“How to compose a Villanelle, which is said to require an elaborate amount of care in production, which those who read only would hardly suspect existed.” It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it, As easy as reciting A. B. C. You need not be an atom of a poet. If you’ve a grain of wit and want to show it, Writing a _Villanelle_――take this from me―― It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it. You start a pair of “rimes” and then you “go it” With rapid running pen and fancy free, You need not be an atom of a poet. Take any thought, write round it or below it, Above or near it, as it liketh thee; It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it. Pursue your task, till, like a shrub, you grow it, Up to the standard size it ought to be; You need not be an atom of a poet. Clear it of weeds, and water it, and hoe it, Then watch it blossom with triumphant glee, It’s all a trick, quite easy when you know it, You need not be an atom of a poet. WALTER W. SKEAT. _The Academy._ May 19, 1888. ――――:o:―――― THE WAIL OF THE “PERSONALLY CONDUCTED.” Integral were we, in our old existence; Separate beings, individually; Now are our entities blended, fused, and foundered―― We are one Person. We are not mortals, we are not celestials, We are not birds, the upper ether clearing, We are a retrogression toward the Monad: We are Cook’s Tourists. All ways we follow him who holds the Guide Book; All things we look at, with bedazzled optics; Sad are our hearts, because the vulgar rabble Call us the Cookies. Happy the man who, by his cheerful fireside, Says to the partner of his joys and sorrows: “Anna Maria, let us go to-morrow Out for an airing.” Him to Manhattan, or the beach of Brighton, Gaily he hieth, or if, fate accurséd, Lives he in Boston, still he may betake him Down to Nantasket. Happy the mortal, free and independent, Master of the main spring of his own volition, Look on us with the eye of sweet compassion, We are Cook’s Tourists. H. C. BUNNER. _Scribner’s Monthly._ November, 1879. ――――:o:―――― AN OLD SONG BY NEW SINGERS. _In the Original._ Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go. ―――― _As Austin Dobson Writes It._ Triolet.