ONE ARTIST TO ANOTHER.

Who draws these lines upon my face
Which chronicle the fall from grace
That | have chronicled in rhyme?

HALL | reproach this artist, Time, |

The hate, the lust, and the desire, l.
Which twist the soul, so clear are shown,

That unreproaching | admire

An art that's greater than my own.

—EDITH TWEEDIE.

A CALENDAR ROMANCE. y

On hero was the common sort, when all is said and done,
He worked hard every day, and was out to get the MON. .

The reason for his diligence was commonplace ‘tis truae— is
He tried to swell his salary so it would suffice for TUE. ,

And maybe that's the reason why one day he lost his head,
And falling on his knees, he cried "Oh maiden wilt thou WED.

He may have thought this sudden, but it seemed not so to her;
She lisped a quick acceptance and said forcibly "Yeath THUR.”

But whe nthey went to keeping house he thought that he would die;
For, oh that modern maiden could neither bake nor FRI.

She could not run a bungalow, or even run a flat,
So on many sad occasions in a restaurant they SAT.

But he forgave her every thing as man ha salways done .
When she presented him one day a bouncing baby SUN.

—MONICA PATTERSON.

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