* * * * *

THE TELEPHONE CINDERELLA;

OR, WANTED A GODMOTHER.

["Far from taking up and developing the new mode of communication thus given into its hands, it (the Post Office) could not forget its attitude of hostility to the innovation, or conceive any larger policy than one of repressing the telephone in order to make people stick to the telegraph....  The result is that England lags far behind all other civilised countries in the use of the telephone.”—­Times.]

AIR—­“Ulalume.”

  Cinderella, you sit and look sober,
    Cinderella, you mope and look queer—­
    You mope, and look dolefully queer;
  As chill as JOHN MILLAIS’ “October,”
    As you have done, this many a year. 
  It is hard on you; MOZART or AUBER
    Might fail your depression to cheer—­
  Had you taken the draught named of Glauber,
  You could scarce look duller, my dear

II.

  Our times, dear, are truly Titanic,
    Perfection seems Science’s goal—­
    Dim, distant, dark Science’s goal—­
  But we’re still a bit given to panic. 
        Monopolies moodily roll—­
        Monopolies restlessly roll—­
  That’s why there’s a movement volcanic
    That stirs us from pole unto pole—­
  A moaning that’s vainly volcanic,
    In the realms of the (Telegraph) pole.

III.

  Deputations are serious and sober,
    Officials look palsied and sere—­
    They indulge in rhetoric small-beer
  (Instead of sound sparkling October)
    They’re frightened about you, my dear—­
    (You, at present in two senses, dear!)
  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.”