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_RARA AVIS._
Many birds there be that bards delight in;
I to one my tribute verse would bring;
Patience, reader! no, it's not the nightin-
gale I'm going to sing.
Sweet to lie at ease and for a while hark
To a "spirit that was never bird;"
Still I don't propose to sing the skylark,
As perhaps inferred.
I'm content to leave it to a fitter
Tongue than mine to hymn the "moan of doves,"
Or the swallow, apt to "cheep and twitter
Twenty million loves."
I'm intrigued by no precocious rook, who
Haunts the high hall garden calling "Maud;"
Mine's no "blithe newcomer" like the cuckoo
Wordsworth used to laud.
Never could the blackbird or the throstle
(From the poet each has had his due)
Win from me such perfectly colossal
Gratitude as you.
You, I mean, accommodating partridge,
By some lucky chance (the only one,
Spite of much expenditure of cartridge)
Fallen to my gun.
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[Illustration: OUT OF THE FRYING PAN.
WAR VETERAN. "THEY TOLD ME I WAS FIGHTING FOR DEAR LIFE, BUT I NEVER DREAMT
IT WAS GOING TO BE AS DEAR AS ALL THIS."]
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[Illustration: _Father._ "OH, YES, I USED TO PLAY QUITE A LOT OF CRICKET. I
ONCE MADE FORTY-SEVEN."
_Son._ "WHAT--WITH A HARD BALL, FATHER?"]
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