“Come here! come here! come here!

My Philip dear, come here! come here!

Philip, my dear! Philip, Philip, my dear!”

Poor mournful Mrs. Flycatcher,

With ample breast of dainty buff,

Now don’t you think you’ve called your mate,—

To say the very least—enough?

I’m sorry for you, plaintive one;

I would be glad to make him fly

From his long tarrying place to you,

If that would stop your weary cry.

Can’t you decide to give him up?

All over town you’ve called his name;

I heard you calling this week, last,

The week before you called the same.

Perhaps some boy with “twenty-two”

Has shot him for his sister’s hat.

Go! search the churches through and through;

If he’s not there, accuse the cat.

—Carrie B. Sanborn.