She has eyes that seem to twinkle, Like the pin-impaled winkle, When the fish-wife dares to sprinkle It with spice; And her chestnut-tinted tresses, That provoke a man’s caresses, Haunt her swain till he confesses She _is_ nice. Sometimes, when the day has faded, And the moonbeams have invaded Every nook that is unshaded From their gleam, Chloe, who is very knowing In the noble art of rowing, Vaguely drops a hint of going Down the stream. ’Neath the branches of a willow, With the drifted sedge for pillow, Cradled on the silver billow Lies a boat, Which I speedily untether, And we drift away together, Like two beetles on a feather That’s afloat. Couched in shadow that so still is, Dreamy, large-eyed waterlilies Stare astonished at us sillies Up above: Doubtless, with a timid flutter Of propriety, they mutter Sentiments I dare not utter, About love. Wretched things! with no affections, And with very bad complexions; We can suffer your objections And your snubs; By your taunts we won’t be maddened, And shall be surprised and gladdened, If our true love be not saddened By worse rubs. ANONYMOUS. [Illustration] “GEORGY.” (_After J. Ashby-Sterry._) I know you, little winsome sweet, You heroine of childish orgy; What dance would ever be complete Without our rosy, romping Georgy? Straight as a dart, of which the sting Lurks in a pair of pearl-gray eyes; Slight, but the roundest lissome thing As o’er the well-chalked floor she flies. Nor can I say there is concealed At ev’ry airy pirouette The frill (not often so revealed!) Of such a dainty pantalette! Her little boots with silver heels Ring on the boards as round she whirls―― I wonder if the darling feels She cuts out all the other girls? There is a saucy cock of chin, A semblance of a conscious power To stake (with ev’ry chance to win!) The bud against the fallen flower. Who knows these little maidens’ dreams? Unsullied,――but with mischief fraught: How like a woman Georgy seems, Yet by what subtle instinct taught? The question’s vague!――some day, perhaps, She’ll find the answer, for the rogue is A match, at twelve, for most young chaps, And right away beyond us fogies. For _me_,――I sit and watch her twirls, Then wend me home and smoke my pipe, That whispers “These delightful girls, Thank goodness are in _Sterry-o-type_!” R. REECE. _Judy._ June 30, 1880. It should be mentioned, in connection with Mr. J. Ashby-Sterry, that _The Muse in Manacles_, quoted on page 64, was from his pen.