* * * * * SEXOMANIA. _By an Angry Old Buffer._ "When ADAM delved and EVE span," No one need ask which was the man. Bicycling, footballing, scarce human, All wonder now "Which is the woman?" But a new fear my bosom vexes; To-morrow there may be _no_ sexes! Unless, as end to all the pother, Each one in fact becomes the other. E'en _then_ perhaps they'll start amain A-trying to change back again! Woman _was_ woman, man _was_ man, When ADAM delved and EVE span. Now he can't dig and she won't spin, Unless 'tis tales all slang and sin! * * * * * [Illustration: DOMESTIC TROUBLES. "WHAT IS IT, NURSE?" "IF YOU PLEASE, MA'AM, THE CHILDREN _WILL_ MAKE SLIDES ON THE FLOOR WITH TAPIOCA PUDDING!"] * * * * * OSTRICH FEATHERS. ["The magnificent ostrich at the Zoological Gardens, presented by the QUEEN, has recently died from lung-disease."--_Daily Paper._] My eyes are wet with dewy tears, That will not cease to flow. Like MARY'S little lamb, my grief Somehow is sure to go Wherever I do. It all comes From something that I've read, The ostrich that I loved so well Fell ill, and now is dead. "Magnificent" indeed, it was. I never ceased to take A pride in its magnificence For its own special sake. But added unto this there was An extra joy. I mean That loyalty asks ardour for A present from the QUEEN. Oh! ostrich. I have often thought Your smile childlike and bland, And speculated if it's true That right down in the sand You really _do_ conceal your head. But even though that's wrong, It seems without a lung for life You could not live for long. My wife and I delight to hear Our wee girl's merry laugh, As she's astride the elephant Or feeding the giraffe. But ostrich--regal, lung-gone, dead! When we are at the Zoo, My wife's best hat will always serve To turn my thoughts to you. * * * * * CARMENCITA. (_An Impression._) [Illustration] "O east is east, and west is west And never the twain shall meet." And the dance of Spain is one of the twain To the English Man in the Street. We love the trick of the lofty kick And the muscular display Of the nymph who has leapt at a muslin hoop And stopp'd in her flight half-way. A plain, blunt girl in the stormy swirl Of accordion pleats and laces, Tho' she cannot dance, if she spin and prance, Is numbered among the Graces. For heel and toe our hearts can glow And the feats of the rhythmic clog, And a poem of motion wells forth in the notion Of a Serpentine Dancing Dog. But the dancer's art, of her life a part, A song of the wordless soul With a tale to tell, like the music's swell, Too large for the word's control,