They would scan the far future, and probe her,
But can't--and it makes them feel queer;
As you sit by the fire, looking sober,
You make _them_ sit up and feel queer.

IV.

Your sisters, whose airs are unpleasant,
Regard you with arrogant scorn--
With arrogant, uneasy scorn--
True, they have the pull, for the present,
But fear you, the fair youngest born.
They know that your glory is crescent,
And, though each uplifteth her horn,
Each feels that _her_ glory's senescent,
In spite of their duplicate scorn.

V.

_Miss Telegraph_, lifting her finger,
Says--"Sadly this minx I mistrust--
Her manners I strangely mistrust--
She'll distance us, dear, if we linger!
Ah, haste!--let us haste!--for we must!
She'll eclipse us--that _would_ be a stinger!
She'll rise, and our business is "bust"--
My dear, we must snub her, and bring her
Presumptuous pride to the dust--
Till she sorrowfully sinks in the dust."