Now count our teaspoons--if you care to learn How many tinkling cups were served in turn,-- Add all together, you will find them ten,-- Our young MUSICIAN joined us now and then. Our bright DELILAH you must needs recall, The comely handmaid, youngest of us all; Need I remind you how the little maid Came at a pinch to our Professor's aid,-- Trimmed his long locks with unrelenting shears And eased his looks of half a score of years? Sometimes, at table, as you well must know, The stream of talk will all at once run low, The air seems smitten with a sudden chill, The wit grows silent and the gossip still; This was our poet's chance, the hour of need, When rhymes and stories we were used to read. One day a whisper round the teacups stole,-- "No scrap of paper in the silver bowl!" (Our "poet's corner" may I not expect My kindly reader still may recollect?) "What! not a line to keep our souls alive?" Spoke in her silvery accents Number Five. "No matter, something we must find to read,-- Find it or make it,--yes, we must indeed! Now I remember I have seen at times Some curious stories in a book of rhymes,-- How certain secrets, long in silence sealed, In after days were guessed at or revealed. Those stories, doubtless, some of you must know,-- They all were written many a year ago; But an old story, be it false or true, Twice told, well told, is twice as good as new; Wait but three sips and I will go myself, And fetch the book of verses from its shelf." No time was lost in finding what she sought,-- Gone but one moment,--lo! the book is brought. "Now, then, Professor, fortune has decreed That you, this evening, shall be first to read,-- Lucky for us that listen, for in fact Who reads this poem must know how to _act_." Right well she knew that in his greener age He had a mighty hankering for the stage. The patient audience had not long to wait; Pleased with his chance, he smiled and took the bait; Through his wild hair his coaxing fingers ran,-- He spread the page before him and began. THE BANKER'S SECRET THE Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast The town has heard of for a year, at least; The sparry lustres shed their broadest blaze, Damask and silver catch and spread the rays; The florist's triumphs crown the daintier spoil Won from the sea, the forest, or the soil; The steaming hot-house yields its largest pines, The sunless vaults unearth their oldest wines; With one admiring look the scene survey, And turn a moment from the bright display.