You, too, my friend, my solid friend, I sing,
    Whom on an afternoon I did behold
  Eying—­’twas after lunch—­the cushioned thing,
    And murmuring gently, “Here are realms of gold,
  And I shall visit them,” you said, “and be
  The sofa’s burden till it’s time for tea.”

  “Let those who will go forth,” you said, “and dare,
    Beyond the cluster of the little shops,
  To strain their limbs and take the eager air,
    Seeking the heights of Hedsor and its copse. 
  I shall abide and watch the far-off gleams
  Of fairy beacons from the world of dreams.”

  Then forth we fared, and you, no doubt, lay down,
    An easy victim to the sofa’s charms,
  Forgetting hopes of fame and past renown,
    Lapped in those padded and alluring arms. 
  “How well,” you said, and veiled your heavy eyes,
  “It slopes to suit me!  This is Paradise.”

  So we adventured to the topmost hill,
    And, when the sunset shot the sky with red,
  Homeward returned and found you taking still
    Deep draughts of peace with pillows ’neath your head. 
  “His sleep,” said one, “has been unduly long.” 
  Another said, “Let’s bring and beat the gong.”

  “Gongs,” said a third and gazed with looks intent
    At the full sofa, “are not adequate. 
  There fits some dread, some heavy, punishment
    For one who sleeps with such a dreadful weight. 
  Behold with me,” he moaned, “a scene accurst. 
  The springs are broken and the sofa’s burst!”

  Too true!  Too true!  Beneath you on the floor
    Lay blent in ruin all the obscure things
  That were the sofa’s strength, a scattered store
    Of tacks and battens and protruded springs. 
  Through the rent ticking they had all been spilt,
  Mute proofs and mournful of your weight and guilt.

  And you?  You slept as sweetly as a child,
    And when you woke you recked not of your shame,
  But babbled greetings, stretched yourself and smiled
    From that eviscerated sofa’s frame,
  Which, flawless erst, was now one mighty flaw
  Through the addition of yourself as straw.

  R.C.L.

* * * * *

“A really acceptable present for a lady is a nice piece of artificial hair, as, when not absolutely necessary, it is always useful and ornamental.”—­Advt. in “Aberdeen Free Press."

Still, it might be misunderstood.

* * * * *

    “Theologians and mystics might say, ’Is that not mere
    anthropomrhpism?’”—­Mr. BALFOUR according to “The Daily
    Mail."

But a Welshman would say it best.

* * * * *

    “An aggressive minority succeeded in showing that the
    Little Navy-ites do not represent the bulk of public
    opinion.”—­Daily Express.