Their odalisques with the red, red lips
In couples staggering.

And the lemans sing and dance and swear
Out on the avenue,

But the taxis wake and creep up close
And get them, two by two,
And rush them laughing up the streets
The wind goes moaning through.

And now the burlesque ladies from
Thin-lipped side-streets appear;
The burlesque men, their lips are wet
With melted rouge and beer;
They fill the barren thoroughfare

With boisterous joke and jeer.

And some the street cars hurtle away
With one derisive groan;

And some, the buildings hurl you back
Their footfalls on the stone,

Their drunken quips and ragtime songs-
But nobody goes alone.

Now the lugubrious brow of Dawn

Lifts in the eastern gloom,

Like a cadaver gaping up

From his disrupted tomb;

He comes to sweep the chapel out
With his great white heavy broom.

He draws the silken curtains wide
And lets the light come in,
Moving about his menial task

With an abject, bleak chagrin

The sexton, making ready for

Another mass to Sin.

GOLD-HUNTING

I was so poor!

BY JUNE E. DOWNEY

Poor as the rich man

Whose pocket-book's stuffed

With dreams, loves, credit-slips, polished dollars;

Poor as the lover

Who's bartered all his soul's hoarding

For one kiss-a dead kiss

I was as poor as all that,

And I went gold-hunting

With bare feet and frayed garments.

And at the end of my day I found gold.

Flare of poppies, it was first,
Acres of poppies,

Tawny orange of gold,

I was dazed with my great wealth,

I patched my poor garments

With petals of silk, flame-colored,

And I bathed my tired feet

In dews that were scented with sleep,

And I thirsted for more gold,

And I went gold-hunting

With dazed eyes and feet that were drowsy.

And I found where the earth was gold-feathered

With blossomy mustard-grass,

Frothing with plumage aerial,

Delicate gold inexhaustible,
Surging my head over,

Tangling my hands

In cobwebry of gold threads,

Gold-leafing my feet,—

Feet that were light on the hills
As the thistle-down moon
In the day-sky.

I was so rich!

Rich as the lover

Who dies at the first kiss!

Rich as the beggar

Who laughs at a chance coin

He spies in the gutter—
I was as rich as all that,

But alust for the ultimate gold,

And I went gold-hunting.

And Midas, the king,

In the hour after sunset

Wandered with me from tree unto tree, From cloud unto cloud,

And all that we touched turned to gold

And the little live leaves

Inset like patterns of gilt on the gold skies

Quivered tumultuous;

And the great Eucalyptus caught fire,

Long leaf upon leaf,

Slender tip upon red tip,

Ethereal flames, golden-lancèd,

Piercing the dusk as swords unsheathed,

A pyre of Damascene swords

Whose blade is the ultimate gold,

For its gift is bestowal

Of death gorgeous and swift.

And now I go gold-hunting,
Companioned by night,
With shadowy feet

And skirts fringed with dim stars.

JUNE SONGS

BY ALBERT E. TROMBLY

JUNE

I

Welcome June! Glad you've come,
Wearing honeysuckle pendants;
In the meadows hear the drum
Of your bumble-bee attendants!

II

Full a year you've been away,
Daisy-eyed and sweet-breathed rover;
And I fear you'll only stay

Long enough to tint the clover.

III

Listen to the piping wren!

See the new buds on the thistle!

From the sallows in the fen

Hear the red-winged blackbird whistle!

MY PIPE

I

My pipe is made of a hollow reed
All browned by the harvest-moon;
To blow through the stops is all I need
And it plays me many a tune.

II

I never cared for pipe or song
Till I had seen you pass;

But now I flute the whole day long
Stretched out in the clover grass.

III

Sometimes my pipe takes a sudden start
And will not sing my song;

Just then you pass and it hurts my heart
That my tunes should all go wrong.

IV

I think it must be dreaming then
Of the tunes the redwing sung

When it was a reed that grew in the fen
On which the blackbird swung.

V

For though I blow it every way
And ply the stops all three,
The only song that I can play
Is the redwing's "cong-ker-ee!"

THE GOLDFINCH

I

O where did you get your bumble-bee coat,

The black of your wing and the gold of your throat?

Happy, dainty, little bird,

Cheering as a prophet's word!