Nearing her bower, it seemed a sepulchre Sacred to memory, and almost she thought A dolorous cry arose, as if Elaine Did sound a caterwauling requiem. With hesitating hand she raised the latch, And on the threshold with reluctant foot Lingered, as loath to face the scene of woe, When lo! the body lay not on the hearth, For there Elaine her flying tail pursued,— In the Dame’s chair Sir Tray alive did sit, A world of merry meaning in his eye, And all his face agrin from ear to ear. Like one who late hath lost his dearest friend, And in his sleep doth see that friend again, And marvels scarce to see him, putting forth A clasping hand, and feels him warm with life, And so takes up his friendship’s broken thread— Thus stood the Dame, thus ran she, pattering o’er The sanded tiles, and clasped she thus Sir Tray, Unheeding of the grief his jest had wrought For joy he was not numbered with the dead. Anon the Dame, her primal transports o’er, Bethought her of the wisdom of Sir Tray, And his fine wit, and then it shameful seemed That he bareheaded ’neath the sky should go While empty skulls of fools went thatched and roofed; “A hat,” she cried, “would better fit those brows Than many a courtier’s that I’ve wotted of; And thou shalt have one, an’ my tender toes On which the corns do shoot, and these my knees Wherethro’ rheumatic twinges swiftly dart, Will bear me to the city yet again, And thou shalt wear the hat as Arthur wore The Dragon of the great Pendragonship.” Whereat Sir Tray did seem to smile, and smote Upon the chair-back with approving tail. Then up she rose, and to the Hatter’s went,— “Hat me,” quoth she, “your very newest hat;” And so they hatted her, and she returned Home through the darksome wold, and raised the latch, And marked, full lighted by the ingle-glow, Sir Tray, with spoon in hand, and cat on knee, Spattering the mess about the chaps of Puss. THE OLOGIES. We’re going to begin with an ample Apology; You’ll end, we are sure, by a hearty Doxology, If, all undeterred by our strange Phraseology, You chose to sit down to a dish of Tautology. * * * * * One’s pestered in these days by so many ’ologies, We thought we would fain see the tale of our foes; A niche of your own in the new Martyrologies You’d earn if you’d only go halves in our woes. We’v counted some forty! but how many more there are, We’re even now wholly unable to say; We fear that at least the same number in store there are, You’ll say we have found quite enough for one day. * * * * *