O Lords and Masters in our happy land,
          How with this woman will you make account,
          How answer her shrill question in that hour
          When whirlwinds of such women shake the polls,
          Heedless of every precedent and creed,
          Straight in hysteric haste to right all wrongs? 
          How will it be with cant of politics,
          With king of trade and legislative boss,
          With cobwebs of hypocrisy and greed,
          When she shall take the ballot for her broom
          And sweep away the dust of centuries?

EDWARD W. SANBORN.

NEW HAMPSHIRE DAUGHTERS

New Hampshire Daughters meet tonight
With joy each cup is brimmin’;
We’ve heard for years about her men,
But why leave out her wimmin?

In early days they did their share
To git the state to goin’,
And when their husbands went to war,
Could fight or take to hoein’.

They bore privations with a smile,
Raised families surprisin’,
Six boys, nine gals, with twins thrown in,
O, they were enterprisin’.

Yet naught is found their deeds to praise
In any book of hist’ry,
The brothers wrote about themselves,
And—­well, that solves the myst’ry.

But now our women take their place
In pulpit, court, and college,
As doctors, teachers, orators,
They equal men in knowledge.

And when another history’s writ
Of what New Hampshire’s done,
The women all will get their due,
But not a single son.

But no, on sober second thought,
We lead, not pose as martyrs,
We’ll give fair credit to her sons,
But not forget her Darters.

KATE SANBORN.

[Illustration:  THE LOOKOUT]

A little of my (not doggerel) but pupperell to complete the family trio.

Answer to an artist friend who begged for a “Turkey dinner.”

Delighted to welcome you dear;
But you can’t have a Turkey dinner! 
Those fowls are my friends—­live here: 
To eat, not be eat, you sinner!

I like their limping, primping mien,
I like their raucous gobble;
I like the lordly tail outspread,
I like their awkward hobble.

Yes, Turkey is my favourite meat,
Hot, cold, or rechauffee;
But my own must stay, and eat and eat;
You may paint ’em, and so take away.

KATE SANBORN.

[Metre adapted to the peculiar feet of this bird.]

SPRING IN WINTER

A Memory of “Breezy Meadows"

’Twas winter—­and bleakly and bitterly came
The winds o’er the meads you so breezily name;
And what tho’ the sun in the heavens was bright,
‘Twas lacking in heat altho’ lavish in light. 
And cold were the guests who drew up to your door,
But lo, when they entered ’twas winter no more!