"Neat gray hoods will be in vogue," Quoth a Jackdaw: "Glossy gray, Setting close, yet setting easy, Nothing fly-away; Suited to our misty mornings, A la negligée." Flushing salmon, flushing sulphur, Haughty Cockatoos Answer "Hoods may do for mornings, But for evenings choose High head-dresses, curved like crescents, Such as well-bred persons use." 'Top-knots, yes; yet more essential Still, a train or tail," Screamed the Peacock : "Gemmed and lustrous Not too stiff, and not too frail; Those are best which rearrange as Fans, and spread or trail." Spoke the Swan, entrenched behind An inimitable neck: "After all, there's nothing sweeter For the lawn or lake Than simple white, if fine and flaky And absolutely free from speck." "Yellow," hinted a Canary, "Warmer, not less distingué." "Peach color," put in a Lory, "Cannot look outré." All the colors are in fashion, And are right," the Parrots say. "Very well. But do contrast Tints harmonious," Piped a Blackbird, justly proud Of bill aurigerous; "Half the world may learn a lesson As to that from us." Then a Stork took up the word : "Aim at height and chic: Not high heels, they 're common; somehow, Stilted legs, not thick, Nor yet thin:" he just glanced downward And snapped to his beak. Here a rustling and a whirring, As of fans outspread, Hinted that mammas felt anxious Lest the next thing said Might prove less than quite judicious, So a mother Auk resumed The broken thread of speech: "Let colors sort themselves, my dears, Yellow, or red, or peach; The main points, as it seems to me, "Are form and texture, elegance, An air reserved, sublime; The mode of wearing what we wear With due regard to month and clime. But now, let's all compose ourselves, It's almost breakfast-time." A hubbub, a squeak, a bustle! Yet they whisper under the wing: "So we may wear whatever we like, Anything, everything!" AN OCTOBER GARDEN. N my Autumn garden I was fain IN To mourn among my scattered roses ; Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses To Autumn's languid sun and rain When all the world is on the wane! Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June, Broad-faced asters by my garden walk, You are but coarse compared with roses : More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk, That least and last which cold winds balk ; A rose it is though least and last of all, A rose to me though at the fall. . O "SUMMER IS ENDED." To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose, Scentless, colorless, this! Will it ever be thus (who knows?) Thus with our bliss, If we wait till the close? Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end Sooner, later, at last, Which nothing can mar, nothing mend : An end locked fast, Bent we cannot re-bend. |