« 上一页继续 »
Not heard upon thy trial. This brute beast
Unkempt and weary-eyed.
His shabby harness here and there
A sorry sight indeed,
The farmer's old gray steed.
Across the hot and dusty square
the narrow street,
And bugles loud and sweet.
And shook his tangled mane,
His withered veins again.
With every well-remembered note
A vision on him grew,
And lines of men in blue.
The marching squadrons come,
To curvet to the drum.
For oft upon a battle-field
He heard the bugles blow,
From floor to roof a glittering maze
Of gorgeous robes and faces fair,
And fans that set the air astir,
Filled all the ampitheatre. Below them in the sunlight space
Beneath the tranquil April skies, Two combatants stood face to face,
A milk-white bull with fiery eyes, Huge, frantic, mad with rage and pain,
His great head bowed to charge the foe; And, poising with a cool disdain
His weapon for the fatal blow,
A youth decked out in gorgeous wise.
A murmurous hush, a breathless pause
The ladies lean far out to see.
A plunge-a bellowing roar-a cloud
That rolled the echoing circle round;
Mid ringing bravas, smiled and bowed.
A child sobbed softly in the crowd.
She wept. “Alas, poor pretty bull!”
With sad eyes, grieved and pitiful,
One blossom, wet with tearful dew,
One little crimson rose, she threw,
And still all tongues the victor sang,
“ Huzza! the matador!”
EAR Pussy, I love you and I's your true friend,
'Cause I saved you a whippin' to-day
When cook missed her custard and everyone said It was Puss that had stealed it away; You know you are naughty sometimes, Pussy dear,
And, in course, you got blamed and all that,
The thief out that mizzable cat!
So I saved you the whippin', you see, 'Cause I went to mamma, and telled her
I 'spect she'd better tell cook to whip me,
Who felt dreffely sorrow with shame,
When that bad little girl was to blame.
Who stealed all the custard and then ran away; But it's best to be true in the things that we do,
And-that's how I saved you a spankin' to-day.
HE HELD HER HANDS.
HOLD her hands. The lamp's soft ray
Among her tresses' golden strands;
Unheeded run the hour-glass sands
I hold her hands.
Her gaze is pensive far away,
This is the picture that expands,
If I let go—the truth to say
On the piano she will play
I hold her hands.
A CHRISTMAS LETTER.
JAMES COURTNEY CHALLISS.
Of your presents for December (unless I am to be
missed), That I've slippers, picture-brackets, smoking-sets of various
types, Half-a-dozen smoking-jackets, thirty-seven meerschaum pipes! Twenty patent“ kid glove menders,” collar boxes by the score, Of embroidered silk suspenders, forty-'leven pairs or more; That each year since I was twenty I've received a paper
weight; Have pen-wipers, inkstands plenty, paper-cutters—twenty
eight; That I've Browning and Longfellow by the hundreds—every
kind, Shakespeare—black and blue and yellow, Milton till I'm nearly
So there's just one present only that I'm wanting, in this year Of my bachelorship so lonely--that's yourself, my Phyllis dear.
A CASE OF SPOONS AND BROTHER TOM.
T'S my brother again," said the girl with the ostrich boa,
as she sank into a chair, “but I'll get even with him,
if it takes me the rest of my natural life to do it!” The girl in the pink waist yawned.
How often must I tell you never to ask him for money unless at least one of the other girls is present?” she asked.
“ It isn't money this time. It is spoons. I-"
“ You never let Marie help him to select your birthday present, I hope. She is a nice, sweet girl as long as there is not a man within sight, but I wouldn't trust her to-to help a widower select a tombstone for his wife's grave.”