VI IN THE CEMETERY “YOU see those mothers squabbling there?” Remarks the man of the cemetery. One says in tears, ‘’_Tis mine lies here_!’ Another, ‘_Nay_, _mine_, _you Pharisee_!’ Another, ‘_How dare you move my flowers_ _And put your own on this grave of ours_!’ But all their children were laid therein At different times, like sprats in a tin. “And then the main drain had to cross, And we moved the lot some nights ago, And packed them away in the general foss With hundreds more. But their folks don’t know, And as well cry over a new-laid drain As anything else, to ease your pain!” VII OUTSIDE THE WINDOW “MY stick!” he says, and turns in the lane To the house just left, whence a vixen voice Comes out with the firelight through the pane, And he sees within that the girl of his choice Stands rating her mother with eyes aglare For something said while he was there. “At last I behold her soul undraped!” Thinks the man who had loved her more than himself; “My God—’tis but narrowly I have escaped.— My precious porcelain proves it delf.” His face has reddened like one ashamed, And he steals off, leaving his stick unclaimed. VIII IN THE STUDY HE enters, and mute on the edge of a chair Sits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there, A type of decayed gentility; And by some small signs he well can guess That she comes to him almost breakfastless. “I have called—I hope I do not err— I am looking for a purchaser Of some score volumes of the works Of eminent divines I own,— Left by my father—though it irks My patience to offer them.” And she smiles As if necessity were unknown; “But the truth of it is that oftenwhiles I have wished, as I am fond of art, To make my rooms a little smart.” And lightly still she laughs to him, As if to sell were a mere gay whim, And that, to be frank, Life were indeed To her not vinegar and gall, But fresh and honey-like; and Need No household skeleton at all. IX AT THE ALTAR-RAIL “MY bride is not coming, alas!” says the groom, And the telegram shakes in his hand. “I own It was hurried! We met at a dancing-room When I went to the Cattle-Show alone, And then, next night, where the Fountain leaps, And the Street of the Quarter-Circle sweeps. “Ay, she won me to ask her to be my wife— ’Twas foolish perhaps!—to forsake the ways Of the flaring town for a farmer’s life. She agreed. And we fixed it. Now she says: ‘_It’s sweet of you_, _dear_, _to prepare me a nest_, _But a swift_, _short_, _gay life suits me best_. _What I really am you have never gleaned_; _I had eaten the apple ere you were weaned_.’” X IN THE NUPTIAL CHAMBER