[Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed “setting” by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase. For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison—whose every fibre seems to murmur “Excelsior!”—yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also— I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle— _Nor anything that cost me much_: _High prices profit those who sell_, _But why should I be fond of such_? To glad me with his soft black eye _My son comes trotting home from school_; _He’s had a fight but can’t tell why_— _He always was a little fool_! But, when he came to know me well, _He kicked me out_, _her testy Sire_: _And when I stained my hair_, _that Belle_ _Might note the change_, _and thus admire_ And love me, it was sure to dye _A muddy green or staring blue_: _Whilst one might trace_, _with half an eye_, _The still triumphant carrot through_. A GAME OF FIVES [Picture: Five little girls] FIVE little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One: Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun. Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six: Sitting down to lessons—no more time for tricks. Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven: Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven! [Picture: Now tell me which you mean] Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen: Each young man that calls, I say “Now tell me which you _mean_!” Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one: But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done? Five showy girls—but Thirty is an age When girls may be _engaging_, but they somehow don’t _engage_. Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more: So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before! * * * * Five _passé_ girls—Their age? Well, never mind! We jog along together, like the rest of human kind: But the quondam “careless bachelor” begins to think he knows The answer to that ancient problem “how the money goes”! POETA FIT, NON NASCITUR [Picture: Child on old man’s knee]