The violet hid behind her leaves
    And veiled her timid face,
  And all the flowers bowed a-down,
    For holy was the place. 
  Only a little common flower
    Looked boldly up and smiled
  To see the happy mother come
    A-carrying her Child.

  The little Child He laughed aloud
    To see the smiling flower,
  And as He laughed the Marigold
    Turned gold in that same hour. 
  For she was gay and innocent—­
    He loved to see her so—­
  And from the splendour of His face
    She caught a golden glow.

* * * * *

An optimist.

“I have just completed a fortnight’s tour on a tandem, and can recommend this form of a holiday as the best I know of....  One Sunday in June, without exaggeration, I was nearly killed twice, and my wife was overcome with fright.”—­C.T.C.  Gazette.

* * * * *

    “In a competition at Claygate, Surrey, three children caught 182 green
    wasps.”—­Daily Paper.

It is believed that they would not have been caught if they had not been green.

* * * * *

From a recent Admiralty Order:—­

    “Approval has been given for frocks to be issued to N.C.  Officers and
    men (Royal Marines) during the current year, for walking out purposes
    only.”

It is believed that His Majesty’s Jollies have received the order without enthusiasm, on the ground that no mention is made of anything being inside the frocks.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE ICONOCLAST.

SIR ALFRED MOND.  “I’M SORRY TO HAVE TO DISTURB YOUR MAJESTY, BUT, OWING TO
THE SHORTAGE OF SITES—­”

GEORGE III.  “SHORTAGE OF SIGHTS, INDEED!”

[It is understood that a number of London statues, including that of George III. in Cockspur Street, are to be removed by the Office of Works to make room for new ones.]]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Heavy Father. “PUT YOUR ’AT ON THIS MINUTE, SIR.  DO YOU WANT TO CATCH YOUR DEATHERCOLD?”]

* * * * *

THE VISIONARY.

  ’Twas last week at Pebble Bay
    That I saw the little goat,
  Harnessed to a little shay. 
    Old was he and poor in coat,
  And he lugged his load along
  Where the barefoot children throng
  Round the nigger minstrels’ song.

  But his eye, aloof and chill,
    Said to me as plain as plain,
  “I am waiting, waiting still,
    Till the gods come back again;
  Starved and ugly, mean, unkempt,
  I have dreams by you undreamt,
  And—­I hold you in contempt!

  “Dreams of forest routs that trooped,
    Shadowy maidens crowned with vines,
  Dreams where Dian’s self has stooped
    Darkling ’neath the scented pines;
  Or where he, old father Pan,
  Took the hooves of me and ran
  Fluting through the heart of man.