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 It on a pine tree half way down the khud, And spat It out, and put It in his pouch To please his babes with. Then he let It drop At Mrs. Duvvlegh's bedroom door-sill. Thus Our naughty, naughty little world goes round. Then L. S. R. McW. awoke, And slapped her ayah, called the khitmutgar', The mehter, bhishti, sais, massalchi, cook, And from the safe side of her bedroom door Addressed those menials in a wobbly voice That thrilled their dusky marrows. Then she wept, And then she lifted up that voice again Da capo, piano, prestissimo, Fortissimo, ad lib. till ten o'clock; Then she darwaza banded up the house, And wept in the verandah. Mrs. D. Woke also; found It at her bedroom door; And since she wore an article herself Of plates and springs and pegs and pearls and gold; And since she was a rival, hating much Lucretia Sempavee Riddens; and since She understood that memsahib was bemar, She guessed, and wrote a pretty little chit On pink and perfumed paper; sent her sais, And went to call on ten dear female friends With Something in a satchel on her arm, And looked extremely pretty. So did not Lucretia when the sais produced the chit, But mumbled naughty epithets like "Wretch," "Thing," "Vixen," "Hussy," "Beast," et cætera. Yet wrote a gushing little answer back, And sat and "grizzled" in her dressing-gown. At half-past four she got It, smashed and spoilt, The Communistic molars upside down And marks of other molars on the plates (Macacus Rhesus had a lovely set), And all the pretty little springs and wires Like tempest-tossed umbrella ribs. 'Tis thus Our naughty, naughty little world goes round. They laughed at Mrs. L. S. R. McWhone. She sent It to Calcutta for a week, And then she left the Station for the Plains. And this is how the Gods afflict our lives. Sometimes, somehow, for nothing Which is hard.