The frost that held us in its grip,
    Would raise the prisoning paw,
  And Nature, like a mouse set free,
  Enjoyed delusive liberty,
  While every water-pipe must drip
    To greet the passing thaw. 
  Then rudely dashed from eager lip
    The cup of joy would be,
  And fingers numbed, and chattering jaw,
  Owned unexpelled the winter’s flaw,
  And on the steps the goodmen slip,
    And shout the major D.

  Long like a fossil tipsy-cake
    The sponge each morn appeared;
  The bath, if plenished over-night,
  Was frozen ere the morning light,
  And more that frigid water-ache
    Than unwashed days I feared,
  Now while the milder zephyrs shake
    Once more the winter’s might,
  My sponge, my bath, by loss endeared,
  Shall dree no more a lonely weird;
  And as young ducks to water take,
    Shall be my bath ward flight.

* * * * *

GOOD DEVON!

Mr. W.H.  SMITH will return to Grosvenor Place from Torquay on Monday, for the opening of Parliament.

  ’Tis pity of you, OLD MORALITY,
  Back from your rest to loud banality. 
  After St. Stephen’s shindy, Devon
  No doubt appeared a very heaven: 
  But cream’s as much like water chalky
  As Torquay Torrs to Talky-Talky!

* * * * *

CHANGE OF INITIALS.

“Often as I may have been invited,” Mr. T.M.  HEALY is reported to have said, in the course of a recent speech, “I never yet put a toe inside his house.”  Memorable words.  Henceforth, name changed to TOE-AND-HEALY, M.P.

* * * * *

A WORD TO MOTHERS.

    [A well-known Dramatic Critic has recently spoken of a play as
    “just the play in which growing girls will delight.”]

  O Anxious Mothers, come and listen
    To what just now I’ve got to say. 
  If I’m not wrong, your eyes will glisten
    Before the end of this my lay. 
  With strong affection overflowing—­
    Your children are indeed your pearls—­
  You can’t help feeling pleased at knowing
    The play’s the thing—­for growing girls!

  The pages of a lady’s journal
    I’ve very often read with care,
  The news, the gossiping eternal,
    You’re always sure of getting there. 
  Of how you ought to bind your tresses,
    The latest styles, the tint in hair,
  And there I’ve seen the kind of dresses
    It’s right for growing girls to wear.

  But never once the slightest mention
    Of what they’d better go and see,
  And yet it’s clear that some attention
    To such a thing there ought to be. 
  For sentiment and love they’re frantic,
    They’re fond of knights and belted earls,
  A play that’s just the least romantic—­
    Yes, that’s the play for growing girls.