IN the gay play-house mingle The gallant and the fair; The married and the single, And wit and wealth, are there; And shirt-front spreads in acres, And collar fathoms high; Dressmakers and unmakers In choice confections vie. A sight to soften rockses! Yet low my spirit falls, For _she_ is in the boxes. And _I_ am in the stalls. The music's lively measure, The curtain's plushy fold, I hear untouched with pleasure, Unsolaced I behold. And rank and fashion vainly My wandering eyes survey, Though Mrs. B. and Lady C. Look well in green and grey. The watchful leader knocks his Desk, as the prompter calls, And _she_ is in the boxes, And _I_ am in the stalls. How dully moves the drama To one whose heart is dumb. In listless panorama The actors go and come. The couple just before me Keep bobbing to and fro. It doesn't even bore me To see them doing so. The lover closely locks his Emotions one and all, When _she_ is in the boxes, And _he_ has got a stall. But sudden brilliance reaches The playwright's mouthing shams, And the long-winded speeches Grow brisk as epigrams. My heart, in sudden clover, With smiles adorns my face, For, when the Act is over, I need not keep my place. I'll chase my fears, like foxes, When next the curtain falls-- I'll then be in the boxes, Though now I'm in the stalls. * * * * * [Illustration: "TREATMENT." _Doctor._ "NO, SIR; IT IS NEARLY OBSOLETE IN PRACTICE. WE DON'T BLEED NOW AS THEY USED TO DO FORMERLY." _Atrabilious Patient._ "AH?!--NOT WITH THE LANCET, YOU MEAN!"] * * * * * DIARY OF A JOLLY PARTY. _Monday._--We are a party of twelve at breakfast. A merry party. With children we make fifteen. Some one reads out about Russian Influenza. We laugh. In the daytime, we ride, lounge, shoot. Dinner. Somebody is indisposed and doesn't appear. Also a child has caught cold. But Russian Influenza!--absurd! _Tuesday._--We are a party of ten this morning at breakfast. Only three children appear. One, a boy who hears his holidays have been extended over the fortnight, is very happy. No Russian Influenza here. Our hostess does not think it necessary to send for the Doctor, who lives three miles off, as the two children have only a slight cold, and the two guests don't happen to be quite well, that's all. Headache slightly, both. At dinner our host, who won't believe in Russian Influenza, says that he's afraid he has rheumatism coming on. Hot grog, we all agree, is the best remedy. Remedy accordingly, with pipes. Two of the ladies retire early, "not feeling quite the thing," and at eleven our host says he thinks he'll turn in. We bid him good-night, hope he'll be better, and then sit down and discuss news. Odd that people and children should be taken ill, but no one will for a moment admit the possibility of Influenza touching _us_.