“Ah,” said I, no longer dreaming, with a sudden knowledge gleaming, “You’ve a monthly nurse’s seeming, and ’twas you that I heard pour; Tell me, then, when I may slumber, when this room you’ll cease to cumber, Since of chilblains such a number in the passage I deplore; Tell me when I may turn in and cease their smarting to deplore.” Quoth that woman, “Never more!” “Woman!” said I, “nurse, how dare you? If you do not have a care, you Soon will find that I can spare you, for I’ll show to you the door!” But that woman, calmly sitting, and her brows engaged in knitting, In a way most unbefitting took the bottle from the floor, Took it up, although ’twas empty, took it up from off the floor; Waved it and said, “Never more!” “Nurse,” I shouted, “I won’t stand it; put it down, at once, unhand it! As your master, I demand it, and this room to me restore; Take yon saucepan from my table; clear my bed, for you are able, Of your wardrobe, and the baby take where it was heretofore; For I long to sink in slumber: nurse, I’m dying for a snore!” Quoth that woman, “Never more!” “Be that word our sign of parting, monthly nurse,” said I, upstarting, “Get thee gone, thou Gamp outrageous, to where’er thou wast before; Leave that bottle as a token of the rest that thou hast broken―― Now be off――have I not spoken? Get thee gone, Gamp, there’s the door―― Take thy wardrobe from my bed, and take thyself out through that door!” Quoth that woman, “Never more!” And that monthly nurse is sitting, drinking in a way unfitting, In an easy-chair luxurious just behind my chamber-door; There for weeks she has been sleeping, me from my own chamber keeping; Degradations on me heaping, till my heart of hearts is sore; Fearing that her shadow never will be lifted from my floor, And that, smelling strong of spirits, she through yonder open door Shall be lifted――Never more! _Finis_ (Beeton’s Christmas Annual, 1877.) ―――――――― THE MAIDEN. Once upon a summer morning, whilst I watched the sun adorning All the hilltops lying round me with an ever-golden hue, Suddenly I saw a maiden with a basket heavy laden, Yes, a basket heavy laden with some clothes which looked like new, And I cried, “My pretty maiden, these look just as good as new; Have they, pray, been washed by you?” Ah! distinctly I remember how my soul burned like an ember, As the maiden’s eyes grew brighter――eyes of such a lovely blue; How her auburn tresses glistened in the sunlight while I listened, Wondering how she had been christened; but her answering words were few, And somehow they didn’t please me, these her answering words so few―― “Truly, sir, what’s that to you?”