on the ground, the crowd has dispersed, and masks tell no tales anyway.
There is murder, but by whom? for what? _Quien sabe?_

And that is how it happened on Carnival night, in the last mad moments
of Rex's reign, a broken-hearted woman sat gazing wide-eyed and mute at
a horrible something that lay across the bed. Outside the long sweet
march music of many bands floated in in mockery, and the flash of
rockets and Bengal lights illumined the dead, white face of the girl
troubadour.




PAUL TO VIRGINIA.

FIN DE SIECLE.


I really must confess, my dear,
I cannot help but love you,
For of all girls I ever knew,
There's none I place above you;
But then you know it's rather hard,
To dangle aimless at your skirt,
And watch your every movement so,
_For I am jealous, and you're a flirt_.

There's half a score of fellows round,
You smile at every one,
And as I think to pride myself for basking in the sun