by W. W. Jacobs
THE V-A-S-E
From the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;
And none might tell from sight alone In which had Culture ripest grown--
The Gotham Million fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree,
The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo--
For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A.
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Long they worshiped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke
The Western one from the nameless place, Who, blushing, said, "What a lovely vase!"
Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo.
But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word.
Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries, "'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!"
But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the house of Penn,
With the consciousness of two grandpapas, Exclaims, "It is quite a lovely vahs!"
And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.
But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee And gently murmurs, "Oh, pardon me!
"I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"
_Dies erit praegelida Sinistra quum Bostonia._
JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
By permission of _Life_ Publishing Company
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A Negro preacher addressed his flock with great earnestness on thesubject of "Miracles" as follows: "My beloved friends, de greatest ofall miracles was 'bout the loaves and fishes. Dey was five thousandloaves and two thousand fishes, and de twelve 'postles had to eat 'emall. De miracle is, dey didn't bust."