'Tis ninety years ago, love!
It seems but yestermorn
We sat upon the snow, love,
And watch'd the golden corn!
I mind the bitter wind, love--
I mind it well, although
The wind I say I mind, love,
Blew ninety years ago!
The plough stood on the hill, love--
The horse stood in the plough!
And both were standing still, love--
I seem to see them now!
The lamb frisk'd in the glen, love--
A stranger _he_ to _whoa_!
And so was I--but then, love,
'Twas ninety years ago!
The roses by the way, love,
Were large and, oh, so fair!
And so they are to-day, love,
For all I know--or care!
And softly unto thou, love,
While yet among the snow,
I breathed that fatal vow, love,
Of ninety years ago!
* * * * *
A "FISHING INTERROGATORY."--"What's this new French book on angling?"
asked Mrs. R., who is not very well up in the French language and
literature. "I believe," she went on, "it is called _The Bait Humane_. I
do hope it is against the cruel practice of putting live worms on a
hook, which is so cruel."--[It is supposed that our dear Mrs. R. has
heard some mention of _La Bête Humaine_.--ED.]
* * * * *