TO CORRESPONDENTS

Postman, though I fear thy tread,
nd tremble as thy foot draws nearer,
not the Christmas Dun I dread,
y mortal foe is much severer,
Unknown Correspondent, who,
ith indefatigable pen,
nothing in the world to do,
erplexes literary men.

m Pentecost and Ponder's End

hey write; from Deal and from Dacotah, people of the Shetlands send

o inconsiderable quota;

y write for autographs; in vain,

y

a vain does Phyllis write, and Flora,

y write that Allan Quatermain

not at all the book for Brora.

y write to say that "they have met" his writer "at a garden party,"

And though this writer "may forget,"
Their recollection's keen and hearty.
"And will you praise in your reviews
A novel by our distant cousin?”
These letters from Provincial Blues
Assail us daily by the dozen!

O friends with time upon your hands,
O friends with postage stamps in plenty,
O poets out of many lands,

O youths and maidens under twenty,
Seek out some other wretch to bore,

Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,

And leave me to my dusty lore,

And my unprofitable labours.

ANDREW LANG

A TERRIBLE INFANT

RECOLLECT a nurse call'd Ann, Who carried me about the grass, nd one fine day a fine young man Came up and kiss'd the pretty lass: he did not make the least objection! Thinks I, "Aha!

When I can talk I'll tell Mamma.”

- And that's my earliest recollection. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON

TO AN INSECT

I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice,

Wherever thou art hid,

Thou testy little dogmatist,

Thou pretty Katydid!

Thou mindest me of gentlefolks, ·

Old gentlefolks are they, —

Thou say'st an undisputed thing
In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid!
I know it by the trill

That quivers through thy piercing notes, So petulant and shrill,

I think there is a knot of you

Beneath the hollow tree,

A knot of spinster Katydids,

Do Katydids drink tea?

Oh, tell me where did Katy live,

And what did Katy do?

TO AN INSECT

And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked, too?

Did Katy love a naughty man,
Or kiss more cheeks than one?
I warrant Katy did no more

Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I'll tell you all about
My fuss with little Jane,

And Ann, with whom I used to walk

So often down the lane,

And all that tore their locks of black,

Or wet their eyes of blue,

Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,
What did poor Katy do?

Ah, no! the living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,

The rock shall rend its mossy base
And thunder down the hill,

Before the little Katydid

Shall add one word, to tell