In mirth and woe her voice is low, Her calm demeanor never fluttered; Her every accent seems to go Straight to one's heart as soon as uttered. She ne'er coquets as others do; Her tender heart would never let her. Where does she dwell? I would I knew; As yet, alas! I've never met her. THE AUTO RUBAIYAT[5] BY REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN Move!--Or the Devil Red who puts to flight Whate'er's before him, to the Left or Right, Will toss you high as Heaven when he strikes Your poor clay carcass with his master-might! As the Cock crows the "Fiends" who stand before The Starting-Point, amid the Stream's wild roar, Shake hands, make wills, and duly are confess'd, Lest, once departed, they return no more. For whether towards Madrid or Washington, Whether by steam or gasoline they run, Pedestrians keep getting in their way, Chauffeurs are being slaughtered one by one. A new Fool's every minute born, you say; Yes, but where speeds the Fool of Yesterday? Beneath the Road he sleeps, the Autos roar Close o'er his head, but can not thrill his clay. Well, let him sleep! For what have ye to do With him, who this or Anything pursue So it take swiftness?--Let the Children scream, Or Constables shout after--heed not you. Oh ye who anti-auto laws would make And still insist upon the silly brake, Get in, and try a spin, and then you'll see How many fines you will impose--and take! Ah, my Beloved, fill the Tank that cheers, Nor heed the Law's rebuke, the Rabble's tears, Quick! For To-morrow you and I may be Ourselves with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years. A pair of Goggles and a Cap, I trow, A Stench, a Roar, and my Machine and Thou Beside me, going ninety miles an hour-- Oh, Turnpike-road were Paradise enow! Ah, Love, could we successfully conspire Against this sorry World for our desire, Would we not shatter it to bits without So much of damage as a busted tire? With Gasoline my fading Life provide, And wash my Body in it when I've died, And lay me, shrouded in my Cap and Cape, By some not Autoless new Speedway's side. Yon "Devil" that goes pricking o'er the Plain, How oft hereafter will she go again! How oft hereafter will she seek her prey? But seek, alas, for one of us in vain! And when, like her, O Love, you come to take Your morning spin for Appetite's sweet sake, And pass the spot where I lay buried, then, In memory of me, fling wide the Brake! [Footnote 5: Lippincott's Magazine.] THE TWO LADIES BY CAROLYN WELLS Once on a Time there were Two Ladies at a Shop where Gorgeous and Expensive Silks were temptingly displayed. "Only Six Dollars a Yard, Madam," said the Shopman to One of the Ladies, as he held up the Lustrous Breadths in those Tempting Fan-shaped Folds peculiar to Shopmen.