And blare out my "All-a-blowing, All-a-growing!" down the streets, There's a something fresh and shining-like in every face I meets! Tis the Spring-love breaking through them! Wy, the very dirt looks clean In the shimmer of the sunlight, and the shadow of the green. _All-a-blowing! All-a-growing!_ When I shout, I seem to sing, For my cry takes on a music. It's the very Voice of Spring! * * * * * [Illustration: "MEAT FOR YOUR MASTER!" "WE SHALL ONLY BE TWO TO-NIGHT; COOK--YOUR MASTER AND ME--SO ALL WE SHALL WANT WILL BE SOUP AND FISH AND LAMB AND ASPARAGUS, WITH A _SOUFFLE_ TO FOLLOW, AND A LITTLE SWEET-BREAD AFTER THE FISH, YOU KNOW!" "YES, MA'AM. AND FOR THE KITCHEN?" "OH--WELL--THERE'S SOME OF THAT POTTED HAM STILL LEFT WE HAD FOR BREAKFAST YESTERDAY. IT'S JUST ON THE TURN, YOU KNOW, SO YOU MAY AS WELL FINISH IT DOWNSTAIRS. IT WILL DO VERY WELL FOR YOUR DINNER TO-DAY, AND TO-MORROW YOU SHALL EACH HAVE AN EGG!" ] * * * * * THE DEARTH OF GENIUSES. (_Dedicated to the Right Hon. A. J. Balfour._) Cried Genius A. to Genius B., "Let's summon Genius C., And, to make a _partie carree_, we will call in Genius D." And when they were assembled these solemn four sat down, And they all read Mr. BALFOUR'S speech, and read it with a frown. Said Genius A., "No Geniuses? By Heaven, he's talking rot!" And Genius B. replied thereto, "I can't say he is not." And C. and D., the poets, who warble like the birds, Agreed with Genius A. and B. in scorning BALFOUR'S words. "A Genius _may_ arise, he says; that's coming it too strong; Why, dash it, I can count up three in prose and eke in song!" Thus A. began; the three replied, "You're not an egoist; You quite forgot to add yourself, and so complete the list." "We'll prove it on the spot," declared dramatic Genius A. "You three shall sit as judges, and I will read my play. 'Tis a drama of the passions, all strictly based on facts, And they break the Decalogue to bits in five exhaustive Acts." "That _might_ be good," said B.; "but _I_'ve a little thing, I guess, Which ought to take precedence, a novel in MS.; With characters so deftly drawn in all their changing scenes, That THACKERAY and DICKENS must be knocked to smithereens." But C. broke in; his hair was long, his eyes were very wild, He was in truth a strangely-garbed and most poetic child; Said he, "Your plays and novels may all be very well, But I've an epic poem here on _Happiness in Hell_." And D., the pretty lyricist, he hummed and then he hawed, "I've half a hundred sonnets here to MABEL, MADGE, and MAUD. I'll read them first, and then I'll read"--the other three grew pale-- "My last new book, _The Musings of a Town-bred Nightingale_."