Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa, Simple and meek as his flocks we're looking at, Tends his soft charge; nor where his daughter Rosa-- (A shot.) Hallo! What's that? PHILOSOPHER A--something thro' my hat-- Bullet, I think. You were speaking of his daughter? POET Yes; but--your hat you were moving through the leaves; Likely he thought it some eagle bent on slaughter. Lightly he shoots-- (A second shot.) PHILOSOPHER As one readily perceives. Still, he improves! This time YOUR hat has got it, Quite near the band! Eh? Oh, just as you please-- Stop, or go on. POET Perhaps we'd better trot it Down through the hollow, and up among the trees. BOTH Trot, trot, trot, where the bullets cannot follow; Trot down and up again among the laurel trees. PHILOSOPHER Thanks, that is better; now of this shot-dispensing Jones and his girl--you were saying-- POET Well, you see-- I--hang it all!--Oh! what's the use of fencing! Sir, I confess it!--these shots were meant for ME. PHILOSOPHER Are you mad! POET God knows, I shouldn't wonder! I love this coy nymph, who, coldly--as yon peak Shines on the river it feeds, yet keeps asunder-- Long have I worshiped, but never dared to speak. Till she, no doubt, her love no longer hiding, Waked by some chance word her father's jealousy; Slips her disdain--as an avalanche down gliding Sweeps flocks and kin away--to clear a path for ME. Hence his attack. PHILOSOPHER I see. What I admire Chiefly, I think, in your idyl, so to speak, Is the cool modesty that checks your youthful fire,-- Absence of self-love and abstinence of cheek! Still, I might mention, I've met the gentle Rosa,-- Danced with her thrice, to her father's jealous dread; And, it is possible, she's happened to disclose a-- Ahem! You can fancy why he shoots at ME instead. POET YOU? PHILOSOPHER Me. But kindly take your hand from your revolver, I am not choleric--but accidents may chance. And here's the father, who alone can be the solver Of this twin riddle of the hat and the romance. Enter JONES OF MARIPOSA. POET Speak, shepherd--mine! PHILOSOPHER Hail! Time-and-cartridge waster, Aimless exploder of theories and skill! Whom do you shoot? JONES OF MARIPOSA Well, shootin' ain't my taste, or EF I shoot anything--I only shoot to kill.