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choice?"
        To JONES of my affection
      I spoke that very night.
    If he had no objection,
      I said I'd wed Miss WHITE.
    I asked him for his blessing,
      But, turning rather blue,
    He said: "It's most distressing,
      But I adore her, too."
        "Then, JONES," I answered, sobbing,
      "My wooing's at an end,
    I couldn't think of robbing
      My best, my only friend.
    The notion makes me furious—
      I'd much prefer to die."
    "Perhaps you'll think it curious,"
      Said JONES, "but so should I."
        Nor he nor I would falter
      In our resolve one jot.
    I bade him seek the altar,
      He vowed that he would not.
    "She's yours, old fellow. Make her
      As happy as you can."
    "Not so," said I, "you take her—
      You are the lucky man."
        At length—the situation
      Had lasted now a year—
    I had an inspiration,
      Which seemed to make things clear.
    "Supposing," I suggested,
      "We ask Miss WHITE to choose?
    I should be interested
      To hear her private views.
        "Perhaps she has a preference—
      I own it sounds absurd—
    But I submit, with deference,
      That she might well be heard.
    In clear, commercial diction
      The case in point we'll state,
    Disclose the cause of friction,
      And leave the rest to Fate."
        We did, and on the morrow
      The postman brought us news.
    Miss WHITE expressed her sorrow
      At having to refuse.
    Of all her many reasons
      This seemed to me the pith:
    Six months before (or rather more)
      She'd married Mr. SMITH.

THE HAUNTED TRAM
        Ghosts of The Towers, The Grange, The Court,
       Ghosts of the Castle Keep.
    Ghosts of the finicking, "high-life" sort
       Are growing a trifle cheap.
    But here is a spook of another stamp,
       No thin, theatrical sham,
    But a spectre who fears not dirt nor damp:
       He rides on a London tram.
        By the curious glance of a mortal eye
       He is not seen. He's heard.
    His steps go a-creeping, creeping by,
       He speaks but a single word.
    You may hear his feet: you may hear them plain,
       For—it's odd in a ghost—they crunch.
    You may hear the whirr of his rattling chain,
       And the ting of his ringing punch.
        The gathering shadows of night fall fast;
       The lamps in the street are lit;
    To the roof have the eerie footsteps passed,
       Where the outside passengers sit.
    To the passenger's side has the spectre paced;
       For a moment he halts, they say,
    Then a ring from the punch at the unseen waist,
       And the footsteps pass away.
        That is the tale of the haunted car;
       And if on that car you ride
    You won't, believe me, have journeyed far
       Ere the spectre seeks your side.
    Ay, all unseen by your seat he'll stand,
       And (unless it's a wig) your hair
    Will rise at the touch of his icy hand,
       And the sound of his whispered "Fare!"
        At the end of the trip, when you're getting down
       (And you'll probably simply fly!)
    Just give the conductor half-a-crown,
       Ask who is the ghost and why.
    And the man will explain with bated breath
       (And point you a moral) thus:
    "'E's a pore young bloke wot wos crushed to death
             By people as fought
             As they didn't ought
    For seats on a crowded bus."

STORIES

WHEN PAPA SWORE IN HINDUSTANI
    "Sylvia!"
    "Yes, papa."
    "That infernal dog of yours——"
    "Oh, papa!"
    "Yes, that