Two bright young women, nothing meek, Rode up on bicycles and propped Their wheels in such wise that they dropped To bring the parson's son to aid. Their cycling suits were tailor-made, Smart, mannish, pert, but feminine. The colour and the zest of wine Were in their presence and their bearing; Like spring, they brought the thought of pairing. The parson's lady thought them pert. And they could mock a man and flirt, Do billiard tricks with corks and pennies, Sing ragtime songs and win at tennis The silver-cigarette-case-prize. They had good colour and bright eyes, Bright hair, bright teeth and pretty skin, On darkened stairways after dances, Which many lads had longed to win. Their reading was the last romances, And they were dashing hockey players. Men called them, "Jill and Joan, the slayers." They were as bright as fresh sweet-peas. FARMER BENNETT [Illustration: Old Farmer Bennett upon his big-boned savage black] Old Farmer Bennett followed these Upon his big-boned savage black Whose mule-teeth yellowed to bite back Whatever came within his reach. Old Bennett sat him like a leech. The grim old rider seemed to be As hard about the mouth as he. The beaters nudged each other's ribs With "There he goes, his bloody Nibs. He come on Joe and Anty Cop, And beat 'em with his hunting crop Like tho' they'd bin a sack of beans. His pickers were a pack of queans, And Joe and Anty took a couple, He caught 'em there, and banged 'em supple. Women and men, he didn't care (He'd kill 'em some day, if he dare), He beat the whole four nearly dead. 'I'll learn 'ee rabbit in my shed, That's how my ricks get set afire.' That's what he said, the bloody liar; Old oaf, I'd like to burn his ricks, Th' old swine's too free with fists and sticks. He keeps that Mrs. Jones himselve." Just like an axehead on its helve Old Bennett sat and watched the gathering. He'd given many a man a lathering In field or barn, and women, too. His cold eye reached the women through With comment, and the men with scorn. He hated women gently born; He hated all beyond his grasp; For he was minded like the asp That strikes whatever is not dust. THE GOLDEN AGE Charles Copse, of Copse Hold Manor, thrust Next into view. In face and limb The beauty and the grace of him Were like the golden age returned. His grave eyes steadily discerned The good in men and what was wise. He had deep blue, mild-coloured eyes, And shocks of harvest-coloured hair, Still beautiful with youth. An air Or power of kindness went about him; No heart of youth could ever doubt him Or fail to follow where he led. He was a genius, simply bred, And quite unconscious of his power.