This is the Forest of St. John. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss and with lichens, have nothing to do with this Forest. Here ’stead of pines there are lamp-posts; and ’stead of the hemlocks, post-pillars; And as for the moss and the lichens, there’s dust and there’s slush in their places. This is the Forest of St. John――but here are no beasts save cab-horses; Birds, though――soiled doves as some call them――roost pretty thick in its villas. Sooth ’tis a forest, say some, where one may find lots of “dears-talking.” Certainly is it a tract for growing wild oats very famous! Ye who believe in fair beauty, in beauty skin deep and enduring, Ye who believe in the truth and the genuine charms of a woman, List to my mournful experience gained not long since in the Forest; List to the tale of Miss Mabel, a _belle_ of that north-western quarter. In the Ranunculus Road, near to the underground station; In a small villa, detached, bounded on all sides by garden; Lived on a competence easy, Mabel, the _belle_ I have mentioned. Fair as to face and so slim; flawless, in sooth, was this damsel; Rounded her bust in a manner approved of by painters and sculptors; Golden her hair as the sunshine that, careless, got tangled amongst it; Blue though her eyes as the ocean, jet black her brows and her lashes; Soft was the bloom on her cheeks as the delicate blush upon peaches; Seeing her smile, teeth and lips seemed like pearls set in pinkest of coral; Snow in her bosom had melted, despairing to rival its whiteness; Taper and lithe were her fingers, each with its pink pearl-shell helmet; Lightly had Time run the wheels of his chariot over her forehead, Never a rut had they made, for the road was like white alabaster, All this I saw and still more, though I am not a little short-sighted, When at a morning performance by chance I happened to meet her. Known to the friend I was with, he in the _entr’acte_ introduced me; And from that moment her box became the shrine of a goddess. Little I saw of the play, now even its name I’ve forgotten; Little I thought of my friend, but sheltered behind a box curtain, Kept I my _lorgnette_ on Mabel, watching her moods and her glances. Perfect was each of her poses as that of a painter’s lithe model; E’en when she talked to her friends the shape of her lips seemed like poetry; Smiles rippled over her face like sunshine upon broken water. * * * * * [Illustration]