There is no answer to a jest,
but another; and even where the ball can be kept up in this way without
ceasing, it tires the patience of the bystanders, and runs the speakers
out of breath. Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food.
LOVE IN WINTER
[Sidenote: _Austin Dobson_]
Between the berried holly-bush
The blackbird whistled to the thrush:
"Which way did bright-eyed Bella go?
Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,--
Are those her dainty tracks I see,
That wind beside the shrubbery?"
The throstle pecked the berries still.
"No need for looking, Yellowbill;
Young Frank was there an hour ago,
Half frozen, waiting in the snow;
His callow beard was white with rime,--
'Tchuck,--'tis a merry pairing-time!"
"What would you?" twittered in the wren;
"These are the reckless ways of men.
I watched them bill and coo as though
They thought the sign of spring was snow;
If men but timed their loves as we,
'Twould save this inconsistency."
"Nay, gossip," chirped the robin, "nay;
I like their unreflective way.
Besides, I heard enough to show
Their love is proof against the snow:--
'Why wait,' he said, 'why wait for May,
When love can warm a winter's day?'"
MENTAL PHOTOGRAPHS
[Sidenote: _Mark Twain_]
I have received from the publishers, New York, a neatly-printed page of
questions, with blanks for answers, and am requested to fill those
blanks.
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