Her Fan.

A dainty thing of silk and lace,

Of feathers, and of paint,

Held often to her laughing face

When I assume the saint.

Too dainty far to mix with these

Old pipes, cigars, and books

Of bachelordom,— rare life of ease,—

Rare friends, rare wines, rare cooks.

‘ Twill smell of stale tobacco smoke

Ere many days I fear,

And hear full many a rattling joke,

And feel, perhaps, a tear.

Why is it here? Alas for me!

I broke it at a ball.

“Apologize — repair it” See?

Five dollars gone,— that's all.