The other two might like me less If I described the charmer's dress; I will not name a single stitch To show which of them may be which; Pink, white or green, each one has seen That I must mean _she_ may bewitch. * * * * * THE ORIGINAL ARYAN TO THE PROFESSOR. I Am the Ancient Aryan, And you have done me wrong-- I did not come from Hindostan, I've been here all along. I never travelled from the East In huge successive waves. You'll find your ancestors deceased Inside your own old caves. There my remains may now be sought, Mixed up with mastodons, Which very long with flints I fought Before I fought with bronze. In simple skins I wrapped me round, Ere mats I learned to make; I dug my dwellings in the ground, Or reared them on a lake. I had no pen--I'm sure of this, Although you say I penned All manner of theologies In Sanskrit and in Zend! My nature you've misunderstood. When first I sojourned here, I worshipped chunks of stone or wood, My rites were rather queer! The more my little ways you scan The less you'll care to praise And bless the dear old Aryan Of Neolithic days. They've mixed me up, till I declare I hardly can report Whether I first was tall and fair Or I was dark and short. But on two things I take my stand, Through all their noise and strife, I didn't come from Asia; and I _had_ no Higher Life! * * * * * [Illustration: THE TIP OBLIQUE. _Verger_ (_to over-generous Visitor_). "I BEG YOUR PARDON, SIR. NO GRATUITIES--ER--AT PRESENT. BUT--ER--THE DEAN WILL HAVE PASSED IN TWO MINUTES, SIR!"] * * * * * THE HIGHER CRITICISM. SCENE--_Author at his desk, with Newspaper Cuttings before him_. _Author._ "The Critics' comments I'll peruse, And I will profit by; I'll find out what they most abuse, And strive to rectify!" _First Critic._ "His work unequal as we read, We think upon the whole This author almost would succeed If nearer to his goal." _Second Critic._ "His serious pages suit us well, Revealing thought and heart; But he is quite unbearable When trying to be smart!" _Third Critic._ "Some sprightly pages from his pen With pleasure we have read; But if he moralises, _then_ He's heavier than lead!" _Fourth Critic._ "We by the eye of faith can see-- It isn't from his books-- He is not such a fool as he Invariably looks." _Fifth Critic._ "This author's pages needs must thrill A sympathetic mind,-- Of subtle knowledge, tender skill, Deep pathos, wit refined." _Sixth Critic._ "A mass of folly more intense Experience can't recall. We tried to find one shred of sense. _There is not one at all!_" [_Exit Author, tearing his hair._ * * * * * THE SONG OF THE SLUGGARD.