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 profit shall they reap.

I sometimes think that never lasts so long
The Style as when it starts a bit too strong;

That all the Pompadours the parterre boasts
Some Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song

And this Revival of the Chignon low
That fills the most of us with helpless Woe,
Ah, criticise it Softly! for who knows
What long-necked Peeress had to wear it so!

Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet;
To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat.
To-morrow! why, to-morrow you may be
Wearing it down your back like Marguerite!

For some we once admired, the Very Best
That ever a French hand-boned Corset prest,
Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots,
And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest.

And we that now make fun of Waterfalls
They wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls,
Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion plates
Assist our Children in their Costume balls.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear,
Before we grow so old that we don't care!
Before we have our Hats made all alike,
Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and-
sans Hair!

Josephine Daskam Bacon.

H

THE MODERN RUBAIYAT

(Dobley's Version)

ARK! for the message cometh from the
King!

Winter, thy doom is spoke; thy dirges ring, Thy time is o'er- and through the Palace door Enter the Princess! Hail the new-crowned Spring!

Comes she all rose-crowned, glowing with the Joy Of Laughter and of Cupid, the God-Boy;

Buds bursting on the bough in welcoming To Her we Love, whose loving will not cloy!

List! from the organ rippling in the Street
Come sounds rejoicing, glad Her reign to greet.
The Shad is smiling in the Market Place

And eke the Little Neck! Ah-Life is Sweet!

Come, let us lilt a Merry Little Song
And in an Automobile glide along

Into the glory of the Year's new Birth.
Hasten! Oh, haste! For this is Spring, I Think!

Come where the Bonnets bloom within the Grove And let us pluck them for the One we Love; Violets and Things and chiffon-nested Birds. Tell me didst ever see a Glass-Eyed Dove?

Think you how many Springs will go and come When We are Dead Ones - and the busy Hum Of life will never reach us Nothing Done And Nothing Doing in the Silence Glum!

Listen! the cable car's Gay Gong has rang,
The Elevated on its perch, A-clang

Like to a District Messenger astir.
Thought you, it was a Nightingale that sang?

Ah! my Beloved, when it's Really Spring
We know it by the Buds a-blossoming,

Signals from earth to sky - Tremendous Sounds That might to Some mean any Ancient Thing!

Then let us to the Caravan at Once,

The Sawdust where the Peanut haunts
The air with strange sweet Odors

And the Elephant does Wild and Woolly Stunts!

Asparagus is glowing on the Stall,

The Spring lamb cavorts on the Menu tall;
Strawberries ripe-a Dollar for the Box:
Would n't it jar You somehow, After all?

A Book of Coon Songs underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Dozen Buns, and Thou

Beside me singing rag-time? I don't know? I wonder would a dozen be enow?

I sent my soul afling through Joy and Pain
For Information that the Winds might deign.
Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved,
And whispered slowly sadly "Guess Again."

Sometimes I think the Glories that they Sing Are like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling; But take To-day- and make the Most of It, I think it's Just Too Sweet for anything!

I often wonder if we should expire

If we could but Collect the Gold we Lend!

Ah, Love! could Thou and I Creation run, How Different our Scheme! The Summer's sun Would see another Springtime blossoming, Another Summer's Rose to Follow On!

And Leaning from the Sky a Little Star
Would Tell Us from the Canopy afar

What now we Grope for in the Dinky-dink,
And wonder blindly, vaguely, What we Are!

And when Alone you dream your fancies ripe,
Thyself all Hasheesh-fed- My Prototype!

Smoke Up and when you gather with the
Group

Where I made One-Turn Down an Empty Pipe!
Kate Masterson.

LINES WRITTEN ("BY REQUEST ")
FOR A DINNER OF THE OMAR
KHAYYAM CLUB

M

ASTER, in memory of that Verse of Thine,
And of Thy rather pretty taste in Wine,
We gather at this jaded Century's end,
Our Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine.

Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstays
Most other Genii's. Though a Laureate's bays
Should slowly crumple up, Thou livest on,
Having survived a certain Paraphrase.

The Lion and the Alligator squat

In Dervish Courts

the Weather being hot
Where is Mahmud now?

Under Umbrellas.
Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot!

Not so with thee; but in Thy place of Rest,
Where East is East and never can be West,

Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards;
O make allowances; they do their Best.