But now you write to me, my dear,
And marvel that they are not dead,
Their beauty does not disappear,
Their fragrant perfume has not fled.

The reason's plain. Somehow aright
The flowers know if we ignore them.
The roses live for sheer delight
At knowing, Sweetheart, that _you_ wore them.

* * * * *

THOUGHTS--NOT WORTH A PENNY.

(_FRAGMENT FROM THE BURLESQUE-ROMANCE OF "NO CENTS; OR, THE NEW
CRITICISM."_)

The Critic of the new cult visited a tailor's establishment, and was
delighted with all he saw. There were coats, and vests, and other
garments.

"I make some fifty per cent. profit," said the proprietor of the
establishment, stroking his moustache with a hand adorned with many a
diamond ring. "Of course it causes some labour, thought, and time--but
I get my money for my trouble."

"And why not?" replied the Critic. "Are you not worth it? Do you not
devote your energy to it? Must you not live?"

And, having said this, the Reviewer visited another place of business.