You’ve heard the tale of Daphne of a hundred years ago? You haven’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a thing you ought to know. Though pretty smart at most things (for her age was seventeen) She didn’t know the proper way to wear a crinoline. For instance, when the winter winds came tearing through the town She made the most ridiculous attempts to hold it down; And thus it was that often as she tacked across the street The people got a view of her that wasn’t only feet. You’ve heard, of course, the story of the Daphne of today? You haven’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s funny in a way. In spite of all the teachings of the Grundies and the Prims, She hasn’t yet discovered how to cover up her limbs. For instance, though the crinoline perplexes her no more, She’s in the same predicament, precisely, as before. And when she’s sprinting for a bus, with little time to lose, The people get a view of her that isn’t only shoes. I hate, of course, to moralize, to lecture or to prate, But troubles have their ending if the troubled only wait; And probably, if Daphne’s good, and patient as a saint, The skirt will pass to savages, and she will have their paint; And that will keep its proper place, whate’er her attitude, And satisfy the conscience of the most exacting prude— Unless a rainstorm comes along that nothing does by halves, And then we’ll get a view of her that won’t be only calves! —A. B. M. * * * * * The Pleasure Pier (Ocean Park, California) One night as I strolled on the sand, The hour of twelve was near, By chance my wandering footsteps led Me underneath the pier. Ye Gods! the people I saw that night, As I strolled along my way; Behind each piling they ’rose like ghosts And silently faded away. I saw there men, and women, too; And friends I held most dear, And I turned and fled (for I wasn’t alone), As I strolled beneath the pier. * * * * * Jeu D’Amour By Enid R. Clay March winds were blowing when we met— (And so the game was started) You blew a breath of love to me That left me broken-hearted. June roses scented all the air— (The game seemed so worth winning). Their glory mingled with your kiss, And never thought it sinning. And still for some the March winds blow, And roses perish never; For all my play—and some must lose— Forever and forever. * * * * * Christmas at the Workhouse