The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
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The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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PART TWO. | 1 |
“Molly Meade, well,
I declare!
Who’d have
thought of seeing you,
After what occurred last night,
Out here on the
Avenue!
Oh, you awful! awful girl!
There, don’t
blush, I saw it all.”
“Saw all what?”
“Ahem! last night—
At the Mather’s—in
the hall.”
“Oh, you horrid—where
were you?
Wasn’t he
the biggest goose!
Most men must be caught, but
he
Ran his own neck
in the noose.
I was almost dead to dance,
I’d have
done it if I could,
But old Grey said I must stop,
And I promised
Ma I would.
So I looked up sweet, and
said
That I’d
rather talk to him;
Hope he didn’t see me
laugh,
Luckily the lights
were dim.
My, how he did squeeze
my hand!
And he looked
up in my face
With his lovely big brown
eyes—
Really it’s
a dreadful case.
’Earnest!’—I
should think he was!
Why, I thought
I’d have to laugh
When he kissed a flower he
took,
Looking, oh! like
such a calf.
I suppose he’s got it
now,
In a wine-glass
on his shelves;
It’s a mystery to me
Why men will
deceive themselves.
’Saw him kiss me!’—Oh,
you wretch;
Well, he begged
so hard for one—
And I thought there’d
no one know—
So I—let
him, just for fun.
I know it really wasn’t
right
To trifle with
his feelings, dear,
But men are such stuck-up
things;
He’ll recover—never
fear.”
CHIVALRIE.
Under the maple boughs we
sat,
Annie Leslie and
I together;
She was trimming her sea-side
hat
With leaves—we
talked about the weather.
The sun-beams lit her gleaming
hair
With rippling
waves of golden glory,
And eyes of blue, and ringlets
fair,
Suggested many
an ancient story
Of fair-haired, blue-eyed
maids of old,
In durance held
by grim magicians,
Of knights in armor rough
with gold,
Who rescued them
from such positions.
Above, the heavens aglow with
light,
Beneath our feet
the sleeping ocean,
E’en as the sky my hope
was bright,
Deep as the sea
was my devotion.
Her father’s voice came
through the wood,
He’d made
a fortune tanning leather;
I was his clerk; I thought
it good
To keep on talking
about the weather.
A PIECE OF ADVICE.
So you’re going to give
up flirtation, my dear,
And lead a life
sober and quiet?
There, there, I don’t
doubt the intention’s sincere.
But wait till
occasion shall try it.—
Is
Ramsay engaged?
Now,
don’t look enraged!
You like him,
I know—don’t deny it!
What! Give up flirtation?
Change dimples for frowns
Why, Nell, what’s
the use? You’re so pretty,
That your beauty all sense
of your wickedness drowns
When, some time,
in country or city,
Your
fate comes at last.
We’ll
forgive all the past,
And think of you
only with pity.
Indeed!—so “you
feel for the woes of my sex!”
“The legions
of hearts you’ve been breaking
Your conscience affright,
and your reckoning perplex,
Whene’er
an account you’ve been taking!”
“I’d
scarcely believe
How
deeply you grieve
At the mischief
your eyes have been making!”
Now, Nellie!—Flirtation’s
the leaven of life;
It lightens its
doughy compactness.
Don’t always—the
world with deception is rife—
Construe what
men say with exactness!
I
pity the girl,
In
society’s whirl,
Who’s troubled
with matter-of-factness.
A pink is a beautiful flower
in its way,
But rosebuds and
violets are charming,
Men don’t wear the same
boutonniere every day.
Taste changes.—Flirtation
alarming!
If
e’er we complain,
You
then may refrain,
Your eyes of their
arrows disarming.
Ah, Nellie, be sensible; Pr’ythee,
give heed
To counsel a victim
advances;
Your eyes, I acknowledge,
will make our hearts bleed,
Pierced through
by love’s magical lances.
But
better that fate
Than
in darkness to wait;
Unsought by your
mischievous glances.
ZWEI KONIGE AUF ORKADAL.
FROM THE GERMAN.
There sat two kings upon Orkadal,
The torches flamed in the
pillared hall.
The minstrel sings, the red
wine glows,
The two kings drink with gloomy
brows.
Out spake the one,—“Give
me this girl,
With her sea-blue eyes, and
brow of pearl.”
The other answered in gloomy
scorn,
“She’s mine, oh
brother!—my oath is sworn.”
No other word spake either
king—
In their golden sheaths the
keen swords ring.
Together they pass from the
lighted hall—
Deep lies the snow by the
castle-wall.
Steel-sparks and torch-sparks
in showers fall.
Two kings lie dead upon Orkadal.
A SONG.
I shouldn’t like to
say, I’m sure,
I shouldn’t
like to say,
Why I think of you more, and
more, and more
As day flits after
day.
Nor why I see in the Summer
skies
Only the beauty of your sweet
eyes,
The power by which
you sway
A kingdom of hearts, that
little you prize—
I shouldn’t
like to say.
I shouldn’t like to
say, I’m sure,
I shouldn’t
like to say
Why I hear your voice, so
fresh and pure,
In the dash of
the laughing spray.
Nor why the wavelets that
all the while,
In many a diamond-glittering
file,
With truant sunbeams
play,
Should make me remember your
rippling smile—
I shouldn’t
like to say.
I shouldn’t like to
say, I’m sure,
I shouldn’t
like to say,
Why all the birds should chirp
of you,
Who live so far
away.
Robin and oriole sing to me
From the leafy
depths of our apple-tree,
With trunk so
gnarled and gray—
But why your name should their
burden be
I shouldn’t
like to say.
MAKING NEW YEAR’S CALLS.
Shining patent-leather,
Tie of spotless
white;
Through the muddy weather
Rushing ’round
till night.
Gutters all o’erflowing,
Like Niagara Falls;
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year’s
calls.
Rushing up the door-step,
Ringing at the
bell—
“Mrs. Jones receive
to-day?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well.”
Sending in your pasteboard,
Waiting in the
halls,
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year’s
calls.
Skipping in the parlour,
Bowing to the
floor,
Lady of the house there,
Half a dozen more;
Ladies’ dresses gorgeous,
Paniers, waterfalls,—
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year’s
calls.
“Wish you Happy New
Year”—
“Many thanks,
I’m sure.”
“Many calls, as usual?”
“No; I think
they’re fewer.”
Staring at the carpet,
Gazing at the
walls;
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year’s
calls.
“Really, I must go now,
Wish I had more
leisure.”
“Wont you have a glass
of wine?”
“Ah, thanks!—greatest
pleasure.”
Try to come the graceful,
Till your wine-glass
falls;
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year’s
calls.
Hostess looks delighted—
Out of doors you
rush;
Sit down at the crossing,
In a sea of slush.
Job here for your tailor—
Herr Von Schneiderthals—
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year’s
calls.
Pick yourself up slowly
Heart with anguish
torn.
Sunday-go-to-meetings
In a state forlorn.
Kick a gibing boot-black,
Gibing boot-black
bawls,
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year’s
calls.
Home, and woo the downy,
But your soul
doth quake,
At most fearful night-mares—
Turkey, oysters,
cake.
While each leaden horror
That your rest
appalls,
Cries, “Dear heart!
how pleasant;
Making New Year’s
calls.”
JACK AND ME.
Shine!—All right;
here y’are, boss!
Do it for jest
five cents.
Get ’em fixed in a minute,—
That is, ’f
nothing perwents.
Set your foot right there,
sir.
Mornin’s
kinder cold,—
Goes right through a feller,
When his coat’s
a gittin’ old.
Well, yes,—call
it a coat, sir,
Though ’t
aint much more ’n a tear.
Git another!—I
can’t, boss;
Ain’t got
the stamps to spare.
“Make as much as most
on ’em!”
Yes; but then,
yer see,
They’ve only got one
to do for,—
There’s
two on us, Jack and me.
Him?—Why, that
little feller
With a curus lookin’
back,
Sittin’ there on the
gratin’,
Warmin’
hisself,—that’s Jack.
Used to go round sellin’
papers,
The cars there
was his lay;
But he got shoved off of the
platform
Under the wheels
one day.
Fact,—the conductor
did it,—
Gin him a reg’lar
throw,—
He didn’t care if he
killed him;
Some on ’em
is just so.
He’s never been all
right since, sir,
Sorter quiet and
queer;
Him and me goes together,
He’s what
they call cashier.
Style, that ’ere, for
a boot-black,—
Made the fellers
laugh;
Jack and me had to take it,
But we don’t
mind no chaff.
Trouble!—not much,
you bet, boss!
Sometimes, when
biz is slack,
I don’t know how I’d
manage
If ’t wa’n’t
for little Jack.
You jest once orter hear him:
He says we needn’t
care
How rough luck is down here,
sir,
If some day we
git up there.
All done now,—how’s
that, sir?
Shines like a
pair of lamps.
Mornin’!—Give
it to Jack, sir,
He looks after
the stamps.
LES ENFANTS PERDUS.
What has become of the children
all?
How have the darlings
vanished?
Fashion’s pied piper,
with magical air,
Has wooed them away, with
their flaxen hair
And laughing eyes, we don’t
know where,
And no one can
tell where they’re banished.
“Where are the children?”
cries Madam Haut-ton,
“Allow me,
my sons and daughters,—
Fetch them, Annette!”
What, madam, those?
Children! such exquisite belles
and beaux:—
True, they’re in somewhat
shorter clothes
Than the most
of Dame Fashion’s supporters.
Good day, Master Eddy!
Young man about town,—
A merchant down
in the swamp’s son;
In a neat little book he makes
neat little bets:
He doesn’t believe in
the shop cigarettes,
But does his own rolling,—and
has for his pets
Miss Markham and
Lydia Thompson.
He and his comrades can drink
champagne
Like so many juvenile
Comuses;
If you want to insult him,
just talk of boys’ play,—
Why, even on billiards he’s
almost blase,
Drops in at Delmonico’s
three times a day,
And is known at
Jerry Thomas’s.
And here comes Miss Agnes.
Good morning! “Bon jour!”
Now, isn’t
that vision alarming?
Silk with panier, and puffs,
and lace
Decking a figure of corsetted
grace;
Her words are minced, and
her spoiled young face
Wears a simper
far from charming.
Thirteen only a month ago,—
Notice her conversation:
Fashion—that bonnet
of Nellie Perroy’s—
And now, in a low, confidential
voice,
Of Helena’s treatment
of Tommy Joyce,—
Aged twelve,—that’s
the last flirtation.
What has become of the children,
then?
How can an answer
be given?
Folly filling each curly head,
Premature vices, childhood
dead,
Blighted blossoms—can
it be said
“Of such
is the kingdom of heaven?”
CHINESE LANTERNS.
Through the windows on the
park
Float the waltzes,
weirdly sweet;
In the light, and in the dark,
Rings the chime
of dancing feet.
Mid
the branches, all a-row,
Fiery
jewels gleam and glow;
Dreamingly we
walk beneath,—
Ah,
so slow!
All the air is full of love;
Misty shadows
wrap us round;
Light below and dark above,
Filled with softly-surging
sound.
See
the forehead of the Night
Garlanded
with flowers of light,
And her goblet
crowned with wine,
Golden
bright.
Ah! those deep, alluring eyes,
Quiet as a haunted
lake;
In their depths the passion
lies
Half in slumber,
half awake.
Lay
thy warm, white hand in mine
Let
the fingers clasp and twine,
While my eager,
panting heart
Beats
’gainst thine.
Bring thy velvet lips a-near,
Mine are hungry
for a kiss,
Gladly will I sate them, dear;
Closer, closer,—this,—and
this.
On
thy lips love’s seal I lay,
Nevermore
to pass away;—
That was all last
night, you know,
But
to-day—
Chinese lanterns hung in strings,
Painted paper,
penny dips,—
Filled with roasted moths
and things
Greasy with the
tallow drips;
Wet
and torn, with rusty wire,
Blackened
by the dying fire;
Withered flowers,
trampled deep
In
the mire.
Chinese lanterns, Bernstein’s
band,
Belladonna, lily
white,
These made up the fairy-land
Where I wandered
all last night;
Ruled
in all its rosy glow
By
a merry Queen, you know
Jolly, dancing,
laughing, witching,
Veuve
Cliquot.
THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS.
“Love your neighbor
as yourself,”—
So the parson
preaches;
That’s one-half the
Decalogue.—
So the Prayer-book
teaches.
Half my duty I can do
With but little
labor,
For with all my heart and
soul
I do love my neighbor.
Mighty little credit, that,
To my self-denial;
Not to love her, though, might
be
Something of a
trial,
Why, the rosy light, that
peeps
Through the glass
above her,
Lingers round her lips:—you
see
E’en the
sunbeams love her.
So to make my merit more,
I’ll go
beyond the letter;
Love my neighbor as myself?
Yes, and ten times
better.
For she’s sweeter than
the breath
Of the Spring,
that passes
Through the fragrant, budding
woods,
O’er the
meadow-grasses.
And I’ve preached the
word I know,
For it was my
duty
To convert the stubborn heart
Of the little
beauty.
Once again success has crowned
Missionary labor,
For her sweet eyes own that
she
Also loves her
neighbor.
MARRIAGE A LA MODE.
A Trilogy.
I.
LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM.
A.D. 1880.
“Thank you—much
obliged, old boy,
Yes, it’s
so; report says true.
I’m engaged to Nell
Latine—
What else could
a fellow do?
Governor was getting fierce;
Asked me, with
paternal frown,
When I meant to go to work,
Take a wife, and
settle down.
Stormed at my extravagance,
Talked of cutting
off supplies—
Fairly bullied me, you know—
Sort of thing
that I despise.
Well, you see, I lost worst
way
At the races—Governor
raged—
So, to try and smooth him
down,
I went off, and
got engaged.
Sort of put-up job, you know—
All arranged with
old Latine—
Nellie raved about it first,
Said her ‘pa
was awful mean!’
Now it’s done we don’t
much mind—
Tell the truth,
I’m rather glad;
Looking at it every way,
One must own it
isn’t bad.
She’s good-looking,
rather rich,—
Mother left her
quite a pile;
Dances, goes out everywhere;
Fine old family,
real good style.
Then she’s good, as
girls go now,
Some idea of wrong
and right,
Don’t let every man
she meets
Kiss her, on the
self-same night.
We don’t do affection
much,
Nell and I are
real good friends,
Call there often, sit and
chat,
Take her ’round,
and there it ends.
Spooning! Well, I tried
it once—
Acted like an
awful calf—
Said I really loved her.
Gad!
You should just
have heard her laugh.
Why, she ran me for a month,
Teased me till
she made me wince;
‘Mustn’t flirt
with her,’ she said,
So I haven’t
tried it since.
’Twould be pleasant
to be loved
Like you read
about in books—
Mingling souls, and tender
eyes—
Love, and that,
in all their looks;
II.
UP THE AISLE.
A.D. 1881.
Take my cloak—and
now fix my veil, Jenny;—
How silly to cover
one’s face!
I might as well be an old
woman,
But then there’s
one comfort—it’s lace.
Well, what has become of those
ushers?—
Oh, Pa, have you
got my bouquet?
I’ll freeze standing
here in the lobby,
Why doesn’t
the organist play?
They’ve started at last—what
a bustle!
Stop, Pa!—they’re
not far enough—wait!
One minute more—now!
Do keep step, Pa!
There, drop my
trail, Jane!—is it straight?
I hope I look timid, and shrinking!
The church must
be perfectly full—
Good gracious, please don’t
walk so fast, Pa!
He don’t
seem to think that trains pull.
The chancel at last—mind
the step, Pa!—
I don’t
feel embarrassed at all—
But, my! What’s
the minister saying?
Oh, I know, that
part ’bout Saint Paul.
I hope my position is graceful—
How awkwardly
Nelly Dane stood!
“Not lawfully be joined
together,
Now speak”—as
if any one would.
Oh, dear, now it’s my
turn to answer—
I do wish that
Pa would stand still.
“Serve him, love, honor,
and keep him”—
How sweetly he
says it—I will.
Where’s Pa?—there,
I knew he’d forget it
When the time
came to give me away—
“I, Helena, take thee—love—cherish—
And”—well,
I can’t help it,—“obey.”
Here, Maud, take my bouquet—don’t
drop it—
I hope Charley’s
not lost the ring!
Just like him!—no—goodness,
how heavy!
It’s really
an elegant thing.
It’s a shame to kneel
down in white satin—
And the flounce
real old lace—but I must—
I hope that they’ve
got a clean cushion,
They’re
usually covered with dust.
All over—ah, thanks!—now,
don’t fuss, Pa!—
Just throw back
my veil, Charley—there!
Oh, bother! Why couldn’t
he kiss me
Without mussing
up all my hair!
Your arm, Charley, there goes
III. DIVORCE. A.D., 1886. The Club Window.
“Yes, I saw her pass
with ’that scoundrel’—
For heaven’s
sake, old man, keep cool!
No end of the fellows are
watching—
Go easy, don’t
act like a fool!
’Parading your
shame’!—I don’t see it.
It’s hers
now, alone; for at last
You drove her to give you
good reason,
Divorced her,
and so it’s all passed.
For you, I mean; she
has to bear it—
Poor child—the
reproach and the shame;
I’m your friend—but
come, hang it, old fellow,
I swear you were
somewhat to blame.
‘What the deuce do I
mean?’ Well, I’ll tell you,
Though it’s
none of my business. Here!
Just light a cigar, and keep
quiet—
You started
wrong, Charley Leclear.
You weren’t in love
when you married—
’Nor she!’—well,
I know, but she tried
To keep it dark. You
wouldn’t let her,
But laughed at
her for it. Her pride
Wouldn’t stand that,
you know. Did you ever
See a spirited
girl in your life,
Who would patiently pose to
be pitied
As a ’patient
Griselda’-like wife
When her husband neglects
her so plainly
As you did?—although,
on the whole,
When the wife is the culprit,
I’ve noticed
It’s rather
the favorite role.
So she flirted a little—in
public—
She’d chances
enough and to spare,
Ah, then if you’d
only turned jealous—
But you didn’t
notice nor care.
Then her sickness came—even
we fellows
All thought you
behaved like a scrub,
Leaving her for the nurse
to take care of,
While you spent
your time at the club.
She never forgave you.
How could she?
If I’d been
in her place myself,
By Jove, I’d have left
you. She didn’t,
But told all her
woes to Jack Guelph.
When a girl’s lost all
love for her husband,
IV.
AT AFTERNOON TEA.
“‘In New York!’
Yes, I met her this morning.
I knew her in
spite of her paint;
And Guelph, too, poor fellow,
was with her;
I felt really
nervous, and faint,
When he bowed to me, looking
so pleading—
I cut him, of
course. Wouldn’t you?
If I meet him alone, I’ll
explain it;
But knowing her,
what could I do?
Poor fellow! He looks
sadly altered—
I think it a sin,
and a shame,
The way he was wrecked by
that creature!
I know
he was never to blame.
He never suspected. He
liked her—
He’d known
her for most of his life—
And of course, it was
quite a temptation
To run off with
another man’s wife.
At his age, you know—barely
thirty—
So romantic, and
makes such a noise
In one’s club—why,
one can’t but excuse him,
Now can
one, dear? Boys will be boys.
I’ve known him so long—why,
he’d come here
And talk to me
just like a son.
It’s my duty—I
feel as a mother—
To save him; the
thing can be done
Very easily. First, I
must show him
How grossly the
woman deceived
And entrapped him.—It
made such a scandal
You know, that
he can’t be received
At all, any more, till he
drops her—
He’ll certainly
not be so mad
As to hold to her still.
Oh, I know him
So well—I’m
quite sure he’ll be glad
On any excuse, to oblige
me
In a matter so
trifling indeed.
Then the way will be clear.
We’ll receive him,
And the rest will
soon follow our lead.
We must keep our eyes on him
more closely
Hereafter; young
men of his wealth
And position are so sorely
tempted
To waste time,
and fortune, and health
In frivolous pleasures and
pastimes,
That there’s
but one safe-guard in life
For them and their money—we’ve
seen it—
A really nice
girl for a wife.
Too bad you’ve no daughter!
My Mamie
Had influence
with him for good
THE “STAY-AT-HOME’S” PLAINT.
The Spring has grown to Summer;
The sun is fierce
and high;
The city shrinks, and withers
Beneath the burning
sky.
Ailantus trees are fragrant,
And thicker shadows
cast,
Where berry-girls, with voices
shrill,
And watering carts
go past.
In offices like ovens
We sit without
our coats;
Our cuffs are moist and shapeless,
No collars binds
our throats.
We carry huge umbrellas
On Broad Street
and on Wall,
Oh, how thermometers go up!
And, oh, how stocks
do fall!
The nights are full of music,
Melodious Teuton
troops
Beguile us, calmly smoking,
On balconies and
stoops.
With eyes half-shut, and dreamy,
We watch the fire-flies’
spark,
And image far-off faces,
As day dies into
dark.
The avenue is lonely,
The houses choked
with dust;
The shutters, barred and bolted,
The bell-knobs
all a-rust.
No blossom-like spring dresses,
No faces young
and fair,
From “Dickel’s”
to “The Brunswick,”
No promenader
there.
The girls we used to walk
with
Are far away,
alas!
The feet that kissed its pavement
Are deep in country
grass.
Along the scented hedge-rows,
Among the green
old trees,
Are blooming city faces
’Neath rosy-lined
pongees.
They’re cottaging at
Newport;
They’re
bathing at Cape May;
In Saratoga’s ball-rooms
They dance the
hours away.
Their voices through the quiet
Of haunted Catskill
break;
Or rouse those dreamy dryads,
The nymphs of
Echo Lake.
The hands we’ve led
through Germans,
And squeezed,
perchance, of yore,
Now deftly grasp the bridle,
The mallet, and
the oar.
The eyes that wrought our
ruin
On other men look
down;
We’re but the broken
play-things
They’ve
left behind in town.
Oh, happy Gran’dame
Nature,
Whose wandering
children come
To light with happy faces
The dear old mother-home,
Be tender with our darlings,
Each merry maiden
bears
Such love and longing with
her—
Men’s lives
are wrapped in theirs.
THE “STAY-AT-HOME’S” PAEAN.
The evenings are damper and
colder;
The maples and
sumacs are red,
The wild Equinoctial is coming,
The flowers in
the garden are dead.
The steamers are all overflowing,
The railroads
are all loaded down,
And the beauties we’ve
sighed for all Summer
Are hurrying back
into town.
They come from the banks of
the Hudson,
From the sands
of the Branch, and Cape May,
From the parlors of bright
Saratoga,
From the dash
of Niagara’s spray.
From misty, sea-salt Narragansett,
From Mahopac’s
magical lake.
They come on their way to
new conquests,
They’re
longing for more hearts to break.
E’en Newport is dull
and deserted—
Its billowy beaches
no more
Made bright with sweet, ocean-kissed
faces,
Love’s beacon
lights set on the shore.
The rugged White Hills of
New Hampshire,
The last of their
lovers have seen,
The echoes are left to their
slumbers,
No dainty feet
thread the ravine.
On West Point’s delightful
parade ground
Sighs many a hapless
cadet,
Who’s basked through
the long days of Summer
In the smiles
of a city coquette;
And now the incipient hero
Beholds his enchantress
depart,
With the spoils of her lightly-won
triumph,
His buttons, as
well as his heart.
Come, dry your eyes, Grandmother
Nature,
They care not
a whit for your woe;
The city is calling her daughters—
We can’t
spare them longer, they know—
Our beautiful, tender-voiced
darlings,
With the blue
of the deep Summer skies,
And the glow of the bright
Summer sunshine,
Entrapped in their
mischievous eyes.
We know their expenses are
awful,
That horror unspeakable
fills
The souls of unfortunate fathers
Who foot up their
dressmaker’s bills.
That they’d barter their
souls for French candy;
That diamonds
ruin their peace;
That they rave over middle-aged
actors,
And in other respects
are—well, geese.
We laugh at them, boys, but
we love them,
For under their
nonsense we know
They’ve hearts that
are honest and loving,
And souls that
are whiter than snow.
So out with that bottle of
Roederer!
Large glasses,
boys! Up goes the cork!
All charged? To the belles
of creation,
The glorious girls
of New York.
EIGHT HOURS.
“Sign the petition!”
“Write my name!”
“She said,
ask me!”—oh, she’s fooling;
Where do you think a girl
like me
Could find the
time for so much schooling?
Why, I’ve been here
since I was eight or so—
That’s ten
years now—and it seems like longer;
The hours are from eight till
six—you see
It wears one out—I
once was stronger.
“A bad cough!”
oh, that’s nothing, sir;
It comes from
the dust, and bending over.
It hurts me sometimes—no,
not now.
“This!”
why, a flower, a bit of clover.
I picked it up as I came to
work—
It grew in the
grass in some one’s airy,
SLEEPING BEAUTY.
A PARABLE.
You remember the nursery legend—
We heard in the
early days,
Ere we knew of the world’s
deception
Or walked in its
dusty ways,
And dwelt in a land of the
fairies
Where the air
was golden haze—
Of the maid, o’er whom
the Summers
Of youth passed,
like a swell
Of melody all unbroken,
Till evil wrought
its spell,
And dream-embroidered curtains
Of slumber round
her fell.
The wood grew up round her
castle,
The centuries
o’er it rolled,
Wrapping its slumb’rous
turrets
In clinging robes
of mould,
And her name became a legend
By Winter fire-sides
told.
Till the Prince came over
the mountains
In the morning-glow
of youth;
The forest sank before him
Like wrong before
the truth,
And he passed the dim old
portal,
With its warders
so uncouth,
Woke with a kiss the Princess,
And broke enchantment’s
chain,
The sleepy old castle wondered,
In its cobweb-cumbered
brain,
At the tide of life and pleasure
That poured through
each stony vein.
And so love conquered an evil
Centuries old
in might,
Scattering drowsy glamour,
Piercing the murky
night,
Leading from thrall and darkness
Beauty, and joy,
and light.
EASTER MORNING.
Too early, of course!
How provoking!
I told Ma just
how it would be.
I might as well have on a
wrapper,
For there isn’t
a soul here to see.
There! Sue Delaplaine’s
pew is empty,—
I declare if it
isn’t too bad!
I know my suit cost more than
hers did,
And I wanted to
see her look mad.
I do think that sexton’s
too stupid—
He’s put
some one else in our pew—
And the girl’s dress
just kills mine completely;
Now what am I
going to do?
The psalter, and Sue isn’t
here yet!
I don’t
care, I think it’s a sin
For people to get late to
service,
Just to make a
great show coming in.
Perhaps she is sick, and can’t
get here—
She said she’d
a headache last night.
How mad she’ll be after
her fussing!
I declare, it
would serve her just right.
Oh, you’ve got here
at last, my dear, have you?
Well, I don’t
think you need be so proud
Of that bonnet, if Virot did
make it,
It’s horrid
fast-looking and loud.
What a dress!—for
a girl in her senses
To go on the street
in light blue!—
And those coat-sleeves—they
wore them last Summer—
Don’t doubt,
though, that she thinks they’re new.
Mrs. Gray’s polonaise
was imported—
So dreadful!—a
minister’s wife,
And thinking so much about
fashion!—
A pretty example
of life!
The altar’s dressed
sweetly. I wonder
Who sent those
white flowers for the font!—
Some girl who’s gone
on the assistant—
Don’t doubt
it was Bessie Lamont.
Just look at her now, little
humbug!—
So devout—I
suppose she don’t know
That she’s bending her
head too far over,
And the ends of
her switches all show.
What a sight Mrs. Ward is
this morning!
That woman will
kill me some day.
With her horrible lilacs and
crimsons;
Why will these
old things dress so gay?
And there’s Jenny Welles
with Fred. Tracy—
She’s engaged
to him now—horrid thing!
Dear me! I’d keep
on my glove sometimes,
If I did have
a solitaire ring!
How can this girl next to
me act so—
The way that she
turns round and stares,
And then makes remarks about
people;
She’d better
be saying her prayers.
Oh dear, what a dreadful long
sermon!
He must love to
hear himself talk!
And it’s after twelve
now,—how provoking!
I wanted to have
a nice walk.
Through at last. Well
it isn’t so dreadful
After all, for
we don’t dine till one;
How can people say church
is poky!—
So wicked!—I
think it’s real fun.
A LEGEND OF ST. VALENTINE.
Come! Why, halloa, that
you, Jack?
How’s the
world been using you?
Want your pipe? it’s
in the jar—
Think I might
be looking blue.
Maud’s been breaking
off with me,
Fact—see
here—I’ve got the ring.
That’s the note she
sent it in;
Read it—soothing
sort of thing.
Jack, you know I write sometimes—
Must have read
some things of mine.
Well, I thought I’d
just send Maud
Something for
a valentine.
So I ground some verses out
In the softest
kind of style,
Full of love, and that, you
know—
Bothered me an
awful while;
Quite a heavy piece of work.
So when I had
got them done—
Why, I thought them much too
good
Just to waste
that way on one.
Jack, I told you, didn’t
I,
All about that
black-eyed girl
Up in Stratford—last
July—
Oh! you know;
you saw her curl?
Well, old fellow, she’s
the one
That this row
is all about,
For I sent her—who’d
have thought
Maud would ever
find it out—
Those same verses, word for
word—
Hang it, man!
you needn’t roar—
“Splendid joke!”
well, so I thought—
No, don’t
think so any more.
Yesterday, you know it rained,
I’d been
up late—at a ball—
Didn’t know what else
to do—
Went up and made
Maud a call,
Found some other girl there,
too,
They were playing
a duet.
“Fred, my cousin, Nelly
Deane,”—
Yes, Jack, there
was my brunette;
You should just have seen
me, Jack—
Now, old fellow,
please don’t laugh,
I feel bad about it—fact—
And I really can’t
stand chaff.
Well, I tried to talk to Maud,
There was Nell,
though, sitting by;
Every now and then she’d
laugh,
Sure I can’t
imagine why.
Maud would read that beastly
poem,
Nell’s eyes
said in just one glance,
“Wont I make you pay
for this,
If I ever get
the chance!”
Some one came and rang the
bell,
Just a note for
Nell, by post.
Jack, I saw my monogram—
I’d have
rather seen a ghost.
Yes—her verses—I
suppose
That her folks
had sent them down—
Couldn’t get up there,
you know—
Till she’d
left and come to town.
Nelly looked them quickly
through—
Laughed—by
Jove, I thought she’d choke.
“Maud—he’ll
kill me—dear! oh, dear!—
Read that; isn’t
it a joke?”
Maud glanced through them—sank
right down
On the sofa—hid
her face—
“Crying!”—not
much—laughing, Jack—
Don’t think
she’s a hopeless case.
I just grabbed my hat and
left—
Only wish I’d
gone before.
How they laughed!—I
heard them, Jack—
Till I got outside
the door.
There, confession’s
done me good,
I can never win
her back,
So I’ll calmly let her
slide—
Pass the ash-cup,
will you, Jack.
FROST-BITTEN.
We were driving home from
the “Patriarchs’”—
Molly Lefevre
and I, you know;
The white flakes fluttered
about our lamps;
Our wheels were
hushed in the sleeping snow.
Her white arms nestled amid
her furs;
Her hands half-held,
with languid grace,
Her fading roses; fair to
see
Was the dreamy
look in her sweet, young face.
I watched her, saying never
a word,
For I would not
waken those dreaming eyes.
The breath of the roses filled
the air,
And my thoughts
were many, and far from wise.
At last I said to her, bending
near,
“Ah, Molly
Lefevre, how sweet ’twould be,
To ride on dreaming, all our
lives,
Alone with the
roses—you and me.”
Her sweet lips faltered, her
sweet eyes fell,
And, low as the
voice of a Summer rill,
Her answer came. It was—“Yes,
perhaps—
But who would settle our carriage
bill?”
The dying roses breathed their
last,
Our wheels rolled
loud on the stones just then,
Where the snow had drifted;
the subject dropped.
It has never been
taken up again.
A SONG.
Spring-time is coming again,
my dear;
Sunshine and violets
blue, you know;
Crocuses lifting their sleepy
heads
Out of their sheets
of snow.
And I know a blossom sweeter
by far
That violets blue, or crocuses
are,
And bright as
the sunbeam’s glow.
But how can I dare to look
in her eyes,
Colored with heaven’s
own hue?
That wouldn’t do at
all, my dear,
It really wouldn’t
do.
Her hair is a rippling, tossing
sea;
In its golden
depths the fairies play,
Beckoning, dancing, mocking
there,
Luring my heart
away.
And her merry lips are the
ripest red
That ever addled a poor man’s
head,
Or led his wits
astray.
What wouldn’t I give
to taste the sweets
Of those rose-leaves
wet with dew!
But that wouldn’t do
at all, my dear,
It really wouldn’t
do.
Her voice is gentle, and clear
and pure;
It rings like
the chime of a silver bell,
And the thought it wakes in
my foolish head,
I’m really
afraid to tell.
Her little feet kiss the ground
below,
And her hand is white as the
whitest snow
That e’er
from heaven fell.
But I wouldn’t dare
to take that hand,
Reward for my
love to sue;
That wouldn’t do at
all, my dear,
It really wouldn’t
do.
OLD PHOTOGRAPHS.
Old lady, put your glasses
on,
With polished
lenses, mounting golden,
And once again look slowly
through
The album olden.
How the old portraits take
you back
To friends who
once would ’round you gather—
All scattered now, like frosted
leaves
In blustering
weather.
Why, who is this, the bright
coquette?
Her eyes with
Love’s bright arrows laden—
“Poor Nell, she’s
living single yet,
An ancient maiden.”
And this, the fragile poetess?
Whose high soul-yearnings
nought can smother—
“She’s stouter
far than I am now,
A kind grandmother.”
Who is this girl with flowing
curls,
Who on the golden
future muses?
“What splendid hair
she had!—and now
A ‘front’
she uses.”
And this? “Why,
if it’s not my own;
And did I really
e’er resemble
That bright young creature?
Take the book—
My old hands tremble.
“It seems that only
yesterday
We all were young;
ah, how time passes!”
Old lady, put the album down,
And wipe your
glasses.
“LE DERNIER JOUR D’UN CONDAMNE.”
Old coat, for some three or
four seasons
We’ve been
jolly comrades, but now
We part, old companion, forever;
To fate, and the
fashion, I bow.
You’d look well enough
at a dinner,
I’d wear
you with pride at a ball;
But I’m dressing to-night
for a wedding—
My own—and
you’d not do at all.
You’ve too many wine-stains
about you,
You’re scented
too much with cigars,
When the gas-light shines
full on your collar,
It glitters with
myriad stars,
That wouldn’t look well
at my wedding;
They’d seem
inappropriate there—
Nell doesn’t use diamond
powder,
She tells me it
ruins the hair.
You’ve been out on Cozzens’
piazza
Too late, when
the evenings were damp,
When the moon-beams were silvering
Cro’nest,
And the lights
were all out in the camp.
You’ve rested on highly-oiled
stairways
Too often, when
sweet eyes were bright,
And somebody’s ball
dress—not Nellie’s—
Flowed ’round
you in rivers of white.
There’s a reprobate
looseness about you;
Should I wear
you to-night, I believe,
As I come with my bride from
the altar,
You’d laugh
in your wicked old sleeve,
When you felt there the tremulous
pressure
Of her hand, in
its delicate glove,
That is telling me shyly,
but proudly,
Her trust is as
deep as her love.
So, go to your grave in the
wardrobe,
And furnish a
feast for the moth,
Nell’s glove shall betray
its sweet secrets
To younger, more
innocent cloth.
’Tis time to put on
your successor—
It’s made
in a fashion that’s new;
Old coat, I’m afraid
it will never
Sit as easily
on me as you.
CHRISTMAS GREENS.
Oh, Lowbury pastor is fair
and young,
By far too good
for a single life,
And many a maiden, saith gossip’s
tongue,
Would fain be
Lowbury pastor’s wife:
So his book-marks are ’broidered
in crimson and gold,
And his slippers are, really,
a “sight to behold.”
That’s Lowbury pastor,
sitting there
On the cedar boughs
by the chancel rails;
His face is clouded with carking
care,
For it’s
nearly five, the daylight fails—
The church is silent,—the
girls all gone,
And the Christmas wreaths
not nearly done.
Two tiny boots crunch-crunch
the snow,
They saucily stamp
at the transept door,
And then up to the pillared
aisle they go
Pit-pat, click-clack,
on the marble floor—
A lady fair doth that pastor
see,
And he saith, “Oh, bother,
it isn’t she!”
A lady in seal-skin—eyes
of blue,
And tangled tresses
of snow-flecked gold—
She speaks, “Good gracious!
can this be you,
Sitting alone
in the dark and cold?
The rest all gone! Why
it wasn’t right;
These texts will never be
done to-night.”
She sits her down at her pastor’s
feet,
And, wreathing
evergreen, weaves her wiles,
Heart-piercing glances bright
and fleet,
Soft little sighs,
and shy little smiles;
But the pastor is solemnly
sulky and glum,
And thinketh it strange that
“she” doesn’t come.
Then she tells him earnestly,
soft and low,
How she’d
do her part in this world of strife,
And humbly look to him to
know
The path that
her feet should tread through life—
Her pastor yawneth behind
his hat,
And wondereth what she is
driving at.
Crunch-crunch again on the
snow outside,
The pastor riseth
unto his feet,
The vestry door is opened
wide,
A dark-eyed maid
doth the pastor greet,
And that lady fair can see
and hear,
Her pastor kiss her, and call
her “dear.”
“Why, Maud!” “Why,
Nelly!” those damsels cry;
But lo, what troubles
that lady fair?
On Nelly’s finger there
meets her eye
The glow of a
diamond solitaire,
And she thinks, as she sees
the glittering ring,
“And so she’s
got him—the hateful thing!”
There sit they all ’neath
the Christmas tree,
For Maud is determined
that she wont go
The pastor is cross as a man
can be,
And Nelly would
like to pinch her so,
And they go on wreathing the
text again—
It is “Peace on earth
and good-will towards men.”
LAKE MAHOPAC—SATURDAY NIGHT.
“Yes, I’m here,
I suppose you’re delighted:
You’d heard
I was not coming down!
Why I’ve been here a
week!—’rather early’—
I know, but it’s
horrid in town
A Boston? Most certainly,
thank you.
This music is
perfectly sweet;
Of course I like dancing in
summer;
It’s warm,
but I don’t mind the heat.
The clumsy thing! Oh!
how he hurt me!
I really can’t
dance any more—
Let’s walk—see,
they’re forming a Lancers;
These square dances
are such a bore.
My cloak—oh!
I really don’t need it—
Well, carry it,—so,
in the folds—
I hate it, but Ma made me
bring it;
She’s frightened
to death about colds.
This is rather cooler
than dancing.
They’re
lovely piazzas up here;
Those lanterns look sweet
in the bushes,
It’s lucky
the night is so clear.
I am rather tired—in
this corner?—
Very well, if
you like—I don’t care—
But you’ll have to sit
on the railing—
You see there
is only one chair.
’So long since
you’ve seen me’—oh, ages!—
Let’s see,
why it’s ten days ago—
’Seems years’—oh!
of course—don’t look spooney—
It isn’t
becoming, you know.
How bright the stars seem
to-night, don’t they?
What was it you
said about eyes?
How sweet!—why
you must be a poet—
One never can
tell till he tries.
Why can’t you be sensible,
Harry!
I don’t
like men’s arms on my chair.
Be still! if you don’t
stop this nonsense
I’ll get
up and leave you;—so there!
Oh! please don’t—I
don’t want to hear it—
A boy like you
talking of love.
’My answer!’—Well,
sir, you shall have it—
Just wait till
I get off my glove.
See that?—Well,
you needn’t look tragic,
It’s only
a solitaire ring,—
Of course I am ’proud
of it’—very—
It’s rather
an elegant thing.
Engaged!—yes—why,
didn’t you know it?
I thought the
news must have reached here—
Why, the wedding will be in
October—
The ’happy
man’—Charley Leclear.
Now don’t blame me—I
tried to stop you—
But you would
go on like a goose;
I’m sorry it happened—forget
it—
Don’t think
of it—don’t—what’s
the use?
There’s somebody coming—don’t
look so—
Get up on the
railing again—
Can’t you seem
as if nothing had happened?
I never saw such
geese as men!
Ah, Charley, you’ve
found me! A galop?
The ‘Bahn
frei?’ Yes; take my bouquet—
And my fan, if you will—now
I’m ready—
You’ll excuse
me, of course, Mr. Gray.”
MATINAL MUSINGS.
Ten o’clock! Well,
I’m sure I can’t help it!
I’m up—go
away from the door!
Now, children, I’ll
speak to your mother
If you pound there
like that any more.
How tired I do feel?—Where’s
that cushion?—
I don’t
want to move from this chair;
I wish Marie’d make
her appearance!
I really can’t
do my own hair.
I wish I’d not danced
quite so often—
I knew I’d
feel tired! but it’s hard
To refuse a magnificent dancer
If you have a
place left on your card.
I was silly to wear that green
satin,
It’s a shame
that I’ve spotted it so—
All down the front breadth—it’s
just ruined—
No trimming will
hide that, I know.
That’s me! Have
a costume imported,
And spoil it the
very first night!—
I might make an overskirt
of it,
That shade looks
so lovely with white.
How horrid my eyes look!
Good gracious!
I hope that I
didn’t catch cold
Sitting out on the stairs
with Will Stacy;
If Ma knew that,
wouldn’t she scold!
She says he’s so fast—well,
who isn’t?—
Dear! where is
Marie?—how it rains!—
I don’t care; he’s
real nice and handsome.
And his talk sounds
as if he’d some brains.
I do wonder what is
the reason,
That good men
are all like Joe Price,
So poky, and stiff, and conceited,
And fast ones
are always so nice.—
Just see how Joe acted last
evening!
He didn’t
come near me at all,
Because I danced twice with
Will Stacy
That night at
the Charity ball.
I didn’t care two pins
to do it;
But Joe said I
mustn’t,—and so—
I just did—he isn’t
my master,
Nor sha’n’t
be, I’d like him to know.
I don’t think he looked
at me even,
Though just to
please him I wore green,—
And I’d saved him three
elegant dances,—
I wouldn’t
have acted so mean.
The way he went on with Nell
Hadley;
Dear me! just
as if I would care!
I’d like to see those
two get married,
They’d make
a congenial pair!
I’m getting disgusted
with parties;—
I think I shall
stop going out;
What’s the use of this
fussing for people
I don’t
care the least bit about.
I did think that Joe
had some sense once;
But, my, he’s
just like all the men!
And the way that I’ve
gone on about him,—
Just see if I
do it again!
Only wait till the next time
I see him,
I’ll pay
him back; wont I be cool!
I’ve a good mind to
drop him completely—
I’ll—yes
I will—go back to school.
The bell!—who can
that be, I wonder!—
Let’s see—I
declare! why, it’s Joe!—
How long they are keeping
him waiting!
Good gracious!
why don’t the girl go!—
Yes—say I’ll
be down in a minute—
Quick, Marie,
and do up my hair!—
Not that bow—the
green one—Joe likes it—
How slow you are!—I’ll
pin it—there!
A ROMANCE OF THE SAW-DUST.
Suthin’ to put in a
story!
I couldn’t
think of a thing,
‘N’ it’s
nigh unto thirty year now
Since fust I went
in the ring.
“The life excitin’?”
Thunder!
“Variety,”
PYROTECHNIC POLYGLOT.
(MADISON SQUARE, JULY 4.)
“Hey, Johnny McGinnis,
where are yez?
I’ve got
a place! Arrah, be quick!”
Whiz! Boom! “Hooray,
there goes a rocket;
Hi, Johnny, look
out for the shtick!”
“Confound it, sir!
Those are my feet, sir!”
“Oh, pa,
lift me up, I can’t see.”
“Come down out o’
that, yez young blackguards!
Div yez want to
be killin’ the tree?”
“Hooray! look at that?”
“Aint it bully!”
“It’s
stuck!” “No, it aint.” “There
she goes!”
“I wish that you’d
speak to this man, Fred,
He’s standing
all over my toes.”
“Take down that umbrella
in front there!”
“My! aint
we afraid of our hat!”
“Me heart’s fairly
broke wid yez shovin’—
Have done now—what
would yez be at?”
“Jehiel, neow haint
this jest orful!
I ’most
wish I hedn’t a come;
Such actions I never—one
would think
Folks left their
perliteness to hum.”
“Look here, now, you
schoost stop dose schovin’.”
“By gar,
den, get out from ze vay,
You stupide Dootschmans, vilain
cochon”—
“Kreuz!”—“Peste!”—“Donnerwetter!”—“Sacr-r-re!”
“Oh, isn’t that
cross just too lovely!
So bright, why
the light makes me wink!”
“Your eyes, dear, are”—“don’t
be a goose, Fred;
What do you suppose
folks will think?”
Crash! Screech!
“Och I’m kilt!”—“Fred,
what is it?”
“Branch
broken—small boy come to grief.”
“Boo, hoo, hoo, hoo!
I wants mine muzzer!”
“Look out
there!” “Police!” “Hi, stop
thief!”
“Well, father, I guess
it’s all over;
Just help Nelly
down off the stool.”
MORAL.
SUNG:—“Mellican
piecee fire bully!”
CHING:—“Mellican
man piecee fool.”
FISHING.
“Harry, where have you
been all morning?”
“Down at
the pool in the meadow-brook.”
“Fishing?” “Yes,
but the trout were wary,
Couldn’t
induce them to take a hook.”
“Why, look at your coat!
You must have fallen,
Your back’s
just covered with leaves and moss.”
How he laughs! Good-natured
fellow!
Fisherman’s
luck makes most men cross.
“Nellie, the Wrights
have called. Where were you?”
“Under the
tree, by the meadow-brook
Reading, and oh, it was too
lovely;
I never saw such
a charming book.”
The charming book must have
pleased her, truly,
There’s
a happy light in her bright young eyes
And she hugs the cat with
unusual fervor,
To staid old Tabby’s
intense surprise.
Reading? yes, but not from
a novel.
Fishing! truly,
but not with a rod.
The line is idle, the book
neglected—
The water-grasses
whisper and nod.
The fisherman bold and the
earnest reader
Sit talking—of
what? Perhaps the weather.
Perhaps—no matter—whate’er
the subject,
It brings them
remarkably close together.
It causes his words to be
softly spoken,
With many a lingering
pause between,
The while the sunbeams chase
the shadows
Over the mosses,
gray and green.
Blushes are needful for its
discussion,
And soft, shy
glances from downcast eyes,
In whose blue depths are lying
hidden
Loving gladness,
and sweet surprise.
Trinity Chapel is gay this
evening,
Filled with beauty,
and flowers, and light,
A captive fisherman stands
at the altar,
With Nellie beside
him all in white.
The ring is on, the vows are
spoken,
And smiling friends,
good fortune wishing,
Tell him his is the fairest
prize
Ever brought from
a morning’s fishing.
NOCTURNE.
Summer is over, and the leaves
are falling,
Gold, fire-enamelled
in the glowing sun;
The sobbing pinetop, the cicada
calling
Chime men to vesper-musing,
day is done.
The fresh, green sod, in dead,
dry leaves is hidden;
They rustle very
sadly in the breeze;
Some breathing from the past
comes, all unbidden,
And in my heart
stir withered memories.
Day fades away; the stars
show in the azure,
Bright with the
glow of eyes that know not tears,
Unchanged, unchangeable, like
God’s good pleasure,
They smile and
reck not of the weary years.
Men tell us that the stars
it knows are leaving
Our onward rolling
globe, and in their place
New constellations rise—is
death bereaving
The old earth,
too, of each familiar face?
Our loved ones leave us; so
we all grow fonder
Of their world
than of ours; for here we seem
Alone in haunted houses, and
we wonder
Which is the waking
life, and which the dream.
AUTO-DA-FE
(HE EXPLAINS.)
Oh, just burning up some old
papers,
They do make a
good deal of smoke:
That’s right, Dolly,
open the window;
They’ll
blaze if you give them a poke.
I’ve got a lot more
in the closet;
Just look at the
dust! What a mess!
Why, read it, of course, if
you want to,
It’s only
a letter, I guess.
(SHE READS.)
Just me, and my pipe, and
the fire-light,
Whose mystical
circles of red
Protect me alone with the
shadows;
The smoke-wreaths
engarland my head;
And the strains of a waltz,
half forgotten,
The favorite waltz
of the year,
Played softly by fairy musicians,
Chime sweetly
and low on my ear.
The smoke-cloud floats thickly
around me,
All perfumed and
white, till it seems
A bride-veil magicians have
woven
To honor the bride
of my dreams.
Float on, dreamy waltz, through
my fancies,
My thoughts in
your harmony twine!
Draw near, phantom face, in
your beauty,
Look deep, phantom
eyes, into mine.
Sweet lips—crimson
buds half unfolded—
Give breath to
the exquisite voice,
That, waking the strands of
my being
To melody, bids
me rejoice.
Dream, soul, till the world’s
dream is ended!
Dream, heart,
of your beautiful past!
For dreaming is better than
weeping,
And all things
but dreams at the last.
Change rules in the world
of the waking—
Its laughter aye
ends in a sigh;
Dreams only are changeless—immortal:
A love-dream alone
cannot die.
Toil, fools! Sow your
hopes in the furrows,
Rich harvest of
failure you’ll reap;
Life’s riddle is read
the most truly
By men who but
talk in their sleep.
(HE REMONSTRATES.)
There, stop! That’ll
do—yes, I own it—
But, dear, I was
young then, you know.
I wrote that before we were
married;
Let’s see—why,
it’s ten years ago!
You remember that night, at
Drake’s party,
When you flirted
with Dick all the time?
I left in a state quite pathetic,
And went home
to scribble that rhyme.
What a boy I was then with
my dreaming,
And reading the
riddle of life!
You gave a good guess at its
meaning
The night you
said “Yes,” little wife.
One kiss for old times’
sake, my Dolly—
That didn’t
seem much like a dream.
Holloa! something’s
wrong with the children!
Those young ones
do nothing but scream.
AN AFTERTHOUGHT.
Vine leaves rustled, moonbeams
shone,
Summer breezes
softly sighed;
You and I were all alone
In a kingdom fair
and wide
You, a Queen,
in all your pride,
I, a vassal, by
your side.
Fairy voices in the leaves
Ceaselessly were
whispering:
“’Tis the time
to garner sheaves—
Let your heart
its longing sing;
Place upon her
hand a ring;
Then our Queen
shall know her King.”
E’en the moonbeams seemed
to learn
Speech when they
had kissed your face,
Passing fair—my
lips did yearn
To be moonbeams
for a space—
“Lo, ’tis
fitting time and place!
Speak, and courage
will find grace.”
But the night wind murmured
low,
Softly brushing
back your hair,
“Look into her face,
and know
That she is a
jewel rare,
Worthy of a monarch’s
heir;
Who are you that
you should dare!”
Hope died like a frost-touched
flower;
But through all
the coming years,
In that quiet evening hour,
When the flowers
are all in tears,
When the heart
hath hopes and fears,
When the day-world
disappears.
If the vine leaves rustle
low,
If the moon shine
on the sea,
If the night wind softly blow,—
Dreaming of what
may not be,—
Well I know that
I shall see
Your sweet eyes
look down on me.
REDUCTIO AD ABSURDUM.
I had come from the city early
That
Saturday afternoon;
I sat with Beatrix
under the trees
In the mossy orchard;
the golden bees
Buzzed over clover-tops, pink
and pearly;
I
was at peace, and inclined to spoon.
We were stopping awhile with
mother,
At
the quiet country place
Where first we’d
met, one blossomy May,
And fallen in
love—so the dreamy day
Brought to my memory many
another
In
the happy time when I won her grace.
Days in the bright Spring
weather,
When
the twisted, rough old tree
Showered down apple-blooms,
dainty and sweet,
That swung in
her hair, and blushed at her feet;
Sweet was her face as we lingered
together,
And
dainty the kisses my love gave me.
“Dear love, are you
recalling
The
old days, too?” I said.
Her sweet eyes
filled, and with tender grace
She turned and
rested her blushing face
Against my shoulder; a sunbeam
falling
Through
the leaves above us crowned her head.
And so I held her, trusting
That
none was by to see;
A sad mistake—for
low, but clear,
This feminine
comment reached my ear:
“Married for ages—it’s
just disgusting—
Such
actions—and, Fred, they’ve got our
tree!”
THE MOTHERS OF THE SIRENS.
The debutantes are in force
to-night,
Sweet as their
roses, pure as truth;
Dreams of beauty in clouds
of tulle;
Blushing, fair
in their guileless youth.
Flashing bright glances carelessly—
Carelessly, think
you! Wait and see
How their sweetest smile is
kept for him
Whom “mother”
considers a good parti.
For the matrons watch and
guard them well—
Little for youth
or love care they;
The man they seek is the man
with gold,
Though his heart
be black, and his hair be gray.
“Nellie, how could
you treat him so!
You know very
well he is Goldmore’s heir,”
“Jennie, look modest!
Glance down and blush,—
Here comes papa
with young Millionaire.”
On a cold, gray rock, in Grecian
seas,
The sirens sit,
and their glamour try—
Warm white bosoms press harps
of gold,
The while Ulysses’
ship sails by.
Fair are the forms the sailors
see,
Sweet are the
songs the sailors hear
And—cool and wary,
shrewd and old,
The sirens’
mothers are watching near,
Whispering counsel—“Fling
back your hair,
It hides your
shoulder.” “Don’t sing so fast!”
“Darling, don’t
look at that fair young man,
Try that old fellow
there by the mast,
His arms are jewelled”—let
it go!
Too bitter all
this for an idle rhyme;
But sirens are kin of the
gods, be sure,
And change but
little with lapse of time.
PER ASPERA AD ASTRA.
A canvas-back duck, rarely
roasted, between us,
A bottle of Chambertin,
worthy of praise—
Less noble a wine at our age
would bemean us—
A salad of celery
en mayonnaise,
With the oysters we’ve
eaten, fresh, plump, and delicious,
Naught left of
them now but a dream and the shells;
No better souper e’en
Lucullus could wish us—
Why, even our
waiter regards us as swells.
Your dress is a marvel, your
jewels show finely,
Your friends in
the circle all envied your box;
You say Lilli Lehman sang
quite too divinely—
I know I can’t
lose on that last deal in stocks.
Without waits our footman
to call for our carriage—
Gad, how he must
hate us, out there in the cold!—
We rode in a hack on the day
of our marriage,
Number two forty-six—I
was rolling in gold,
For I’d quite fifty
dollars; and don’t you remember
We drove down
to Taylor’s, a long cherished dream:
How grandly I ordered—just
think, in December!—
Some cake, and
two plates of vanilla ice-cream.
And how we enjoyed it!
Your glance was the proudest
Among the proud
beauties, your face the most fair;
I’m rather afraid, too,
your laugh was the loudest;
I know we shocked
every one—we didn’t care.
Now we’d care a great
deal—with two sons at college,
And daughters
just out, whose sneers make you wince,
We’ve tasted the fruit
of Society’s knowledge—
I don’t
think we’ve quite enjoyed anything since.
All through, dear? Now,
don’t wipe your mouth with the doily!
They’re
really not careful at all with their wine;
It wasn’t half warmed—the
salad was oily—
And I don’t
think the duck was remarkably fine.
THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE.
Oh! he was a student of mystic
lore;
And she was a
soulful girl
All nerves and mind, of the
cultured kind
The paragon, pride,
and pearl.
They loved with a neo-Concordic
love,
Woofed weirdly
with wistful woe.
They sat in a glen, remote
from men,
Their converse
was high and low.
“What marvellous words
of marvellous love,
Speak marvellous
souls like these?”
I drew me nigh till their
faintest sigh
Was heard with
the greatest ease.
“’Oo’s ’ittle
white lammy is ’oo?” breathed he;
“’Oors.
’Oo’s lovey-dovey is ’oo?”
“’Oors! ’Oors!
Would ’oo k’y if dovey should die?”
“No’p!—tause
’ittle lammy’d die too.”
How truthful we poets!
The “language of Love”
Is a phrase we
employ full oft;
But whenever we do, we prefix
thereto,
You’ve noticed,
the adjective “soft.”
ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration: “WE TWO TOOK POSSESSION OF THE STAIRS.” —Page 18.]
[Illustration: “SEE HER AT PRAYER! HER PLEADING HANDS BEAR NOT ONE GEM OF ALL HER STORE.” —Page 4.]
[Illustration: “THE SUNBEAMS LIT HER GLEAMING HAIR WITH RIPPLING WAVES OF GOLDEN GLORY.” —Page 22.]
[Illustration: “WHAT! GIVE UP FLIRTATION? CHANGE DIMPLES FOR FROWNS?” —Page 24.]
[Illustration: “THE FEET THAT KISSED ITS PAVEMENT ARE DEEP IN COUNTRY GRASS.” —Page 59.]
[Illustration: “AND THE BEAUTIES WE’VE SIGHED FOR ALL SUMMER ARE HURRYING BACK TO TOWN.” —Page 62.]
[Illustration: “YES, JACK, THERE WAS MY BRUNETTE.” —Page 77.]
[Illustration: “HOW THE OLD PORTRAITS TAKE YOU BACK.” —Page 83.]
[Illustration: “A LADY IN SEALSKIN—EYES OF BLUE, AND TANGLED TRESSES OF SNOW-FLECKED GOLD.” —Page 89.]
[Illustration: “BUT YOU’LL HAVE TO SIT ON THE RAILING— YOU SEE THERE IS ONLY ONE CHAIR.” —Page 92.]
[Illustration: “READING? YES, BUT NOT FROM A NOVEL; FISHING! TRULY, BUT NOT WITH A ROD.” —Page 109.]
[Illustration: “THE DEBUTANTES ARE IN FORCE TO-NIGHT, SWEET AS THEIR ROSES, PURE AS TRUTH.” —Page 122.]