A CENTURY HENCE. 75 



Her lips were full and rosy, 



Her step, graceful and light. 

 Perhaps you would have loved her — 



I loved her? No, not quite. 



She had one imperfection — 



The Color Line's in sight — 

 I didn't love dear Becky 'cause 



Dear Becky wasn't white. 



Not poetry, old fellow, not poetry, of course, but tolerable verse 

 for all that. These lines are perhaps a shade better. They are 

 entitled 



RUTH. 



Light of my life, thou charming Israelite, 

 Thou art my Ruth and I, a sheaf of corn, 



Thine eyes the scythe 'neath which I helpless fell 

 One fair autumnal morn. 



O loveliest gleaner in the teeming field, 



Ah! smiling victress, pity, pity me! 

 Bind me with all thy arts, with all thy charms, 



Bind me to thee, to thee! 



And when each to the other's bound forever — 



Listen, sweet Ruth, my words are fraught with meaning — 



You'll not be angry should I ask you to — 

 Well — stop your gleaning? 



"This Cat" is a remarkable feline as you shall see, and Avhile the 

 rhmyes wherein she is described are not of any great merit, perhaps 

 they will bear reading : 



THIS CAT. 



'Tis a cat; a cat — that's all, 

 And it rests against the wall 

 Of my room ; 

 And it never, never stirs, 

 And it never, never purrs, 

 Prom the dawning of the morning to the gloom. 



