TO A FLIRTGIRL. _A Poem of Platitude._ Yes, girls will be girls, and flirts will be flirts, And coquette to the end of the chapter! "There's safety in numbers," the proverb asserts, And I'm sure that no saw could he apter. The safety, I fear, is that DICK will fight shy, When he hears that you're flirting with HARRY; And HARRY will think, when you've TOM in your eye, That you're safer to flirt with than marry! Nay, then you don't rest till you've JACK at your feet, Till he finds that he's WILLY for rival; The odds are that both, like the rest, will retreat, And at last there'll be _no_ one's survival. For flirting's a game that is risky to play, At least from the standpoint of wedlock; When each is afraid your affection will stray To some other, the end is a deadlock! * * * * * THE BOOT WAR.--"In consequence of the strike," observed Mrs. R., "I am afraid a great many hardworking men will be left with boots on their hands." * * * * * CHECK! "We air governed too much."--_Artemus Ward._ No! The old spirit is not dead, Though long it, trance-like, slept, While Peter Putright reared his head, And venom'd vigil kept. Their despot yearnings retrograde Our tyrants label "Progress"; In specious robes of light array'd They hide a horrid Ogress; And many simple souls and true By guile seduced to err, Or fondly trusting something new, Fell down and worshipp'd her. And o'er their prostrate senses roll'd A monstrous idol car, Whose priests, in frenzy uncontroll'd, Still know not where they are. The doughtier freeman of the past With wrath such bondage sees; Who freedom won with pike and gun From nobler foes than these. Some bygone champions' pow'r benign Our waning strength restores; They forced from kings what we'd resign To County Councillors. The heirs of those who won our right Inherit such a soul They'd starkly fight by day and night, But quite neglect to poll. And so, in Law and Order's day The brazen crew intrudes, And London nigh becomes the prey Of pedants, prigs, and prudes. But lo! the slip 'twixt cup and lip Has made their glory dimmer; Down, down goes the dictatorship Of _Stiggins_ and of _Trimmer_. And threaten'd London joys to find The Incubus o'erthrown, The gang whose mandate 'tis to mind All business but their own. With "shoulders to the wheel" alway, The grannies in a batch Can suck such comfort as they may From eggs they must not hatch. * * * * *