THE GREY FOWL. "A LITTLE SUGGESTION THAT I HAVE LAID ON THE TABLE--SO TO SPEAK."] [Illustration: _Servant (rebuked for bringing in a dirty cup_). "FUNNY THING, MUM, I ALWAYS SEEM TO HIT UPON THIS ONE WHEN YOU HAVE COMPANY."] * * * * * THE MANLY PART. (_Reflections at the moment of "Moving in."_) The house has burst a-bloom like CERES' daughter; The painters bicker and the plumbers flee; The H. tap in the bathroom gives cold water Endlessly, like the C. All arts are being used to gild the tarnished, And exorcise old ghosts and spirits fled, And treacherous quags abound where boards are varnished And no man's boot may tread. And none can tell me where my spats were taken, And decorators' coats adorn the pegs, And savour of new paint surrounds the bacon, New paint is in the eggs. And huge men meet me and remark, "This dresser, Where shall we put it?" And of course I say, "Up in the bedroom;" and they answer, "Yessir," But Marion bids them stay. All right--I'll sit (the sole place where one _can_ sit) And gaze upon these walls with wild surmise, And muse on all the things we've lost in transit, The socks, the gloves, the ties. Here, where in time to come the firebeams ruddy, Falling on cosy chairs and bookshelves straight, Shall show to me my own familiar study, And Maud shall do the grate, Here in this narrow carpet's sacred border, Girt by the wet distemper's weltering foam, I'll do my bit to set the house in order And make it seem like home. Mere hackwork, doubtless, is the stuff for women, But mine to dissipate the dark has-been, Mine to remove what shades are clustered dim in Corners and coigns unseen; To start the holiest rite of installation, And from the still-remembering walls to wipe All traces of a previous occupation-- Briefly, to light my pipe. Paint is no hall-mark of a decent dwelling, And moving furniture makes such a din; The master's part shall be the ghost-dispelling-- That is where he comes in. Forget not, while ye tramp with tread sonorous The unclothed stairs and catch my weed's perfume, That three mild spinsters had the house before us; This was their morning-room. EVOE. * * * * * A quotation in _The Edinburgh Evening Dispatch_ of a verse of Mr. ROBERT BRIDGES' new poem ends like this:-- "From numbing stress and gloom profound Madest escape in life desirous To embroider her thin-spun robe." * * * * * [PARAGRAPH ADVERTISEMENT.] 'WHO'S THE LADY?'" Perhaps the POET LAUREATE will answer. * * * * * THE BOOK-BUYER.