POETRY
C UPI D EXPLAINS MY son ! cried Venus once to Cupid, Come hither, child, and tell me, pray— I know you're anything but stupid—
What method guides you in your play ? What makes you always spare Minerva ?
At her, I note, you never aim, And other dames—a sharp observer— I see they too exemption claim From all your darts ; now what's the reason 2
Apollo, Neptune, Jupiter— Seem liable at every season—
And truly these you never spare,— I fear Minerva, dearest Mother, Replied the rogue, she glares at me And shakes the plumes upon her helmet, And struts about so manfully.
But Mars, cried Venus, wears a helmet,
Yet you've disarmed and conquered him I Ah, yes, but Mars—he makes advances—
And that is quite a different thing. Minerva looks at me so sternly, She watches everything I do And vows the face of her Medusa Shall petrify me through and through.
And if my torch comes even near her She strikes a martial pose, Ho ! Ho ! And shouts—Headforemost, by my Father To Tartarus that imp shall go ! Or else I'll rend his limbs asunder And tear him into little bits !- Such threats quite frighten rae, dear Mother, Until I almost lose my wits.
Well, that may be ; but then, the Muses, All nine, pray why are these immune ? Have they got crests upon their helmets ?
Would they too turn you into stone ?- No ! dear Mama ! But these enchant me With music sweet, and thoughts, and song Till I revere and hover round them Compelled to listen hours long.
All well and good, respect the Muses !
Replied his mother testily, But I would ask about Diana, Why she escapes so easily.— I can't get near enough to hit her, She has a passion for the chase, Replied the boy. It quite absorbs her, And leaves for my small darts no place.
ANNETTE MEAKIN,-
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