SONG OF THE DOG "QUOODLE"

A delightful list of the things the dear dog wonderfully smells, and put into the kind of grammar that a dear dog would talk.

THEY haven't got no noses,

The fallen sons of Eve;
Even the smell of roses
Is not what they supposes;
But more than mind discloses

And more than men believe.

They haven't got no noses,
They cannot even tell
When door and darkness closes
The park a Jew encloses,
Where even the Law of Moses

Will let you steal a smell.

The brilliant smell of water,

The brave smell of a stone,
The smell of dew and thunder,
The old bones buried under,
Are things in which they blunder
And err, if left alone.

The wind from winter forests,

The scent of scentless flowers.
The breath of brides adorning,
The smell of snare and warning,
The smell of Sunday morning,
God gave to us for ours.

And Quoodle here discloses
All things that Quoodle can,
They haven't got no noses,
They haven't got no noses,
And goodness only knowses

The Noselessness of Man.

GILBERT K. CHESTERTON.

MUSIC

Many poets who wrote verse lovely in sound had no ear for music. And yet people speak and write of that lovely-sounding verse as musical." It is not musical at all. The words proper to the several arts should be kept apart. Mr. Chesterton, who has one of the finest ears in the world for sound in poetry, tells us in this poem that he has none for music. But he sees the power of music in the face of one who has an ear for music, and wonderfully he gets that effect at splendid second-hand.

SOUNDING brass and tinkling cymbal,
He that made me sealed my ears,
And the pomp of gorgeous noises,
Waves of triumph, waves of tears,

Thundered empty round and past me,
Shattered, lost for evermore,
Ancient gold of pride and passion,
Wrecked like treasure on a shore.

But I saw her cheek and forehead
Change, as at a spoken word,
And I saw her head uplifted
Like a lily to the Lord.

Naught is lost, but all transmuted,

Ears are sealed, yet eyes have seen;
Saw her smile (O soul, be worthy !),
Saw her tears (O heart, be clean!).
GILBERT K. CHESTERTON.

THE WINDMILL

Man has caught the wild river in his watermill and the wild wind in his windmill. Which do you like best? for I am sure you like both. Whenever you go through a village that has a watermill in it, look at the fine, thickwalled old house that is sure to be by the mill-pool.

IF

you should bid me make a choice
'Twixt wind and water mill,

In spite of all the millpond's charms
I'd take those gleaming sweeping arms
High on a windy hill.

The miller stands before his door
And whistles for a breeze;

And, when it comes, his sails go round
With such a mighty rushing sound
You think of heavy seas.

And if the wind declines to blow
The miller takes a nap
(Although he'd better spend an hour
In brushing at the dust and flour
That line his coat and cap.)

Now, if a water-mill were his,

Such rest he'd never know,

For round and round his crashing wheel,
His dashing, splashing, plashing wheel,
Unceasingly would go.

So, if you'd bid me make a choice
'Twixt wind and water mill,
In spite of all a millpond's charms,
I'd take those gleaming sweeping arms
High on the windy hill.

EDWARD VERRALL LUCAS.

FOR THE FALLEN

These grave lines sound as though they had cost tears, and our tears answer them.

could be written, and nothing greater.

Nothing simpler

WITH proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal

Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.

There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were

young,

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;

They sit no more at familiar tables at home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time : They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known

As the stars are known to the Night.

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,

To the end, to the end, they remain.

LAURENCE BINYON.