Three poets went sailing down Boston streets, All into the East as the sun went down, Each felt that the editor loved him best And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town. For poets must write tho’ the editors frown, Their æsthetic natures will not be put down, While the harbour bar is moaning! Three editors climbed to the highest tower That they could find in all Boston town, And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour, Till the sun or the poets had both gone down. For Spring poets must write though the editors rage, The artistic spirit must thus be engaged―― Though the editors all were groaning. Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand, Just after the first spring sun went down, And the Press sat down to a banquet grand, In honour of poets no more in the town. For poets will write while editors sleep, Though they’ve nothing to earn and no one to keep; And the harbour bar keeps moaning. LILIAN WHITING. From an American collection, entitled _The Wit of Women_ by Kate Sanborn. ―――― THE THREE FILCHERS. Three filchers went cadging in character dressed, To every move most remarkably down, Each thought on the fakement that suited him best; And the peelers stood watching them out on the town. “Oh, we don’t want no vork, ’cos ve goes on the cheap, We prigs all ve can, though but little we keep, And we are the boys for boning.” Three bob-hobbies sat by the station fire, And to trim these scamps they a plan laid down; They looked very sly, but may need to look slyer, For these night-hawks were old ’uns at doing ’em brown. “Oh, vhen ve vork honest folks are asleep, And in their strong boxes ve takes a sly peep, And we are the boys for boning.” Three convicts, connected with iron bands, In the saddest plights of the “jug” went down, And the peelers are grinning and rubbing their hands At the coves who will never more cadge on the town. “Now then ve must vork with our hands and our feet, Sich a gitting up-stairs――oh, ain’t it a treat, Besides we are barred from boning.” From _The Free Lance_, Manchester. ―――― THREE STUDENTS. Three students were walking, all dressed in their best, On a Sunday in Term, without cap, without gown. Each lit a cigar that came from the West, And they thought they’d astonish the men of the town. For men _will_ slum, tho’ their guv’nors weep, Who have got to stump up to pay for their keep, And the Tutor ’bout work may be groaning.