She wanted to reach an ideal; She talked of the lovely in art, She quoted from Emerson's Essays, And said she thought Howells had "heart." She doted on Wagner's productions, She thought comic opera low, And she played trying tunes on a zither, Keeping time with a sandal-shod toe. She had dreams of a nobler existence-- A bifurcated, corsetless place, Where women would stand free and equal As queens of a glorious race. But her biscuits were deadly creations That caused people's spirits to sink, And she'd views on matters religious That drove her relations to drink. She'd opinions on co-education, But not an idea on cake; She could analyse Spencer or Browning, But the new kitchen range wouldn't bake. She wanted to be esoteric, And she wore the most classical clothes; But she ended by being hysteric And contracting a cold in her nose. She studied of forces hypnotic, She believed in theosophy quite, She understood themes prehistoric And said that the faith cure was right. She wanted to reach the ideal, And at clods unpoetic would rail, And her husband wore fringe on his trousers And fastened them on with a nail! KATE MASTERSON. _THE HAPPY FARMER._ The farmer is a happy man, His life is free from care, With naught to make his spirit sad Or make him want to swear; All day among the cockle burrs He gaily grubs and hoes, And money never troubles him, Unless 'tis what he owes. How sweet at early dawn of day To rise before the sun, And hustle briskly round the barn Till all the chores are done; To feed the cows, and milk them, too, In brightly shining pails, The while they tread upon your corns And thump you with their tails. How sweet to hie into the field, From breakfast smoking hot, And chase a plough all day around A forty acre lot, And, when it strikes against a stone, Drawn by the horses stout, To have the handles prance around And punch your daylights out. How sweet at noon to lie at ease Beneath some spreading tree, And hold a secret session With an ardent bumble bee, And when your rheumatism makes Your legs refuse to go, How sweet to lie upon your back And watch your mortgage grow. And when the busy cares of day Have faded with the light, How sweet to lie in peaceful sleep Throughout the dewy night, And to hear the partner of your joys, At the first faint tinge of dawn, Shout, "Come, old granger, hump yourself The cows are in the corn." MORTIMER C. BROWN. _THE SON OF A SOLDIER_ BY OWEN OLIVER. (_Reprinted from "To-Day" by kind permission of the Author._)