Where ’er she goes her presence thrills,
    And in her youthfulness there shines
  The everlasting of our hills,
    The evergreenness of our pines.

  Hung in a poise that knows no law
    The kestrels watch above the trees,
  But never was kestrel yet that saw
    The half that Mrs. Hawksbee sees.

  Rosy and smiling mid her furs
    Along the Mall her way she trips
  With subalterns whose worship stirs
    The cynic swiftness of her lips.

  When Jakko-wards her rickshaw sweeps,
    The monkeys scamper o’er the grass,
  And breathlessly each rascal peeps
    To see the Queen of mischief pass.

  Our Viceroys know the call of Fate;
    Our Generals pass nor question why;
  Councils dissolve and Staffs migrate,
    But Mrs. Hawksbee shall not die.

  J.M.S.

* * * * *

    “So far from the wage-earning classes being shown the necessity for
    a revival in our industry, the Prime Minister talks nonsense about
    ‘removing the sceptre of unemployment.’”—­Morning Paper.

This will comfort those who were afraid that it was permanently enthroned.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE FINISHING TOUCH.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Small Brother (to rejected lover). “BUT JOHN, DIDN’T YOU TELL HER YOU’D PLAYED FOR ESSEX?”]

* * * * *

THE POET.

In a distant country, at a remote epoch, was born of humble parents a poet.  “Born” advisedly, since the poet is always born, not made.  Even before he could write he composed little poems, which he would recite aloud.  The simple pleasures of the poor, among whom he grew up—­intoxication, pugilism, funeral merry-makings—­furnished the themes of his verse.

Upon reaching man’s estate he adopted the calling of night-watchman, an occupation which provided him at once with a livelihood and ample opportunities for meditation.  It is to this period that the “Nocturnes” belong.

Now it happened that the poet’s work reached the eye of the Prince, who, anxious to encourage genius, appointed him to some minor place about Court and endowed it with a pension.  Moreover, to complete his happiness he gave him in marriage a beautiful and accomplished maiden, for whom the poet had long cherished an ardent but hopeless passion.  So, as by enchantment, the course of the poet’s existence was changed.  He no longer waked while others slept.  On the contrary he seldom left his couch until a late hour in the morning, and when at last he rose it was often to pass the rest of the day in a Turkish bath.

Yet in spite of altered circumstances he still remained a poet, for the poet is born, not made, or unmade.  The tenor of his poetry however was changed.  Instead of the rude and vigorous subjects which formerly engaged his lyre he would now employ his art in verse of the daintiest, to celebrate flowers, ladies’ eyebrows and similar trivialities.