class="poem">Young Rousselle has three houses got,
Never a roof to all the lot,—
For swallows' nests they will serve quite well—
What do you think of Young Rousselle?
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three top-coats;
Two are of cloth as yellow as oats;
The third, which is made of paper brown,
He wears if it freezes or rain comes down.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three old hats;
Two are as round as butter-pats;
The third has two little horns, 'tis said,
Because it has taken the shape of his head.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three fine eyes;
Each is quite of a different size;
One looks east and one looks west,
The third, his eye-glass, is much the best.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three black shoes
Two on his feet he likes to use;
The third has neither sole nor side:
That will do when he weds his bride.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle three hairs can find:
Two in front and one behind;
And, when he goes to see his girl,
He puts all three of them in curl.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, three boys he has got:
Two are nothing but trick and plot;
The third can cheat and swindle well,—
He greatly resembles Young Rousselle.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three good tykes;
One hunts rabbits just as he likes,
One chivies hares,—and, as for the third,
He bolts whenever his name is heard.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three big cats,
Who never attempt to catch the rats;
The third is blind, and without a light
He goes to the granary every night.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has daughters three,
Married as well as you'd wish to see;
Two, one could scarcely beauties call,
And the third, she has just no brains at all.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has farthings three,—
To pay his creditors these must be;
And, when he has shown these riches vast,
He puts them back in his purse at last.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he will run his rig
A long while yet ere he hops the twig,
For, so they say, he must learn to spell
To write his own epitaph,—Young Rousselle!
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUNG ROUSSELLE?

p. 5

LAYLA AND MAJNÚN A PERSIAN LOVE STORY

She was beautiful as the moon on the horizon, graceful as the cypress that sways in the night wind and glistens in the sheen of a myriad stars. Her hair was bright with depths of darkness; her eyes were dark with excess of light; her glance was shadowed by excess of light. Her smile and the parting of her lips were like the coming of the rosy dawn, and, when love came to her—as he did with a load of sorrow hidden in his sack—she was as a rose plucked from Paradise to be crushed against her lover's breast; a rose to wither, droop, and die as Ormazd snatched it from the hand of Ahriman.

Out of the night came Laylá, clothed with all its wondrous beauties: into the night she returned, and, while the wind told the tale of her love to the cypress above her grave, the stars, with an added lustre, looked down as if to say, 'Laylá is not lost: she was born of us; she hath returned to us. Look up! look up! there is brightness in the night where Laylá sits; there is splendour in the sphere where Laylá sits.

As the moon looks down on all rivers, though they reflect but one moon,—so the beauty of Laylá, which smote all hearts to love. Her father was a great chief, and even the wealthiest princes of other lands visited him, attracted by the fame of Laylá's loveliness. But none could win her heart. Wealth and royal splendour could not claim it, yet it was given to the young Qays, son of the mighty chief of Yemen. Freely was it given to Qays, son of the chief of Yemen.

Now Laylá's father was not friendly to the chief of Yemen. Indeed, the only path that led from the one to the other was a well-worn warpath; for long, long ago their ancestors had quarrelled, and, though there were rare occasions when the two peoples met at great festivals and waived their differences for a time, it may truly be said that there was always hate in their eyes when they saluted. Always? Not always: there was one exception. It was at one of these festivals that Qays first saw Laylá. Their eyes met, and, though no word was spoken, love thrilled along a single glance.

From that moment Qays was a changed youth. He avoided the delights of the chase; his tongue was silent at feast and in council; he sat apart with a strange light in his eyes; no youth of his tribe could entice him to sport, no maiden could comfort him. His heart was in another house, and that was not the house of his fathers.

And Laylá—she sat silent among her maidens with eyes downcast. Once, when a damsel, divining rightly, took her lute and sang a song of the fountain in the forest, where lovers met beneath the silver moon, she raised her head at the close of the song and bade the girl sing it again—and again. And, after this, in the evenings when the sun was setting, she would wander unattended in the gardens about her father's palace, roaming night by night in ever widening circles, until, on a night when the moon was brightest, she came to the confines of the gardens where they adjoined the deep forest beyond;—but ever and ever the moonlight beyond. And here, as she gazed adown the spaces between the tree trunks, she saw, in an open space where the moonbeams fell, a sparkling fountain, and knew it for that which had been immortalised in the sweet song sung