To C. D. G. and A. B. W

Two ladies, not real ladies (no offence--I don’t mean “not real ladies” in that sense),But pictured fancies they--who dwelt betweenThe pages of a weekly magazine.Though often in the selfsame week they met,They were n’t exactly in the selfsame set,And could not know each other. One, I think,Was done in wash; the other, pen and ink.The wash lady (again there’s no offence--I use “wash” in its pure artistic sense)Was a brunette, vivacious, charming wholly;Neither too slim, nor yet too rolly-poly.A dazzling smile had this enchanting creature;Indeed, her most predominating featureWas a continuous show of glittering pearl;And on her forehead hung a little curl--A most distracting little curl; and last,She had a very slight Hebraic cast.Gray eyes the other had, serene and clear;A cold and distant manner; yet I fearHer looks belied her, for she oft was seenLounging about the beach, or ’mid the green,Of the conservatory’s dim retreat,Always some chappie nestling at her feet.A first-rate fellow she, and looked her bestWhen in a golf or walking costume dressed;In short, the other’s opposite in all,And fearfully and wonderfully tall.One day, by chance, each occupied a placeOn the same page, exactly face to face,In such a way ’t was possible no moreFor either one the other to ignore.Then in an instant burst into a flameThe fire that had been smouldering.

“How cameYou here?” they both exclaimed, as with one voice.(Here I use asterisks, though not from choiceBut type has limits, and must play the dunce;When two young ladies both converse at once.)I left them to their scenes.Next day I found the page in smithereens,And I reflected, “It is very sadThat two nice girls should get so awfully madAbout a thing for which, had they but known,Two artists were responsible alone.”