(_BY A FROZEN-OUT LOVER._)
They tell me thou art cold, my sweet--
A fact that scarcely odd is.
Gales half so cruel never beat
Against poor human bodies.
Cupid's attire is far too light
To weather Thirty Fahrenheit.
How can a glow the soul entrance,
When frostbite nips the finger,
And blushes quit the countenance
To nigh the nostril linger!
Warmth were a miracle, in sight
And grip of Thirty Fahrenheit.
Chill! chill to _me_, my Paradise!!
I'll not complain or curse on.
One cannot well be otherwise
To any mortal person.
Mere icebergs ambulant, we fight
Ferocious Thirty Fahrenheit.
Cold art thou? Not so cold as I--
Nought living could be colder.
I'm far too cold to sob or sigh,
Still less in passion smoulder.
I'm turning fast to something quite
As numb as Thirty Fahrenheit.
* * * * *
INFORMATION REQUIRED.--"Sir, I see a Volume advertised entitled,
_Unspoken Sermons_. I should be glad to know where these are preached,
as that's the place for yours truly, ONE WHO SNORES."
* * * * *
NEW BOOK OF IRISH LIFE.--_The Bedad's Sons_. By the Author of the tale
of Indian Life, _The Begum's Daughters_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DELIGHTS OF TRIAL BY JURY.
THESE GENTLEMEN ARE EXPECTED TO BE IN A JUDICIAL FRAME OF MIND AFTER
HANGING ABOUT THE PRECINCTS OF THE COURT FOR SEVERAL DAYS, UNDER
PENALTY OF A HEAVY FINE, WHILE THEIR PRIVATE BUSINESS IN THE CITY AND
ELSEWHERE IS GOING TO THE DOGS. (WHY SHOULD NOT HALF-PAY OFFICERS DO
THE WORK, AND RELIEVE BUSY MEN?)]
* * * * *