Believe me that, whether I write for you or not, I shall always be glad of your friendship, and anxious to have your good opinion. I am, ever, my dear Fraser (independent of £ s. d.), very truly yours, W.M. THACKERAY. MY LADY ON PARADE. Verses, Old and New, Dealing With Various Phases of That Highly Important Subject, the Philosophy of Feminine Costume. WHAT THE CHOIR SANG. By Harriette Hammond. A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet, With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it. And that the other maidens of the little town might know it, She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday just to show it. But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime, The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time; So when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing, And when she came to meeting, sure enough, the folks were singing. So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door; And as she shook her ruffles out behind, and smoothed them down before. "Hallelujah! hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head-- "Hardly knew you! hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said. This made the little maiden feel so very, _very_ cross, That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss; For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet, With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it. And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer, But pattered down the silent street and hurried up the stair, Till she reached her little bureau, and in a bandbox on it Had hidden, safe from critic's eye, her foolish little bonnet. Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind; And that the little head that's filled with silly little airs Will never get a blessing from sermons or from prayers. AN OMAR FOR LADIES. By Josephine Dodge Daskam. One for her Club and her own Latch-key fights, Another wastes in Study her good Nights. Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go, Nor heed the grumble of the Women's Rights! And she who saved her coin for Flannels red, And she who caught Pneumonia instead, Will both be Underground in Fifty Years, And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead. Th' exclusive Style you set your heart upon Gets to the Bargain counters--and anon Like monograms on a Saleslady's tie Cheers but a moment--soon for you 'tis gone. They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keep The _dernier cri_ that once was far from cheap; Green Veils, one season chic--Department stores Mark down in vain--no profits shall they reap. _Exchange._ SHE FELT OF HER BELT.