It was a misdirected wire,

Her husband was at Shaitanpore.
She spread her anger, hot as fire,

Through six thin foreign sheets or more,
Sent off that letter, wrote another
To her solicitor-and mother.

Then Belial Machiavelli saw

Her error and, I trust, his own,
Wired to the minion of the Law,
And travelled wifeward-not alone.
For Lilly-thirteen-two and bay-
Came in a horse-box all the way.

There was a scene-a weep or two-
With many kisses. Austen Jane
Rode Lilly all the season through,
And never opened wires again.
She races now with Belial

Is very sad, but so it is.

This

THE BALLAD OF FISHER'S BOARDING-HOUSE

That night, when through the mooring-chains

The wide-eyed corpse rolled free,

To blunder down by Garden Reach

And rot at Kedgeree,

The tale the Hughli told the shoal

The lean shoal told to me.

'TWAS Fultah Fisher's boarding-house,

Where sailor-men reside,

And there were men of all the ports
From Mississip to Clyde,

And regally they spat and smoked,

And fearsomely they lied.

They lied about the purple Sea

That gave them scanty bread,
They lied about the Earth beneath,
The Heavens overhead,

For they had looked too often on
Black rum when that was red.

They told their tales of wreck and wrong,
Of shame and lust and fraud,

They backed their toughest statements with.
The Brimstone of the Lord,
And crackling oaths went to and fro
Across the fist-banged board.

And there was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,
Bull-throated, bare of arm,

Who carried on his hairy chest

The maid Ultruda's charm

The little silver crucifix

That keeps a man from harm.

And there was Jake Without-the-Ears,

And Pamba the Malay,

And Carboy Gin the Guinea cook,

And Luz from Vigo Bay,

And Honest Jack who sold them slops
And harvested their pay.

And there was Salem Hardieker,

A lean Bostonian he

Russ, German, English, Halfbreed, Finn,

Yank, Dane, and Portuguee,

At Fultah Fisher's boarding-house

They rested from the sea.

Now Anne of Austria shared their drinks,
Collinga knew her fame,
From Tarnau in Galicia

To Jaun Bazaar she came,
To eat the bread of infamy
And take the wage of shame.

She held a dozen men to heel-
Rich spoil of war was hers,

In hose and gown and ring and chain,

From twenty mariners,

And, by Port Law, that week, men called

Her Salem Hardieker's.

But seamen learnt-what landsmen knowThat neither gifts nor gain

Can hold a winking Light o' Love

Or Fancy's flight restrain,

When Anne of Austria rolled her eyes

On Hans the blue-eyed Dane.

Since Life is strife, and strife means knife,

From Howrah to the Bay,

And he may die before the dawn

Who liquored out the day,
In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house
We woo while yet we may.

But cold was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,
Bull-throated, bare of arm,
And laughter shook the chest beneath
The maid Ultruda's charm-

The little silver crucifix

That keeps a man from harm.

"You speak to Salem Hardieker;
"You was his girl, I know.
"I ship mineselfs to-morrow, see,
“Und round the Skaw we go,
"South, down the Cattegat, by Hjelm,
"To Besser in Saro."

When love rejected turns to hate,
All ill betide the man.

"You speak to Salem Hardieker"

She spoke as woman can.

A scream-a sob-"He called me-names!" And then the fray began.

An oath from Salem Hardieker,
A shriek upon the stairs,
A dance of shadows on the wall,
A knife-thrust unawares—

And Hans came down, as cattle drop,
Across the broken chairs.

In Anne of Austria's trembling hands
The weary head fell low:-

"I ship mineselfs to-morrow, straight
"For Besser in Saro;

"Und there Ultruda comes to me "At Easter, und I go

"South, down the Cattegat-What's here? "There-are-no-lights-to-guide!"

The mutter ceased, the spirit passed,

And Anne of Austria cried
In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house
When Hans the mighty died.

Thus slew they Hans the blue-eyed Dane,
Bull-throated, bare of arm,

But Anne of Austria looted first

The maid Ultruda's charmThe little silver crucifix

That keeps a man from harm.

POSSIBILITIES

AY, LAY him 'neath the Simla pine-
A fortnight fully to be missed,
Behold, we lose our fourth at whist,
A chair is vacant where we dine.

His place forgets him; other men

Have bought his ponies, guns, and traps. His fortune is the Great Perhaps And that cool rest-house down the glen,

Whence he shall hear, as spirits may,
Our mundane revel on the height,
Shall watch each flashing 'rickshaw-light
Sweep on to dinner, dance, and play.

Benmore shall woo him to the ball

With lighted rooms and braying band;
And he shall hear and understand

"Dream Faces" better than us all.

For, think you, as the vapours flee
Across Sanjaolie after rain,
His soul may climb the hill again
To each old field of victory.