But, on the day that they were mated, Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated; And Maud's relations, twelve in all, Were very drunk at the judge's hall. And when the summer came again, The young bride bore him babies twain. And the judge was blest, but thought it strange That bearing children made such a change: For Maud grew broad and red and stout; And the waist that his arm once clasped about Was more than he now could span. And he Sighed as he pondered, ruefully, How that which in Maud was native grace In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place; And thought of the twins, and wished that they Looked less like the man who raked the hay On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain Of the day he wandered down the lane. And, looking down that dreary track, He half regretted that he came back. For, had he waited, he might have wed Some maiden fair and thoroughbred; For there be women fair as she, Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. Alas for maiden! alas for judge! And the sentimental,--that's one-half "fudge;" For Maud soon thought the judge a bore, With all his learning and all his lore. And the judge would have bartered Maud's fair face For more refinement and social grace. If, of all words of tongue and pen, The saddest are, "It might have been," More sad are these we daily see: "It is, but hadn't ought to be." Avitor. An Aerial Retrospect. What was it filled my youthful dreams, In place of Greek or Latin themes, Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams? Avitor? What visions and celestial scenes I filled with aerial machines,-- Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's! Avitor. What fairy tales seemed things of course! The rock that brought Sindbad across, The Calendar's own winged-horse! Avitor! How many things I took for facts,-- Icarus and his conduct lax, And how he sealed his fate with wax! Avitor! The first balloons I sought to sail, Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail, Or kites,--but thereby hangs a tail. Avitor! What made me launch from attic tall A kitten and a parasol, And watch their bitter, frightful fall? Avitor? What youthful dreams of high renown Bade me inflate the parson's gown, That went not up, nor yet came down? Avitor? My first ascent, I may not tell: Enough to know that in that well My first high aspirations fell, Avitor! My other failures let me pass: The dire explosions; and, alas! The friends I choked with noxious gas, Avitor! For lo! I see perfected rise The vision of my boyish eyes, The messenger of upper skies, Avitor! A White-Pine Ballad.