I wonder why athwart the Row Stray loafers linger, loth to go Past the mid-crossing, and are so Resolved to die, Hoping that, as you gallop near You'll maul them by your mad career-- I wonder why. I wonder why, when theatre Stalls, Are "papered" by Professionals, And children arch in Thespis' halls Their gambols ply, Why the Box-office has the face To offer _me_, who book place-- A Stall that would the Pit disgrace, I wonder why. I wonder why, whenever pressed A little money to invest In something which is quite the best Affair to buy, I _always_ read next morning that Not _I_, but it (in parlance pat Of City articles) was "Flat," I wonder why. * * * * * CONTRIBUTION TOWARDS NURSERY RHYMES. (_FOR USE OF INFANT STUDENTS IN NEW SCHOOL OF DRAMATIC ART._) 'Tis the voice of the Prompter, I hear him quite plain; He has prompted me twice, Let him prompt me again. * * * * * THE PRETTY SIMPLETON. [The _Spectator_ warns men against marrying simpletons, pointing out that "there is no bore on earth equal to the woman who can neither talk nor listen, and who has no mental interests in common with her husband."] [Illustration] When fair BELINDA sweetly smiles, And airily before you trips, You're captured by her artless wiles, And must admire her rosy lips. You know that she is very fair, You see that she has splendid eyes; But ah, rash lover, have a care, And find out if BELINDA's wise. For beauty, trust us, is not all A wife in these days should possess; Her conversation's apt to pall, If she can talk of naught but dress. She need not be too deeply read, You do not want a priggish bride; But still take care the pretty head Can boast some little brain inside. In courtship all she said was sweet, For you had died to win a glance; Her little platitudes seemed neat, Breathed 'mid the pauses of the dance. You would have felt a heartless fiend To criticise, when by her side; Nor would the lady have demeaned Herself to answer, had you tried. But when you've won her for a wife, And ante-nuptial glamour dies, What food for matrimonial strife Her crass inconsequent replies. How terrible to find her dense, And never grasping what you mean; You'll think one gleam of common sense Worth more than finest eyes e'er seen. Days come when love no longer gives Illusions as in hours of yore; And hapless is the man who lives To find his wife become a bore. Then keep, if you'd avoid that day, The wise _Spectator's_ golden rule: Don't be by beauty led away, And choose for wife a pretty fool. * * * * * In the _Times'_ book advertisement column, the S.P.C.K. announces the following new publication:-- THE OUSE. By the Rev. A.J. FOSTER, M.A.