And the old clock ticked his time away,
For the editor's mind would go astray.

He thought of the days when they were young,
And all but love to the winds was flung,
He thought of the way she used to wear
Her wayward tresses of golden hair.

He thought of the way she used to blush.
He thought of the way he used to gush.
And a smile and a tear went creeping down
The face that so long had known a frown.

And this is what the editor wrote:
No poem--merely a little note,
Simple and manly, but tender, too;
Three little words--they were, "I love you."




Acting.

Ah, my arms hold you fast! How can they be so bold
When my hands offer nothing of silver or gold?

Can it be that I see a new light in your eye?
Can it be that I heard then a womanly sigh?

Ah, I feel such delight, and such joy, such surprise,