LOVE SONG. Ea
© come with me, my darling,
We'll stroll upon the sand,
And I'll quote verses to you,
And lead you by the hand;
‘We'll gaze across the water
. And see {t gleam, Janet,
* . For Morgan hasn't gobled
Up
the ’
moonlight
yet.
The pathway through the meadow,
Still leads down to the shore,
And shadows fall across it
E’en as they fell of yore;
The wind sighs through the rushes,
The tender grass is wet,
And Morgan hasn't gobbled
Up
the
moonlight
yet.
The busy day is ended,
The city’s work is done,
And over in the marshes
Sweet revels have begun;
'Tis Love’s own happy hour,
For let us not forget
That Morgan hasn't gobbled
Up
the
moonlight
yet.
O come with me, my sweetheart,
And let us fare away
To where the blithesome ripples
Among the pebbles play;
The world is still for lovers,
My beautiful Janet,
For Morgan hasn’t gobbled
Up
the \
moonlight b
yet.
--S. E. Kiser, in Chicago Record-Herald.
RS. DUNN-WEST was a wom-
an with theories—not purposes;
t theories upon essentially femi-
nine topics. She reasoned out every-
thing which puzzled her, and she
was more often right than wrong—as
is the way of women. She akways held
that the theory of counter-irritants
was sound; and.now, having convinced
herself that something was wrong
with her friend Betty Clinton, she de-
sired to set it right, for she loved to
unravel the tangled skeins of love af-
fairs.
+ “Have you seen Tom Renston late-
'" she ‘asked the girl, who was sit-
gr in her pretty boudoir.
ately, replied her com-
“I don’t see why one should speak
disparagingly of anybne,” said Miss
Clinton, trying to speak in a tone of
indifference.
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Dunn
West. “And I am not the one to speak
ill of poor Tom Renston, in whom 1
tell you I feel quite a motherly in
terest. Still it would interest me tc
hear what other attributes, besides
conceit, you think he possesses. Not
brains, surely?”
Betty Clinton's face flushed. Was
there no escape from this subject, she
wondered? Dut she had seen enough
of the world to know that a studied
avoidance of the subject is the surest
way to move the surface interest in
it—especially if there happens to be
a man and a woman in the case—so
she determined not to betray herself
in this way.
“Well,” she said, thoughtfully, “1
don’t know. I think a man who can
write a book like “His Divinity” must
have a small supply of that quality.”
“Knack, my dear Betty,” replied Mrs.
Dunn-West, scornfully. “Only knack,
conceit and judicious plagiarism.”
Miss Elizabeth Clinton blazed with
wrath for a moment.
“What a very uncharitable speech,”
she said. “I am sure Mr. Renston
would be incapable of such disgrace-
ful methods.”
“You never know what a man is ca-
pable of until you are married tc him,”
said Mrs. Dunn-West, who was well
pleased with her success; “and then
in nine cases out of every ten the
woman is disillusioned.”
“Of ‘course you know more about
that than I do,” said Betty, spitefully.
Jut. Mrs. Dunn-West liked her for
her spite on this occasion.
“She has a heart all right,”
thought.
“Of course, my dear, "she said, sadly.
“But suppose we say Tom Renston
has a little brains, what else do you
claim for him?”
“I really wish you wouldn't put
things in this way,” replied Betty. “I
have no ambition to pose as Mr. Ren-
ston’s champion.”
“Of course not, my dear Betty,” per-
sisted Mrs. Dunn-West. ‘But just for
the sake of argument. He has no
money?”
“He is none the worse for that,” said
Betty. “Money is such a sordid stand-
ard of worth. JF-Hhafie the very sound
of the wordy and ev@rything connect-
ed with It.” ;
“You would hate the want of it
more, my dear,” said Mrs. Dunn-West,
with profound sagacity.
While Mrs. Dunn-West had been con-
ducting this campaign she had been
she
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