O’er both our heads the years have rolled, And I am stout and growing old; And you are married, I dare say, And know a mother’s cares to-day. Maybe our chairs--bath-chairs, I mean-- May pass some day ere we’ve quite seen The Exhibition. The New Legend. When my liver’s out of order, and my nerves are all awry, And I want to sit in corners and to tear my hair and cry, When a demon stands behind me with a razor or a knife, And suggests the use of either as a short-cut out of life, When the gloom outside my window is the gloom inside my heart, And the ghostly sounds about make me shake and make me start, Then I walk about my dwelling, but my sorrows do not flee When I find my goods and chattels all were “made in Germany.” The globes upon my gas-lamps bear that exquisite device, It is worked upon my carpets and the trap that catches mice; It is stamped upon my dusters, and imprinted on my hat, And I half expect to find it on the collar of my cat. “Made in Germany”‘s the motto on my knocker and my bell, And the scraper and the doormat have it written large as well; From the basement to the attic all around those words I see, And e’en my patent chimney-pots were “made in Germany.” Then I wander forth for shelter from this legend, but in vain, For it polks in flaming letters through my agitated brain; It is stamped on all the lamp-posts and the flagstones at my feet, And I see it on the helmets of the bobbies on the street. “Give me respite from this legend!” in my agony I cry, And my gentle Albert Edward says to comfort me he’ll try; But while weeping on his bosom there is no relief for me, For, like everything about me, he was “made in Germany.” A Mild December. A balmy breeze o’er London plays, The summer sun is shining, The weather’s clerk has (scandal says) Undoubtedly been dining. Old fogeys sit about the parks, And “Dear, can you remember,” Old Darby to old Joan remarks, “Such mildness in December?” When Master Sandford takes his walks Abroad with Master Merton, He says, “O, ain’t I hot, O lawks, With my thick flannel shirt on!” “My pupils will take notice, please,” Exclaims the Reverend Barlow, “It’s warmer here by seven degrees Than ’tis in Monte Carlo.” For garden-seats the public run To Shoolbred’s and to Maple’s; It’s five degrees more in the sun In London than in Naples! I shut my eyes and dream a dream About our winter season, That does not seem to have a gleam Of common-sense or reason. I dream that from the southern land The foreigners are flocking; They promenade along the Strand, The Thames Embankment blocking.