VARIOUS VERSES.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXIX, Issue 8321, 29 December 1906, Page 3

VARIOUS VERSES.

THE CHRISTMAS MAIL BAG, "There's a sound of mirth and laughter outside the little store, As we gather round the window and beside the open door, With many noisy greetings and words of hearty cheer, For it's Christmas Eve in the township, and the mail will soon be here. 'There's the parson and the parish priest, the milkmaid from the hill, The farmer and "the rouseabout," the miller from his mill, With boys and girls from far and near, in truth u motley .throng, For it's Christmas Five, and we're waiting for the mail to come along. Far across the sun-dried country, through many a river course, Comes the mail-man gaily singing—his bags across his horse, Bringing words of love and comfort from our dear ones far away This Christmas Eve out 'way back the eve of a glorious day. At last the cry, "He's coming!"— and a clatter and a din, As the pack-horse is unloaded and the bag is carried in; The letters soon are sorted—'tis a / heavy bag, we hear, This Christmas Eve in the township and the last mail of the year. "Then the many jokes and laughter and the chaffing that we hear At the opening of the letters and the cards of Christms cheer; But some are disappointed, and joy comes not their way, Though it's Christmas Eve in the .township—the eve of a holy day. Ah, you who dwell in the cities, could you see the watching eyes In our little 'way-back township 'neath the sunny northern skies, Watching down the main road eager till the mail-man swings in sight, i Sweat would be your Christmas greetings when the mail comes in that night. —St. John Bee.

FEMININE ARITHMETIC. . When I was ten and you were eight, Two years between us stood, We used to meet by Daddy's gate— A stolen kiss was good. When I was twenty—quite a boy, You were still my heart's queen; But grown of kissing somewhat coy, You see —you're quite sixteen. When I was thirty, bronzed and tall, With sweethearts, too, in plenty, I met you at the Wilson's ball — ' You told me you were twenty. , I'm forty now, a little more — Oh, Time, you ruthless bandit! But you—you're only twenty-four— I cannot understand it! .WILLIE'S HOPE. Willie drank a pint of yeast In spite of friendly warning—- " "I hope," said he, "this will make me Rise early in the morning." , IN A ROSE GARDEN, A hundred years from now, dear heart, We will not care at all, It will not matter then a whit, The honour or the gall. The summer days that we have known Will all forgotten be and flown; The garden will be overgrown .\ Where now the roses fall. \ ,"■'"' \ A hundred years from now, dear heart, We will not mind the pain, The throbbing, crimson tide of life Will not have left a stain. The song we sing together, dear, >■■ j The dream we dream together here,. "Will mean no means a tear Amid a summer rain. A hundred.years from now, dear heart, The grief will all be o'er; , The sea of care will surge in vain Upon a careless shore. These glasses we turn down to-day, Here at the parting of the way, We shall be wirieless then as they, And will not mind it more. A hundred years from now, dear heart, . We'll neither know nor care What came of all life's bitterness, Or followed love's despair. Then fill the glasses up again And kiss me through the rose-leaf rain; We'll build one castle more in Spain, And dream one more dream there. —By John Bennett.