But although the foreigner was baffled in his desire to use the appropriate imprecation--he thought it! * * * * * MOTH-EATEN. [Illustration] It is a stifling night; I sit With windows open wide; And the fragrance of the rose is blown And also the musk outside, There's plenty of room for the moths out there In the cool and pleasant gloom; And yet these mad insectual beasts Will swarm into my room. I've thrown so many things at him, And thrown them all so hard; There goes the sofa-cushion; that Missed him by half a yard. My hot tears rain; my young heart breaks To see him dodging thus; It is not right for him to be So coy--so devious. As I sit by my duplex lamp, And write, and write, and write; They come and drown in the blue-black ink, Or fry themselves in the light. They pop, and drop, and flop, and hop, Like catherine-wheels at play; And die in pain down the back of my neck In a most repulsive way. There's a brown moth on the ceiling. He Makes slow and bumpy rounds; Then stops and sucks the whitewash off-- He must have eaten pounds. He's only waiting for his chance To take me unaware, And then the brute will drop, and make His death-bed in my hair. Why do they do it? Why--ah! why? The dews of night are damp, But the place to dry one's self is not The chimney of a lamp. And sultriness engenders thirst, But the best, the blue-black ink, Cannot be satisfactory Regarded as a drink. They are so very many, and I am so very few-- They are so hard to hit, and so Elusive to pursue-- That in the garden I will wait Until the dawning light, Until the moths all go by day Where I wish they'd go by night. * * * * * [Illustration: SPEECHES TO BE LIVED DOWN--IF POSSIBLE! _Sympathetic Lady Guest_. "DON'T BE UNHAPPY ABOUT THE RAIN, DEAR MRS. BOUNDERSON--IT WILL SOON BE OVER, AND YOUR GARDEN WILL BE LOVELIER THAN EVER!" _Little Mrs. Goldmore Bounderson_ (_who is giving her first Garden Party_). "YES; BUT I'M AFRAID IT WILL KEEP MY MOST DESIRABLE GUESTS FROM COMING!"] * * * * * ON THE BRIDGE! (_A MUCH MODERNISED VERSION OF "THE VISION OF MIRZAH."_) On the second day of the week, commonly called Saint Monday (which according to the Customs of my Forefathers, I always keep as Holiday), after having washed myself, and offered up my Morning Devotions at the shrine of Nicotine, I turned over the pages of _Bradshaw_, with a view to passing the rest of the day in some more or less Rural Retirement. As I was here confusing myself with the multitudinous Complexities of this recondite Tome, I fell into a profound Contemplation of the Vanity of human Holiday-making; and, passing from one puzzling page to another, Surely, said I, Man is but a Muddler and Life a Maze! "Right you are!" sounded a mysterious voice in my ear.