SIC TRANSIT.





Just a note that I found on my table,

By the bills of a year buried o'er,

In a feminine hand and requesting

My presence for tennis at four.



Half remorseful for leaving it lying

In surroundings unworthy as those,

I carefully dusted and smoothed it,

And mutely begged pardon of Rose.



But I thought with a smile of the proverb

Which says you may treat as you will

The vase which has once contained roses,

Their fragrance will cling to it still.



For the writer I scarcely remember,

The occasion has vanished afar,

And the fragrance that clings to the letter

Recalls--an Havana cigar.



W.B. ANDERSON.





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