and dumb
To all their honeyed wheedling,
I muse on _LONGIFOLIUM_
And dream of _STORMONTH SEEDLINGS_.
And, when they come to hint their loves
Through all the usual stages,
I wish I were in gardening gloves
Among my Saxifrages.
* * * * *
More Russian Methods.
"EAST-END DEPUTATION RECEIVED BY WHIP."
_Daily News and Leader._
* * * * *
_The Daily News_, in describing an adventure between the CROWN PRINCE of
Germany (in a motor) and a peasant of Saarbrücken, ventures (with a
knowledge of the Saarbrücken dialect which we ourselves cannot claim) to
give the peasant's actual words:--
"'Ain't 'eard nowt,' said the peasant; 'the lane be narrow like.
You must just wait till I be druv ahead.'"
Its likeness to the Loamshire dialect of England will interest the
philologist.
* * * * *