The Girl Philippa

"'Anywhere alone with you in the world would be a sufficient purpose in life for me'" The GIRL PHILIPPA BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK CRAIG D. APPLETON AND COMPANY NEW YORK LONDON 1919 COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 1915, 1916, BY THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY Printed in the United States of America TO MY SON BOBBY BOB AT SIXTEEN You can tell a better tale than I; Trap and wing you shoot a better score; You can cast a surer, lighter fly, Catch as can, you'd put me on the floor; Should I hoist a sail beneath the sky Yours the race, away and back to shore. You have mastered all my woodland lore, In the saddle you can give me spades; You have slain your first and mighty boar In the classic Croyden Forest shades; You have heard the Northern rivers roar, You have seen the Southern Everglades. You have creeled your Highland yellow trout Where the Scottish moorlands call us back; You have left me puzzled and in doubt Over tropic specimens I lack— Sphinxes that I know not, huge and stout; Butterflies, un-named, in blue and black. Well, we've had a jolly run, my son, Through a sunny world has lain our trail Trodden side by side with rod and gun Under azure skies where white clouds sail; —Send our journey is not nearly done! Send the light has not begun to fail. Envoi Yet, that day you tread the trail alone, With no slower comrade to escort On the path of spring with blossoms sown, You may deem me not so bad a sort, Smile and think, as one who would condone, "He was sure a perfectly good sport." R. W. C. Broadalbin; 1916. DOG-DAYS (1914) The mad dog of Europe Yelped in the dog-days' heat; To his sick legs he staggered up Swaying on twitching feet; Snarled when he saw the offered cup, And started down the street. All hell has set his brain aflame; All Europe shrieks with dread; All mothers call on Mary's name, Praying by shrine and bed, "For Jesus' sake!"—Yet all the same Each sees her son lie dead. "On Guard!" the Western bugles blow; "Boom!" from the Western main; The Brabant flail has struck its blow; The mad dog howls with pain But lurches on, uncertain, slow, Growling amid his slain. They beat and kick his dusty…