The Re-echo Club. Wells Carolyn

have I seen such a sight, I am

          certain it is but a demi-

              delirious dreaming—

      Ne'er may I happily harbor

          a hesitant hope in my

              heart that my dream

                  may come true.

      Sad is my soul, and my senses

          are sobbing, so strong

              is my strenuous spirit

                  to see one.

      Dolefully, drearily doomed

          to despair as warily,

              wearily watching I wait;

      Thoughts thickly thronging are thrilling

          and throbbing; to see is a

              glorious gain—but to be one!

      That were a darker and

          direfuller destiny, that

              were a fearfuller,

                  frightfuller fate.

      At the second meeting of the Re-Echo Club, some of whose proceedings have already been chronicled in these pages, the question arose whether the poet was at his best who gave to the world the classic poem about The Little Girl:

      "There was a little girl

      And she had a little curl

      Right in the middle of her forehead.

      And when she was good,

      She was very, very good,

      And when she was bad she was horrid!"

      Some members held that poets had at times risen to sublimer poetic flights than this, while others contended that the clear-cut decision of thought it expressed placed the poem above more elaborate works.

      When those who criticised it were invited themselves to treat the same theme in more worthy fashion, they willingly enough agreed, and the results here subjoined were spread upon the minutes of the club.

      With a lady-like air of reserve tempered by self-respect, Mrs. Felicia Hemans presented her version:

      The Marcel waves dash'd high

      Where the puffs and frizzes crossed;

      And just above a roguish eye

      A little curl was tossed.

      And that little curl hung down

      O'er a brow like a holy saint;

      Her goodness was beyond renown,

      And yet—there was a taint.

      Ay, call it deadly sin,

      The temper that she had;

      But that Little Girl just gloried in

      Freedom to be real bad!

      Robert Browning gave the subject much thought and responded at length:

      Who will may hear the poet's story told.

      His story? Who believes me shall behold

      The Little Girl, tricked out with ringolet,

      Or fringe, or pompadour, or what you will,

      Switch, bang, rat, puff—odzooks, man! I know not

      What women call the hanks o' hair they wear!

      But that same curl, beau-catcher, love-lock, frizz.

      (Perchance hot-ironed—perchance 'twas bandolined;

      Mayhap those rubber squirmers gave it shape—

      I wot not.) But that corkscrew of a curl

      Hung plumb, true, straight, accurate, at mid-brow,

      Nor swerved a hair's breadth to the right or left.

      Aught of her other tresses none may know.

      Now go we straitly on. And undertake

      To sound the humor of the Little Girl.

      Ha! what's the note? Hark here. When she was good,

      She was seraphic; hypersuperfine.

      So good she made the saints seem scalawags;

      An angel child; a paramaragon.

      Halt! Turn! When she elected to be bad,

      Black fails to paint the depths of ignomin,

      The fearsome sins, the crimes unspeakable,

      The deep abysses of her evilment.

      Hist! Tell 't wi' bated breath! One day she let

      A rosy tongue-tip from red lips peep forth!

      Can viciousness cap that? Horrid's the word.

      Yet there she is. There is that Little Girl,

      Her goodness and her badness, side by side,

      Like bacon, streak o' fat and streak o' lean.

      Ah, Fatalist, she must be ever so.

      Mr. E.A. Poe declared that he wrote his lines without any trouble at all, as he used to know the Little Girl personally:

      'Twas not very many years ago,

      At Seahurst-By-The-Sea,

      A little girl had a little curl—

      Her name was Annabel Lee.

      And right in the middle of Annabel's brow

      That curl would always be.

      She was so good, oh, she was so good

      At Seahurst-By-The-Sea!

      She was good with a goodness more than good,

      Was beautiful Annabel Lee,

      With such goodness the winged seraphs of heaven

      Coveted her of me.

      But her badness was stronger by far than the good,

      Like many far older than she,

      Like many far wiser than she;

      And neither the angels in heaven above

      Nor the demons down under the sea

      Can ever dissever the good from the bad

      In the soul of Annabel Lee,

      The beautiful Annabel Lee.

      Then Mr. Stevenson went out into his own garden and plucked this:

      In winter, I go up at night

      And curl that curl by candle-light;

      In summer, quite the other way,

      I have to curl it twice a day.