A SONNET OF VAIN DESIRE.

AFTER THE HOLIDAYS.

As when th' industrious windmill vainly yearns
To pause, and scratch its swallow-haunted head,
Yet at the wind's relentless urging turns
Its flying arms in wild appeal outspread;
So am I vex'd by vain desire, that burns
These barren places whence the hair hath fled,
To wander far amid the woodland ferns,
Where dewdrops shine along the gossamer thread;
Where its own sunlight on the reddening leaf
Sleeps, when soft mists have swathed the sunless tree,

Or where the innumerous billows merrily dance;
Yet must I busily dissemble grief
Whirl'd in the pitiless round of circumstance,
Rigid with trained respectability.

* * * * *

New Way out of a Wager.

DESMOND, Theosophist Colonel, now thinks better
Of his rash vow his gift to "demonstrate,"
Receiving a "precipitated letter"
Warning him not to be--precipitate.
Many a Betting Man who'd hedge or tack