[A West-end hosier advertises suits of Pyjamas in his window
as "the latest styles in slumber-wear."]
All hail, O hosier; deem me not absurd
That I should thank thee for so apt a word.
'Tis thus that Modesty our language trims:
Where men say "legs" she softly whispers "limbs."
And, while they fume and rage in angry pother,
Stills the big D---- and substitutes a "bother."
Speaks not of "trousers"--that were sin and shame;
"Continuations" is the gentler name.
Turns "shirts" to "shifts," and, blushing like the rose,
Converts the lowly stocking into "hose."
Thus thou, my hosier, profferest me a pair
Of these, the latest style of slumber-wear.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "AWEARY! AWEARY!"
_Miss Certainage_ (_who has been studying Schopenhauer, and has come
to the conclusion that there is nothing but sorrow in life, sadly_).
"AH, MAJOR, I'M SURE I SHALL DIE YOUNG!"
_Ethel._ "OH NO, AUNT DEAR, I'M _CERTAIN_ YOU WON'T!"]
* * * * *