“In Brum what conquests have you made? How many may you be?” “How many? seven in all,” he said, And winked and smiled at me. “The Tories? Pray you, where are they?” He answered: “Seven are we; The Tories stood awhile at bay, But they were all at sea! “All of them knew the way to lie, They tutored one another, But each has gone to pipe his eye And whimper to his mother! “And as they went I raised my hat, I smiled and coughed: Ahem! And there upon the poll I sat, I sat and laughed at them. “The first to fail was Lord Chur-chill, Bright made him dull, by Joe! Then Showell showed extremely ill, And Lowe looked very low!” “But they are fled――their hopes are done.” He said: “They are forgiven! Seven seats there are, but they have none, Seven seats――yet they have not won one,” He said, “But we are seven!” _The Judge._ London. December 5, 1885. ―――― MORE THAN SEVEN. (_Wordsworth’s Poem Adapted to Modern Times._) I met a little city child, A small and vulgar boy, His eyes were twinkling, and he smiled As with an inward joy. He had a look of saucy pride, His legs were somewhat bent, He walked along with careless stride, And whistled as he went. “Sisters and brothers, little child, How many may you be?” His whistle ceased, but still he smiled, And stood and looked at me. I said, “How many may you be? Where dwell you under heaven?” He smiled a simple smile at me, And said “I’m more than seven!” “I do not doubt your word,” I said, “It gives me no surprise.” I placed my hand upon his head, And looked into his eyes. “But pray you tell me, too, of those To whom your love is given.” He laid his finger on his nose And said, “I am more than seven!” “I asked you not your age to give,” I said, with mild caress, “But tell me if your parents live, And what is their address?” He fumbled with his jacket hem, As only children can: “I never tell such things as them To any School Board man!” “I’m not a School Board man, my child, I am your friend,” said I, But still he only stood and smiled, And made this strange reply: “If you tell whoppers such as that You’ll never go to heaven!” I reasoned vainly, I suppose, For still he smiled and tapped his nose, And said, “I’m more than seven!” A. St. J. A. ―――― WE ARE ONE. (_More’s the Pity._) ――――A single man, That leads a quiet life, Far from the din of family cares, What should he know of strife? I met a tall and ancient girl―― She was nineteen, she said―― Her wig was thick with many a curl That bobbed about her head. She had a very regal air, And she was thinly clad, As well befits an ancient girl Whose beauty makes one glad.