The Poet

The peasant has sweet black bread—
Why are you fed with pride,
Poor lips that twist and burn?
Earth makes a hungry mill,
A bitter quern,
For one whose loaf is pride.

The peasant has shoes of wood—
Why are you shod with dreams,
Torn feet that wander here?
God makes His roads too sharp,
His stones too sheer,
For one whose shoes are dreams.

E.D.

Our Alma Mater has plunged into "Society with a big S" and become a devotee of fashion. Nothing but the most expensive of social gatherings, with "the best" people present, appeals to her. It is rumoured that many of her children loved her better in her quiet and sociable evenings at home.

Wanted, by an energetic young fellow of sixty, work of any kind, clerical or manual.—"Evening Post." They say one is as old as one seems—courage, ladies!