--Fine Coker-nuts! My lads, we're giving Clean away! Who wants to win 'em? Fresh Coker-nuts! The milk's yet in 'em. Come boys! Only a penny a shot, Three nuts if you hit and the fun if not. The effects are broad and strong, the tone cheery. But in another piece where the dramatic element enters, "The May Morning and the Old Man," the note is deeper. There is, indeed, in the talk of the two old men on the downland road, a much graver tone of the Comic Spirit. One of them has come slowly up the hill and greets another who is working in a field by the roadside with a question. He wants to know how far it is to Chillingbourne; he is going back to his old home there and must reach it before nightfall. FIRST OLD MAN. It bean't for j'y I taäk the roäd. But, Mester, I be getten awld. Do seem as though in all the e'th There bean't no plaäce, No room on e'th for awld volk. SECOND OLD MAN. The e'th do lie Yonder, so wide as Heaven a'most, And God as made un Made room, I warr'nt, for all Christian souls. It is, however, through the medium of tragedy that the genius of Mrs Woods has found most powerful expression. Not her charming lyrics, not even the contemplative beauty of her elegiac poems, can stand beside the creative energy of the two plays to which we must come directly. But the best of the lyrics are notable, nevertheless; and two or three have already passed into the common store of great English poetry. Of such is the splendid hymn, "To the Forgotten Dead," with its exulting pride of race chastened by the thought of death. To the forgotten dead, Come, let us drink in silence ere we part. To every fervent yet resolved heart That brought its tameless passion and its tears, Renunciation and laborious years, To lay the deep foundations of our race, To rear its mighty ramparts overhead And light its pinnacles with golden grace. To the unhonoured dead. To the forgotten dead, Whose dauntless hands were stretched to grasp the rein Of Fate and hurl into the void again Her thunder-hoofed horses, rushing blind Earthward along the courses of the wind. Among the stars along the wind in vain Their souls were scattered and their blood was shed, And nothing, nothing of them doth remain. To the thrice-perished dead.