"A garden have I at my hand Beneath the green swell, With pathways of glimmering sand And borders of shell. There twinkle the star-fish and there Red jellies unfold; The weed-banners ripple and flare All purple and gold. And have I no poultry? Oh, come When the Equinox lulls; The air is a-flash and a-hum With the tumult of gulls; They whirl in a shimmering cloud Sun-bright on the breeze; They perch on my chimneys and crowd To nest at my knees, And set their dun chickens to rock on the motherly Lap of the seas." "Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I, "It sounds very well, but it cannot be right; This must be a desolate spot of a night, With nothing to hear but the guillemot's cry, The sob of the surf and the wind soughing by. Go inland and get you a cat for your knee And gather your gossips for scandal and tea, Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I. "No amber-eyed tabby may laze And purr at my feet, But here in the blue summer days The seal-people meet. They bask on my ledges and romp In the swirl of the tides, Old bulls in their whiskers and pomp And sleek little brides. Yet others come visiting me Than grey seal or bird; Men come in the night from the sea And utter no word. Wet weed clings to bosom and hair; Their faces are drawn; They crouch by the embers and stare And go with the dawn To sleep in my garden, the swell flowing over them Like a green lawn." PATLANDER. * * * * * =Labour Leaders on the Links.= Under a photograph in a London evening paper runs the following legend:-- "Mr. John Hodge and another official of the Iron and Steel Founders Union enjoy a game of golf after the Trade Union Congress at Portsmouth adjourns for the day. Our picture shows Mr. John Hodge Putting." Some idea of the forceful and unconventional methods of our Labour leaders may be gathered from the attitude of Mr. JOHN HODGE, whose club is raised well over his shoulder. * * * * * [Illustration: _Prisoner._ "SORR, I OBJECT TO MR. CLANCY SERVIN' ON THE JURY." _Mr. Clancy._ "BEDAD, AN' FOR WHY, MICHAEL? I'M _FOR_ YEZ!"] * * * * * THE TAXATION OF VIRTUE. "I shall wait," said Peter, "till they send me the final notice." "Being his wife," said Hilda to me, "I am in a position to know that he will not. In another week he will pay, saying that the thought of income-tax has affected his nerves and that he can bear it no longer. He wobbles like this for six weeks twice a year, and meanwhile his family starves." "Under our system of taxation," Peter retorted, "the innocent must suffer." "It falls alike on the just and the unjust," I interposed. "How else would you have it?" "Naturally I would have it fall on the unjust alone," he replied.