The Squirrel toiled both day and night,
Quite faithful to his hire;
So hungry and so faint sometimes
He thought he should expire. 
But still he kept his courage up,
And tugged with might and main,
“How nice the nuts will taste,” he thought,
“When I my barrel gain.”

At last, when he was nearly dead,
And thin and old and grey,
Quoth th’ Lion:  “There’s no more hard work
You’re fit to do.  I’ll pay.” 
A barrel-full of nuts he gave—­
Ripe, rich, and big; but oh! 
The Squirrel’s tears ran down his cheeks. 
He’d lost his teeth, you know!

BALLAD OF THE TRAILING SKIRT.

NEW YORK “LIFE.”

        I met a girl the other day,
          A girl with golden tresses,
        Who wore the most bewitching air,
          And daintiest of dresses.

        I gazed at her with kindling eye
          And admiration utter—­
        Until I saw her silken skirt
          Was trailing in the gutter!

        “What senseless style is this?” I thought;
          “What new sartorial passion? 
        And who on earth stands sponsor for
          The idiotic fashion?”

        I’ve asked a dozen maids or more,
          A tailor and his cutter,
        But no one knows why skirts are made
          To drag along the gutter.

        Alas for woman, fashion’s slave;
          She does not seem to mind it. 
        Her silk or satin sweeps the street
          And leaves no filth behind it.

        For all the dirt the breezes blow
          And all the germs that flutter
        May find a refuge in the gowns
          That swish along the gutter.

        What lovely woman wills to do
          She does without a reason. 
        To interfere is waste of time,
          To criticise is treason.

        Man’s only province is to work
          To earn his bread and butter—­
        And buy her all the skirts she wants
          To trail along the gutter.

TO THE GIRL IN KHAKI.

“MODERN SOCIETY.”

I put the question shyly,
Lest you inform me dryly
That women’s ways are far beyond my ken;
But was not khaki chosen
For coats and breeks and hosen
To render men invisible to men?

Why, then, dear maid, do you
Forsake your gayest hue
And dress in viewless khaki spick and span? 
You charming little miss,
It never can be this: 
To render you invisible to man!

Not that at all?  What then? 
You do not fear the men: 
Perchance you only wish to hide your heart,
And so, you fickle flirt,
You don a khaki skirt
To foil the deadly aim of Cupid’s dart.

THE TENDER HEART.