Dear Cousin

This is just to say Why dinner was postponed to-day,— The goose had failed us, that was all; Excuse, I beg, this hurried scrawl. Will write to-morrow to explain— Just now my paw is in such pain That when I try to write it shocks My nerves.

Yours truly, RUFUS FOX.

P. S.—I’d thank you if you sent A bottle of that liniment You spoke of several days ago— The kind for “dog-bites,” don’t you know.

Once a naughty fay Chanced to sprain her wing; “At her tricks,” they say— “Naughty little thing!”

Said the little fay As she lay in pain, “No more tricks I’ll play When I’m well again.”

Time heals everything. Can this be our fay, She who sprained her wing Just the other day?

Can she be this fair Thrifty little thing, Sewing up a tear In a beetle’s wing?

Yes,—alas! but oh, Not a thrifty elf; Of course she has to sew What she tore herself!

The Princess’ hair hath golden sheen, And her cheek is lily-pale; But none may look in her eyes, I ween And live to tell the tale.

From out the south, and eke the north, And from the east and west, Full many a gallant knight rides forth Upon the fatal quest.

For a cruel spell on the Princess lies No mortal can undo Till one shall look into her eyes And tell their color true.

And some of them swear her eyes are green, And some that they are black, And many a knight rides forth, I ween, But never a one rides back.

For a cruel spell on the Princess lies, And whoso will may try His fate, and look into her eyes; But whoso quails must die.

The miller’s son is a dusty youth, And dusty curls hath he. Quoth he, “I’ll go myself, forsooth, And set this Princess free.”

The miller’s son he hath no spear Nor sword nor coat-of-mail, But an honest heart that knows not fear— Heaven grant he may not fail!

The miller’s son at the portal knocks, At the Princess’ feet he bends, And he tosses aside his floury locks And a floury cloud ascends.

The Princess’ face in a mist of white Is veiled as with a veil, Her eyes are dimmed of their deadly light, And the miller doth not quail.