SELECTED VERSES,

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXVIX, Issue 8127, 28 April 1906, Page 3

SELECTED VERSES,

_ * "MIGHT HAVE." I have lived my life, and I face the end— But that other life I might have led? Where lay the road, and who was its friend; And what was the goal, when the years were fled? Where lay the road? Did I miss the turn? The friend unknown? Our greetings unsaid? And the goal unsought? Shall I never learn, What was that life I might have led? As the spring's last look, for one dear day From skies autumnal on earth may bend, So lures me that other life—but nay, I have lived my life, and I face the end. —Edith M. Thomas. THE DESTROYER. Into the night when the sun had gone, The fast destroyer flew, And never sidelight gleamed or shone. Aa the pale f.tars grew and grew. What errand grim did she speed upon? Only her captain knew. Through the sweeping seas she clove a track Into the blinding gloom— Stumny funnelled, sinister, blackShe was the spirit of doom. And the keen spray hailed on her turtle-back, To the throb of her engine-room. Back to our forts the destroyer crept, Aa the dawn rushed in aflame; Her stacks were blistered, her decks sea swept, But she licked her lips as she came; And she took her place, where her comrades slept, Like a hound that had killed its game. SICK. When mother's sick, the house is all So strangely hushed in room and hall! But mother never will admit She's suffering a single bit I She won't let people do a thing— There'B nothing anyone can bring— She just lies there, and tries to fix "Herself," by cunning little tricks 1 And as for doctor—why, the word S,he soouto as being most absurd, And when he comes he has to guess At symptoms that she won't confess; And tneu he's apt to frown and say. "You should have had me right away" I'll come afeaiu this evening—for It's bed, you Bee, a week or more! When "father's" sick—l tell jou.

now You ought to hear the dreadful row ! The talk of "dying" and the groans! The orders in convulsive tones' The hasty runnings to and fro; To re-arrange the pillow—so; To fix hot water bag and shade; For mustard plaster, lemonade! Appeals to get the doctor, quiok— And "Can't you see I'm awtul sick?" Dootor leaves some drops, and tells us, "Horn!" Unless I'm needed. 1 shan't come Again, I think he'll do all right," And father's up, perhaps, by night! "Century Magazine." HOW DID YOU JUIE. Did you tackle that trouble that come your way, With a resolute heait and cheerful? Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful? Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce Or trouble is what you make it, And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only how you take it. You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what.'s that? Come up with a smiling face; It's nothing against you to fall down flat, .But to lie theie—that's disgrace. The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce; Be proud of your blaokened eye! It isn't the faot that you're lioked that counts; It's how did you flght—and why? And though you be done to the death, what then? If you played your part in ihe world of men, Why did the critic call it good. Death comes with a crawl, it comes with .a pounce, And whether he's slow or spry, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, But only how did you die? —From "Impertinent Pcems," by Edmund Vance Cooke.

THE BABY. Who in the household wields sueJb sway, That his behest brook not delay And no one dares to say Mm nay? The baby. Who long ere dawn sets up a roar, Nor stops until —ob, horrid bore—lie's carried op and down the floor? The bab.7. VViat with the bottle makes quite free, Swigging with toperisb energy, While held on the maternal knee? The baby. Who, whe3 his infant temper's "riled," And his yells nearly drive me wild, is yet called "angel," "darling child," The baby. Wbu is kept trim from top to toe, Is decked with neoklaoe, sash and • bow, Though buttonleßß my sbirtß may go The baby.

Who never walkß, but always rides la a gay ooaob, with lacquered sides, O'er which a female groom presides The baby. Who, when he goes to take the air, > Is swathed in white till, 1 declare He looks like a young polar bear The baby. Who has had nurses four or five, Sad drones in our domestic hive— The sixth, I fear, will soon arrive Th* baby. Who by his "ma" and maiden aunt la deemed the finest child extant Albeit—go quite so far I can't The baby. Who is, although ho breaks our rest, And puts oar patience to the test, The thing on earth that we love best? The baby.