Still, still reluctant Winter keeps Some chill surprise in store, And Spring through frosty curtain peeps On snowdrifts at her door; The full moon smites the leafless trees, So full, it bursts with light, Till the sharp shadows seem to freeze Along the highway white. Yet the keen wind has heard the song Of summer far away. And, though he's got the music wrong, We know what he would say. For in the vegetable cart Thy radiant stalks we spy. O rhubarb, should we call thee tart, Or art thou merely pie? And why not so? The cushat dove To such a shrine we trust, Though in dumb protest she will shove Her tootsies through the crust; And larks, that sing at Heaven's gate When April clouds are high, Not seldom gain the gourmet's plate Through portals of the pie. So thou, sweet harbinger of Spring, Gules of her blazon'd field, If in a pie thy praise we sing, To worthy fate wilt yield. Enough! I sing; let others eat: Be mine the poet's lot. The thought of thee is all too sweet-- The taste of thee is not. * * * * * [Illustration: NO FEAR FOR THE CONSCIENCE CLAUSE. _Priest_ (_teaching Catechism in Catholic School_). "NOW, SAUNDERS, REPEAT THE TEN----" _All the other Boys._ "PLEASE, FATHER, THIS 'ERE BOY'S A PRO'S'TANT!!"] * * * * * "I'LL CALL THEE HAMLET." Mr. BENSON, the enterprising young Lessee of the Globe Theatre, on two evenings of the week affords a spectacle of the greatest possible interest to every Shakspearian student. His _Hamlet_ is rather given to noisy declamation when greatly moved, but, barring this, seems to be a thoroughly good-natured harmless creature, who, as fond of dabbling in private theatricals, would probably be hailed as an acquisition at the Meistersingers Club and cognate institutions. The innovations introduced into the action relieve the gloom of the Tragedy. Take for instance, the treatment of _Ophelia_, which is full of quiet humour. That she should look as old as _Hamlet's_ Mother, is of course, accidental, and is purely attributable to the Globe _Gertrude_ being exceptionally comely and youthful, still it has a very quaint effect. But the idea of the unfortunate maid, after she has committed suicide, being carried _à la_ GUY FAUX into the throne-room with a sort of "See what we have found" air, is broadly comic. The funeral with its "maimed rites," is also very funny. Apparently, the Bishop (whose garb, by the way, seems to be a compromise between an eccentric Jewish Rabbi and that of a decidedly demented Roman Catholic Priest) has "contracted" for the procession, with the result of collecting together a heterogeneous company, consisting of modern High Church curates, a few members of some humorous Confraternity, and a sprinkling of other amusing grotesques. But the fun reaches its climax, when the body of _Ophelia_ herself is produced in,