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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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Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
KINGS & QUEENS & BOWERS | 1 |
The Kiss | 2 |
AN ECHO FROM A SEASIDE HOP. | 7 |
Jokers | 12 |
No | 20 |
The perfect face
the moonlight sonata
the kiss
the bride
A problem
to Phyllis reading A letter
A rose from her hair
when I told her my love
my lady, you blushed
the American slave
Sell her,—that’s right
time and place
blood on the rose
in old Madrid
the Duel
the shroud
love’s return
one wish
for me
to A water-color
the serenade
to the rose in her hair
her reverie
to beauty
dreaming of you
please return
almost dying of ennui
jacks from Jack
hyacinths
in the Waltz
she is mine
old times
of my love
the Farewell
the last dance
why he asked for A vacation
the editor’s valentine
acting
an Apache love-song
the old-fashioned girl
A retrospect
hard hit
rejected
JOKERS
Her yachting cap
theft
before her mirror
at old Point Comfort
A drop too much
ingratitude
A few resolutions
A dilemma
A Choice not necessary
that Boston girl
the hero
the sweet summer girl
her fan
certainty
caught
an important distinction
two Kinds
what it is
in her pew
the suspicious lover to
the star
A Slight surprise
past vs. Present
the usual way
A difference in style
afraid
ye Retort exasperating
A rhyming reverie
A sure Winner
tantalization
his usual fate
on two letters from
her
A serenade—en Deux
Langues
when A girl says “No”
Uncertainty
her peculiarities
tying the strings of
her shoe
when you are rejected
A bachelor’s views
my cigarette
discovered
the ice in the punch
the tale of A broken
heart
where did you get
it?
No
A midsummer night’s Tempest
the abused gallant
after the ball
vanity fair
for the long voyage
Kings & Queens & Bowers
The Perfect Face.
The Graces, on a summer day,
Grew serious for a moment;
yea,
They thought in rivalry to
trace
The outline of a perfect face.
Each used a rosebud for a
brush,
And, while it glowed with
sunset’s blush,
Each painted on the evening
sky,
And each a star used for the
eye.
They finished. Each a
curtaining cloud
Drew back, and each exclaimed
aloud:
“Behold, we three have
drawn the same,
From the same model!”
Ah, her name?
I know. I saw the pictures
grow.
I saw them falter, fade, and
go.
I know the model. Oft
she lures
My heart. The face, my
sweet, was yours.
The Moonlight Sonata.
The notes still float upon
the air,
Just
as they did that night.
I see the old piano there,—
Oh,
that again I might!
Her young voice haunts my
eager ear;
Her
hair in the candle-light
Still seems an aureole,—a
tear
Is
my spectroscope to-night.
I hear her trembling tell
me “No,”
And
I know that she answered right
But I throw a kiss to the
stars, and though
She
be wed she will dream to-night.
Over the green fields, over
the snow,
Something I send thee, something
I throw.
No one can guess it; no one
can know.
Light as a feather, quick
as the eye;
Thin as a sunbeam, deep as
the sky;
Worthless, but something a
queen could not buy.
Ah, you have caught it, love!
How do I know?
Sweet, there are secrets lost
ages ago.
Lovers learn all of them.
Smile not,—’tis so.
The Bride.
Before her mirror, robed in
spotless white,
She stands and,
wondering, looks at her own face,
Amazed at its
new loveliness and grace.
Smiling and blushing at the
pretty sight,
So fraught is she with innocent
delight,
She feels the
tender thrill of his embrace
Crushing her lilies
into flowery lace;
Then sighs and starts, even
as though from fright.
Then fleets before her eyes
the happy past;
She turns from
it with petulant disdain,
And tries to read
the future,—but in vain.
Blank are its pages from the
first to last.
She hears faint music, smiles,
and leaves the room
Just as one rosebud more bursts
into bloom.
A Problem.
Give you a problem for your
midnight toil,—
One you can study
till your hair is white
And never solve
and never guess aright,
Although you burn to dregs
your midnight oil?
O Sage, I give one that will
make you moil.
Just take one
weakling little woman’s heart.
Prepare your patience,
furbish up your art.
How now? Did I not see
you then recoil?
Tell me how many times it
has known pain;
Tell me what thing
will make it feel delight;
Tell me when it is modest,
when ’tis vain;
Tell me when it
is wrong and when ’tis right:
But tell me this, all other
things above,—
Can it feel, Sage, the thing
that man calls “Love”?
To Phyllis Reading a Letter.
A smile is curving o’er
her creamy cheek,
Her bosom swells
with all a lover’s joy,
When love receives
a message that the coy
Young love-god made a strong
and true heart speak
From far-off lands; and like
a mountain-peak
That loses in
one avalanche its cloy
Of ice and snow,
so doth her breast employ
Its hidden store of blushes;
and they wreak
Destruction, as they crush
my aching heart,—
Destruction, wild,
relentless, and as sure
As the poor Alpine hamlet’s;
and no art
Can hide my agony,
no herb can cure
My wound. Her very blush
says, “We must part.”
Why was it always
my fate to endure?
A Rose from her hair.
She gave me a rose from her
hair,
And she hid her
young heart within it.
I could hardly speak from
despair,
Till she gave that rose from
her hair,
And leaned out over the stair
With a blush as
she stooped to pin it.
She gave me a rose from her
hair,
And she hid her
young heart within it.
When I told her my Love.
When I told her my love,
She was maidenly
shy,
And she bit at her glove.
I gave Cupid a shove;
Yes, I begged
him to try,
When I told her my love
What was she thinking of
As she uttered
that sigh
And she bit at her glove?
And pray what does it prove
That she stopped
there to sigh,
When I told her my love
And she bit at her glove?
My Lady, you Blushed.
My lady, you blushed.
Was my love a
surprise?
How quickly they hushed!
A curl of yours brushed
All else from
my eyes.
My lady, you blushed.
You say that I gushed,
And they all heard
my sighs?
How quickly they hushed!
Your roses were crushed;
N’importe
wherefores and whys.
My lady, you blushed.
The American Slave.
Come, muster your pleasantest
smile, my dear,
And put on your
prettiest gown.
Forget about Jack for a while,
my dear,
His lordship has
just come to town.
He’s come here to get
him a wife, my dear,
And you have been
put up for sale
With a marvellous income for
life, my dear,
To balance your
side of the scale.
His lordship is feeble and
old, my dear,—
What odds?
All the sooner he’ll die.
And he has a sore need of
your gold, my dear:
See the good you
can do if you’ll try.
And then a real lady you’ll
be, my dear,
Not only by nature
but name;
Mamma’ll be so proud,—you
can see, my dear,
No one thinks
it, as you do, a shame.
So bend your proud head.
Are you faint, my dear?
Keep the tears
back, be buoyant and brave.
Keep that pose! Now a
portrait we’ll paint, my dear,
To be called “The
American Slave.”
Sell Her,—That’s Right.
Sell her,—that’s
right! She is young, she is fair;
There’s the light of
the sun in the coils of her hair.
And her soul is as white as
the first flakes of snow
That are falling to-night.
’T is a bargain, a “go”
Sell her,—that’s
right!
Sell her,—that’s
right! For a bag full of gold.
Put her down in your ledger,
and label her “Sold”
She’s only a beauty
with somebody’s name,
And the Church for a pittance
will wash out the shame.
Sell her,—that’s
right!
Time and Place.
Hasten on! The mad moonlight
is beaming
On the hatred
and love ’twixt us two;
And it beams on the maid who
is dreaming,
And the grave
made for me or for you.
Time and place,—love
and life in the balance,
Fear and hope
in the glance of your eye.
Draw your blade! Forget
not we are gallants
Who can laugh
at our fate as we die.
On your guard! There’ll
be blood on the metal
Ere she wakes
from her innocent dreams;
There’s a long list
of kisses to settle,
And some love
sighs and death sighs, it seems.
Bare your arm! Strike
for life and the maiden!
Take that!
You are cautious, I fear
Speed the blow,—’tis
with happiness laden
For him who does
not remain here
That and that! I am wounded,—it’s
over
Those kisses were
destined for you;
But now she is yours and you
love her,
Go tell her that
I loved her too
Blood on the Rose.
Is it dew on the rose?
’T is the
same that I gave him
Last night when I chose
To warn him and
save him;
That he pinned on his breast
With a smile at
his danger,
And a smile, not in jest,
That was sweeter
and stranger
Here are footprints of foes!
Oh, my heart!—I
can feel
It is blood on the rose
And a sliver of
steel.
In Old Madrid.
I strolled the streets in
quest of any love,
In old Madrid
long centuries ago;
I caught the perfume of a
scented glove,
I saw a sweet
face in a portico.
She laughed—then
paled. She leaned out; whispered, “Fly!”
And then I felt
the sting of steel, the hiss
Of curses in my ear, and knew
that I
Had forfeited
my life—and lost a kiss.
The Duel.
Ten paces—one,
two, three, and fire!
Two gallants have their heart’s
desire.
One of them dies, the other
laughs;
The seconds smile, the doctor
chaffs.
A woman, smiling, dreams she’s
wed
To—hush, to the
very one that’s dead.
The Shroud.
The snow came softly, silently,
down
Into the streets of the dark
old town;
And lo! by the wind it was
swept and piled
On the sleeping form of a
beggar-child.
It kissed her cheek, and it
filled her hair
With crystals that looked
like diamonds there;
And she dreamed that she was
a fair young bride
In a pure white dress by her
husband’s side.
A blush crept over her pale
young face,
And her thin lips smiled with
a girlish grace;
But the old storm-king made
his boast aloud
That his work that night was
weaving a shroud.
Love’s Return.
Love has come back—ah
me, the joy!—
Greater than when
Love began
To wound my heart. The
jocund boy!
Love has come
back a gray-haired man.
His eyes are red with tears
of woe,
His cheeks are
pale, and his heart is sore;
But Love has come back at
last, and, oh!
Love will be faithful
evermore.
One Wish.
My thoughts are gliding down
the stream,
Ah, faster than
the river flows;
And idly in my heart I dream
Of islands where
the lotus grows.
I fear not rapids, waterfall,
Or whirlpool leading
down to death,
If love but my tired heart
enthrall,
And I may sip
a woman’s breath.
I care not what may be my
fate.
Roll on, mad river,
to the sea;
Drown all ambition, pride,
and hate,—
But leave one
woman’s love to me.
For Me.
I heard her song,
Low in the night,
From out her casement steal
away,
Nor thought it
wrong
To steal a sight
Of her—and lo!
she knelt to pray.
I heard her say,
“Forgive
him, Lord;
Such as he seems he cannot
be.”
I turned away,
Myself abhorred.
She prayed—and
oh! she prayed for me.
To a Water-color.
Sweet Phyllis, maid of yesterday,
Come down from
out that frame,
And tell me why you looked
so gay—
Likewise your
other name.
Had bold Sir Plume confessed
his love
And asked you
if you’d wed?
And had he called you “Lovey-dove”?
And how long are
you dead?
Where did you get that wondrous
gown,
Those patches,
and that hair?
And how were things in London
town
The last time
you were there?
And did you die a maid or
wife,
Your husband lord
or knave?
And how did you like this
jolly life?
And how do you
like the grave?
The Serenade.
Under my casement, as I pray,
My lover sings my cares away
With many a half-forgotten
lay.
He leans against the linden-tree,
And sings old songs of Arcady
That he knows well are loved
by me.
Half through the night the
sweet strains float
Like wind-blown rose-leaves,
note by note,
Over the great wall and the
moat,
Up to my window, till they
teem
Into my soul, and almost seem
To be there even when I dream.
And his heart trembling beats
with bliss
If I but throw him one small
kiss
Just as I now throw this,
and this
To the Rose in her hair.
Poor little rose, I pity you—
Sweet as Oporto’s
wind when fruity—
Tortured an evil hour or two,
Just to adorn
a wilful beauty.
I know her well, too well,
alas!
(Just watch the
fairy as she dances.)
She wears my heart—but
let that pass;
It’s dead:
she killed it with her glances.
Your fate, poor rose, is such
as mine,—
To be despised
when you are faded;
Yet she’s an angel—too
divine
To be by you or
me upbraided.
Her Reverie.
A lady combed her silken hair.
None but a looking-glass would
dare
To gaze on such
a scene.
The blushes thronged her dimpled
cheek;
They coursed upon her shoulders,
eke,
And the white
neck between.
And she was thinking then,
I trow,
Of one who, in a whispered
vow
Beneath the budding
elm,
Had told her they would sail
their barque
On lakes where pale stars
pierced the dark,
With Cupid at
the helm.
Anon, a faint smile pursed
her lips
And shook her dainty finger-tips,
As breezes shake
the boughs;
And then a quick, impetuous
frown
Came gathering from her ringlets
down,
And perched upon
her brows.
Ah, she was thinking then,
I ween,
Of me, poor clumsy dunce,
who e’en
Had torn her silken
dress.
I waltzed too near her at
the ball;
Her beauty dazed me—that
was all;
I felt a dizziness.
To Beauty.
“Oh, Mistress Beauty,”
said my sigh,
“I’d
laugh to scorn all other blisses,
If you and I might live and
die
Together on such
fare as kisses.
“Your kirtle would not
be of silk,
The band around
it but torn leather.
I think our wine would be
plain milk;
I think we’d
oft see stormy weather.
“But, oh, there are
some things in life
Worth more to
men than fame or money;
And one of them’s a
sweet young wife,
So pure, so honest,
and so bonnie.”
Dreaming of You.
My soul feels refreshed, like
a rose kissed by dew,
When waking I know I’ve
been dreaming of you.
They thought I was mad.
Ah, my sweet, if they knew
That my malady simply was
dreaming of you!
I’ve one wish.
’Tis to sleep all the long ages through
By your side, you my bride,
and I dreaming of you.
Please Return.
Now, all you pretty maids
in town,
Take heed of my
sad plight.
I’ve lost a kiss; I’ll
give a crown
To get it back
to-night.
I threw it, poet-like, I own,
Up to a silvery
star;
I must confess I might have
known
I could not throw
so far.
But, oh, surprise! It
circled round,
And sank as though
’t were laden
With love—when
almost to the ground
’T was caught
by some young maiden.
And that young maid I wish
to find.
I’ve lost
a kiss, alack!
It is not hers. She’ll
not be kind
Unless she give
it back.
Almost Dying of Ennui.
What are the charms of the
sea?
Oh for an hour
of the city!
What are the dull waves to
me?
Can they say anything
witty?
What do they care for my lips?
Why did I come?
It’s a pity!
Nothing but water and ships,
And Jack far away
in the city.
Oh for one ride in the park,
With Jack humming
bars from a ditty;
Kissing me (when it grows
dark).
Fy! Oh—heigho,
for the city!
Jacks from Jack.
Fresh, fragrant, tempting,
balmy, red—
What fool would
send them back?
Why do I wish that I were
dead,
With all these
jacks from Jack?
Why do I bite my lips and
frown,
Tear buttons off
my sacque,
When, just returning to the
town,
I get these jacks
from Jack?
Alas, for pleasure’s
giddy whirl,
For summer lost,
alack!
He’s off to see some
other girl;
That’s why
mere jacks from Jack.
Hyacinths.
Hyacinths, tenderly sweet,
Is it life that
you ask in your prayer?
Ah, I would die at her feet,
If I could be
one of you there.
There on her billowy breast,
So near to her
innocent heart,
That its beating would lull
me to rest,
And to dream I
should never depart.
Sighing are you for the stars?
Look in the depths
of her eyes.
Is there a gem of the Czar’s
So much like those
gems of the skies?
Is it the dew that you miss?
Hyacinths, hyacinths,
wait.
Soon she will give you a kiss.
Oh, how I envy
your fate!
In The Waltz.
Light as the waves foaming
white on the bar,
We dance to the mandolin,
harp, and guitar;
One, two, three, waltzing
we glide round the room,—
Would you were bride, and
ah, would I were groom!
On all the seashore none fairer
than you;
What but adore you could any
one do?
Cheeks like the pink of an
evening sky,
Eyes that might bid a man
laughingly die.
Ears like the shells from
the Indian sea,
Teeth like white buds on a
young apple-tree,
Throat like a lily bent heavy
with dew,
Arms just as white and as
lily-like too.
Lips that would tempt—ah!
you’ll pardon me now,
Being so near them suggests,
you’ll allow,
That the happiest thing e’er
a mortal could do,
Would be to be ever thus waltzing
with you.
She Is Mine.
There’s a sparkle in
her eye
That no millionnaire can buy.
If they think so, let them
try—
She’s
divine.
There’s a blush upon
her cheek
Like the peach-tree’s
blossom, eke,
Like red willows by the creek,
Or
like wine.
She has roses in her hair.
It was I who put them there.
Really, did I ever dare—
Is
she mine?
Or is it all a dream,—
Idle poet’s empty theme
Put in words that make it
seem
Superfine?
No; for see upon her hand
There’s a little golden
band,—
Filigree work, understand,
Like a vine;
And a perfect solitaire
Fits upon it. The affair
Cost two hundred. I don’t
care!
She is mine.
Old Times.
Ah, good old times of belles
and beaux,
Of powdered wigs and wondrous
hose,
Of stately airs and careful
grace,
Look you at our degenerate
race.
No more the gallant spends
his time
In writing of his love in
rhyme;
No more he lives unconscious
of
All earthly things save war
and love.
We modern men have toils and
cares
To streak our pates with whitened
hairs,
And have to crowd our love
and all
Into one short and weekly
call.
Of My Love.
Was
ever a moon
In
joyous June
As royal, radiant, rare as
she,
With
her smiling lips,
As
she lightly trips
Down through the autumn woods
to me?
Never
a queen
On
her throne, I ween,
Had such a loyal slave as
I.
Ready
to bear
All
her cares, I swear,
Just for a fleeting kiss on
the sly.
Oh
for the day
We
gallop away
To the curate’s cottage,
Gretna Green;
Side
by side,
Groom
and bride,
Happy twenty and sweet sixteen!
The Farewell.
Not going abroad? What,
to-morrow,
And to stay, goodness
knows for how long?
Really, Jack, ’twould
appear that dry sorrow
Had done even
you, sir, a wrong.
It has? Ha, ha, ha!
What a joke, sir!
Is it Mabel or
Jenny or Nell?
I’m sure you are wrong,—hold
my cloak, sir,—
Am I not an old
friend? Come now, tell.
The prince of our set broken-hearted!
What a joke!
Who rejected you? Speak!
Did you look like that, Jack,
when you parted?
Was that pallor
of death on your cheek?
You interest me. Tell
me about it;
And let your old
chum, sir, console.
Hard hit in the heart.
I don’t doubt it;
You were made
for that sort of a role.
Did you bend on your knee,
like an actor,
Hardly knowing
just where to begin?
Was dear mamma’s consent
the main factor?
What a fool the
poor girl must have been!
Who was she? What!—I?—You
were jealous?
O, Jack, who’d
have thought such a thing?
You’ve been certainly
not over-zealous.
But kiss me—and
where is the ring?
The Last Dance.
An incident in A window Seat.
He: Well, how
many conquests? I fancy a score
By the flush on your cheeks
and your shoulders.
She: A bore!
He: Oh, nonsense; a debutante just out of school Who can rule with a smile what a king could not rule, From young Harry, her prince, to myself, her poor fool! Come, tell me, did Harry propose?
She:
What a goose
You would think me to tell
you, and then of what use
Could it be?
He: Well, it might
give me hope, where before
There was none,—quite
a boon from the lips you adore
When you ’re hungry
for love.
She (coquetting): Or who knows but it might—
He: Yes, it might
blot from life every semblance of light
As the clouds blot the moon
on a storm-troubled night.
But tell me.
She: He did.
He: And your answer was?
She: No.
He: You mean it, or are you coquetting yet?
She: Oh! I just told him I cared for another—he smiled. It was merely to him so much pleasure beguiled From a girl. Charge it up profit?—loss?—tell me which? He thinks I am pretty, they say, but, not rich. He would love me, perhaps, for a season or two, So I told him that I loved another.
He: And who?
She (archly): Really, must I tell you?
He: No—your
finger—yes, this!
A solitaire—done!
and now quickly!
She (feigning reluctance): One!
He (ecstatically): Kiss.
Why he asked for a Vacation.
“Dear Jack:
It’s
delightfully gay here,—
Old Paris seemed
never so fine,—
And mamma says we’re
going to stay here,
And papa—well,
papa sips his wine
And says nothing. You
know him of old, dear.
He’s only
too happy to rest,—
After making three millions
in gold, dear.
He’s played
out, it must be confessed,—
And I—I’m
to wed an old Baron
Three weeks from
to-day, in great style
(He’s as homely and
gaunt as old Charon,
And they say that
his past has been vile);
And I’ve promised to
cut you hereafter,—
Small chance,
though, we ever shall meet,—
So let’s turn our old
love into laughter,
And face the thing
through. Shall we, sweet?
Can you give me up, Jack,
to this roue,
Just because we
may always be poor?
There’s still enough
time, dear, et tu es
Un brave,—you
will come, I am sure.
Put your trunk on the swiftest
Cunarder,
And don’t
give me up, Jack, for—well,
There are things in this world
that are harder
Than poverty.
Come to me!
NELL.”
The Editor’s Valentine.
The editor sat in his old arm-chair
(Half his work undone he was well aware),
While the flickering light in the dingy room
Made the usual newspaper office gloom.
Before him news from the North
and South,
A long account of a foreign
drouth,
A lot of changes in local
ads,
The report of a fight between
drunken cads,
And odds and ends and smoke
and talk,—
A reporter drawing cartoons
in chalk
On the dirty wall, while others
laughed,
And one wretch whistled, and
all of them chaffed.
But the editor leaned far
back in his chair;
He ran his hands through his
iron-gray hair,
And stole ten minutes from
work to write
A valentine to his wife that
night.
He thought of metre, he thought
of rhyme.
’Twas a race between
weary brains and time.
He tried to write as he used
to when
His heart was as young as
his untried pen.
He started a sonnet, but gave
it up.
A rondeau failed for a rhyme
to “cup.”
And the old clock ticked his
time away,
For the editor’s mind
would go astray.
He thought of the days when
they were young,
And all but love to the winds
was flung,
He thought of the way she
used to wear
Her wayward tresses of golden
hair.
He thought of the way she
used to blush.
He thought of the way he used
to gush.
And a smile and a tear went
creeping down
The face that so long had
known a frown.
And this is what the editor
wrote:
No poem—merely
a little note,
Simple and manly, but tender,
too;
Three little words—they
were, “I love you.”
Acting.
Ah, my arms hold you fast!
How can they be so bold
When my hands offer nothing
of silver or gold?
Can it be that I see a new
light in your eye?
Can it be that I heard then
a womanly sigh?
Ah, I feel such delight, and
such joy, such surprise,
That I hardly dare lift my
own sight to your eyes
Ah, my arms hold you fast,
and my lips touch your cheek,
And I’m crying, “Love,
answer me; speak to me—speak!”
And the answer you give to
my longing distress
Is that word, with a blush
and a kiss, that word “Yes.”
Ah, my arms hold you fast,
and I burn with a fire
That nothing but long-waiting
love can inspire.
Yet I know you mean nothing—mean
nothing, because
It’s mere acting.
Ah me, I can hear the applause.
An Apache Love-Song.[1]
A-atana she was
here.
A-atana I was
dear.
She will never come again.
Chill my heart, O wind and
rain.
A-atana she was
here.
Hark, the wind
asks “Hi-you?”
And I answer “A-coo,
Ustey with your bitter cold;
U-ga-sha, my love of old.”
Still the wind
asks “Hi-you?”
“Hi-you?” I know
not where.
A-oo, I hardly
care.
Take it to the land of snow;
Take it where the stars all
go.
“Hi-you?”
I do not care.
It-sau-i did it
all—
It-sau-i, proud
and tall.
Tell her I have gone to fight.
Ask her if her heart is light.
It-sau-i did it
all.
[Footnote 1: A-atana, yesterday. Hi-you, where. A-coo, here. U’s-tey, come, or bring. U’-ga-sha, go, or take. A-oo, yes. I have no authority for the spelling of these words. I rendered them phonetically from the pronunciation of a young Apache whom I hired to teach me the language. Many Apache words have no perceptible accent. A, here, has the sound of a in father.]
The Old-fashioned Girl.
There’s an old-fashioned
girl in an old fashioned street,
Dressed in old-fashioned clothes
from her head to her feet;
And she spends all her time
in the old-fashioned way
Of caring for poor people’s
children all day.
She never has been to cotillon
or ball,
And she knows not the styles
of the Spring or the Fall;
Two hundred a year will suffice
for her needs,
And an old-fashioned Bible
is all that she reads.
And she has an old-fashioned
heart that is true
To a fellow who died in an
old coat of blue,
With its buttons all brass,—who
is waiting above
For the woman who loved him
with old-fashioned love.
A Retrospect.
I was poor as a beggar,—she
knew it,—
But proud as a
king through it all;
Though it cost me two dollars
to do it,
I took little
Meg to the ball.
Mere calico served her for
satin;
My broadcloth
was made of blue jeans.
Without crest or a motto in
Latin,
Meg’s style
was as grand as a queen’s.
And we were in dreamland all
through it,
And I do not regret
it at all;
Though it cost me two dollars
to do it,
I took little
Meg to the ball.
Hard Hit.
I guess that I’m done
for, old chappie!
Done, whether
she loves me or not,—
But don’t look so deuced
unhappy,—
Y’know it
was I fired the shot.
Thanks, awfully. Give
me the whiskey,—
There’s
a horrible pain in my head;
It’s queer that my nerves
should be frisky
When my heart
is as heavy as lead.
I’m worthless; I own
it! She told me,
That night at
the Country Club ball,—
Don’t try, dear old
fellow, to hold me,—
Ah, Nellie!—it’s
over!—don’t call!
She told me my life had been
wasted,
That my money
had ruined my mind,
That I’d not left a
pleasure untasted,—
Had been a disgrace
to mankind!
And now she’s to marry
another,—
A poor man, but
honest and strong,
Who had never a passion to
smother,
And never a chance
to do wrong.
He loves her. They’ll
all think it funny
I don’t
curse him and kill him, old fel;
But she loves him. I’ve
left him my money,—
For I love her—God
bless her! Farewell!
Rejected.
Aw, yes, bah Jove. I
thought you’d answer “No.”
But still a fellah
’s got to awsk, you see.
And then there was the chance
you might outgrow
That way you had
of making fun of me.
Three years in Europe sometimes
make a change
In girls like
you, who’ve always been adored;
And when you laughed, I thought
it rawther strange.
Aw, I beg pawdon;
p’haps you feel, aw—bored.
You don’t? You
think it fun—a fellah’s pains
At words like
yours? You don’t know how they smart.
I know you think I haven’t
any brains;
But still, Miss
Nellie, I’ve a—I’ve a heart.
Her Yachting Cap.
Oh, the little
yachting cap
That is lying
in her lap
Has a sort of fascination
for poor me.
It is made of
something white,
And she wears
it day and night,
Through the weeks she spends
each summer by the sea.
She can make of
it a fan,
And, when necessary,
can
Hide her face behind it, if
she chance to blush.
It has carried
caramels,
Chocolate drops,
and pretty shells,
And I’ve even seen her
use it as a brush.
But still it has one fault
In
my eyes. I’d better halt,
Had I not, and ponder well
what I shall say?
She
is darting warning glances.
Well,
under certain circumstances,
The visor’s always getting
in my way.
Theft.
The moonlight steals around
the pine;
Star-eyes steal radiance from
thine.
Low music steals upon the
ear;
Can there be theft when thou
art near?
I steel my heart for fear
of this,—
I steel my heart and steal
a kiss.
I’d steal the sacramental
wine
If it were sweet as kiss of
thine!
Before her Mirror.
I pause before her mirror
and reflect
(That’s
what the mirror does, I take it, too);
Reflect how little it has
known neglect,
And think, “O
mirror, would that I were you.”
She has no secrets that you
do not know,
You and yon crescent
box of poudre de rose.
And even these long curling
irons can show
Much evidence
of use, yet naught disclose.
Here, when she smiles, you
know it is her teeth
She’s putting
to the test ere she depart
For the gay revel on the lawn
beneath,
Or moonlight ramble
that may break a heart.
Here she may blush, until
she, red as wine,
Knows that her
triumphs have not ceased to be.
Here, when she frowns, and
looks still more divine,
You know, wise
mirror, that she thinks of me.
At Old Point Comfort.
You don’t think of dresses,
or ducats, or dukes;
You don’t care for chaperone’s
rigid rebukes;
It’s just
simply grand,
To lie there on
the sand,
Down
at the beach,—
If
a man’s within reach.
Some like the moonlight and
some like the sun,
Some flirt in earnest and
some flirt in fun;
It’s worth
all the rash,
Reckless spending
of cash,
All the dresses
you spoil,
All the tempers
you roil,
Down
at the beach,—
If
a man’s within reach.
It’s better than sleigh-rides,
cotillons, or teas,
It makes the dull Patriarch’s
knickerbocked knees
Shake in the dance,
And then one has
a chance,
If one’s
pretty and smart,
With a tongue
not too tart,
Of presenting
papaw
With a new son-in-law,
Down
at the beach,—
If
a man’s within reach.
A Drop Too Much.
I praised her hair, I praised
her lips,
She looked up
with surprise;
I bowed to kiss her finger-tips,
And then she dropped
her eyes.
I said love ruled the world;
that I
Adored her; called
her “Nan.”
She merely looked a little
shy,
And then she dropped
her fan.
I took the hint, and at her
feet
I knelt—yes,
quite absurd;
But oh, my fond heart wildly
beat
To hear her drop
a word.
I told her all: my talents
few,
My direful lack
of pelf.
(We all have erred.) She said
“Adieu,”
And then dropped
me myself.
Ingratitude.
Last night young Cupid lost
his way,
And came to me
to find it.
He’d been a truant all
the day,
But didn’t
seem to mind it.
I put him in a hansom then
For home, and
feed the cabby;
But my reward was what most
men
Would call extremely
shabby.
He got his bow and arrows
out,
And pierced my
heart, nor tarried,
But drove away ere I could
shout,
“Great Heavens,
Cupe, I’m married!”
A Few Resolutions.
(With Reservations)
He shall never know that I
love him—
Until he asks
if I do.
And I’ll feel very much
above him—
When he stoops
to tie my shoe.
And I shall never kiss him—
Until he kisses
me.
And I shall never miss him—
Till he sails
over the sea.
And I shall never wed him,
Nor call myself
his bride—
Till Cupid and I have led
him
Right up to the
minister’s side.
A Dilemma.
A letter for me,
From the girl
that I love!
Just penned by her hand
And caressed by her glove.
A jewel—a
gem—ah!
A letter from
Emma.
A letter for me,
Oh, what joy,
what surprise!
Just kissed by her lips—
At least, blest
by her eyes.
’T
is opened—ahem, ah!
A
letter from Emma.
A letter for me,
From my sweet
little bird.
Eight pages, by Jove!
And I can’t
read a word.
A
precious dilemma,
This
letter from Emma!
A Choice not Necessary.
Here is a rose,
Here is a kiss;
Which do you choose?
One rhymes with
prose;
One rhymes with
bliss.
Ah, you amuse.
You hesitate,
You blush, you
sigh.
What! are you loath?
’Tis getting
late;
Be quick—
Fool, take them both!
That Boston Girl.
Her voice is sweet,
Her style is neat;
She’d move the world
with but a pen.
Her mind is clear;
Her sight, though
near,
Is long enough to capture
men.
What matters it her learning,
then?
The Hero.
He looked so handsome, proud,
and brave,
As he stood there,
straight and tall,
With his steadfast eyes, so
gray, so grave,
The beau of the
Hunt Club ball.
Ah me, full many a white breast
sighed
For the favor
of his hand,—
For the love of a heart so
true, so tried,
For life, you
understand.
He looked a hero; he was more,
A martyr, too,
perchance;
For he went to the oldest
girl on the floor,
And led her out
to dance.
The Sweet Summer Girl.
She has hair that is fluffy,
straight, banged, or half curled;
Has a parasol, oft by her
deft fingers twirled.
She has eyes either brown
or black, gray or true blue;
Has a neat fitting glove and
a still neater shoe.
She has cheeks that make bitter
the envious rose;
She has trunks upon trunks
of the costliest clothes;
She has jewels that shine
as the stars do at night;
And she dances as Ariel dances—or
might.
She knows nothing much, but
she’s great on the smile;
Her profession is love, and
she flirts all the while;
She’s accustomed to
sitting on rocks in the glen;
She is also accustomed to
sitting on men.
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.
Certainty.
Phyllis, love may be for you,
But it is not
for me;
For fortune comes between
us two,
And says it must
not be.
Another fellow’s fortune,
too;
A million, as
I know.
You ask me how I found it
out?
Your mater told
me so.
Caught.
When Phyllis turned her eyes
on me
I blushed and
hesitated;
For though on terms familiar,
we
Were not at all
related.
I felt her mild, reproachful
glance,
And knew her words
would rankle.
To tell the truth, I had,
by chance,
Been looking at
her ankle.
An Important Distinction.
She said, without a single
sigh,
And hardly hesitation,
That she would be my sister,
aye,
Or any fond relation.
I answered cunningly, “Ah
me,
I’ve sisters
by the dozen;
Please make it in the next
degree,
For one may wed
a cousin.”
Two Kinds.
Oh, her eyes, her beautiful
eyes!
How they melt when she sobs
or she sighs!
How they droop
When
she blushes!
How they flash
When
she crushes
The love she’s compelled
to disguise!
Oh, her i’s, her beautiful
i’s!
Who can tell them apart though
he tries
From her m’s
Or
her e’s,
N’s, or
u’s
As
you please
In her letters?
I offer a prize.
What it Is.
Just a little melancholy,
Just a tear or
two,
Just a word that’s naughty,
Just a spiteful
“pooh!”
Just an extra cocktail,
Just a flower-bill
due,
Just another ring to take
Unto my friend,
the Jew.
That is what it is to be
Rejected, Miss,
by you.
In her Pew.
She looked up from her pew
(Why she did, Heaven knows);
But I smiled; wouldn’t
you?
’T was the right thing
to do;
And, pshaw, nobody knew.
Then
I tried hard to pose,
But
a look of hers froze
All my blood. And I woo
Her in future, old chappie,
when not in her pew.
The Suspicious Lover to the Star.
O silver star,
That seeth far,
Tell my poor heart what she
is doing;
And ease my pain,
Who would again
Be at her side, and still
be wooing.
Does she regret
The token set
By me upon her slender finger?
Or in the dance
Do her eyes glance
At it sometimes,—and
sometimes linger?
Be, silver star,
Particular,
And do not be afraid of hurting.
I know her well,
And truth to tell,
I fear my lady love is flirting.
A Slight Surprise.
Come, lovely Laura! strike
the lyre,
And I will sing
a song to thee
That will thy maiden heart
inspire
With love, and
love alone for me.
Why hesitate? Come, strike
the lyre!
Down where the
chord is minor D.
Of wooing thee I’ll
never tire.
Good gracious!
Why do you strike me?
Past vs. Present.
Through all the days I courted
her
My memory fondly
floats,
When love and I exhorted her
To read, re-read
my notes.
But now I love her ten times
more,
And my soul fairly
gloats
To think that my hard times
are o’er,—
For now she pays
my notes.
The Usual Way.
Three young maidens sat in
a row,
With three grim
dragons behind ’em;
And each of these maidens
had a young beau,
And they all of
’em made ’em mind ’em.
These three maidens are married
now;
In three brown-stone
fronts you’ll find ’em.
But ever since the very first
row
They can none
of ’em make ’em mind ’em.
A Difference in Style.
Sweet Phyllis sat upon a stile,
With love and
me beside her,
Her red lips in a pouting
smile.
A pout? Her
eyes belied her.
My thoughts were merry as
the day,—
And though the
joke was shocking,—
I shouted quick, and turned
away:
“A spider’s
on your stocking!”
The fun, of course, I did
not see,
But heard an exclamation
That sounded much like “Gracious
me!”
And guessed the
consternation.
Then Phyllis sat upon the
style
Of men who would
deride her;
But she no longer sits the
while
With love and
me beside her.
Afraid.
Down the broad stairs,
Stranger to cares,
My love comes tripping and
smiling and free;
The snows on her
breast
Are a blush unconfessed.
I wonder what fate has in
waiting for me?
My heart seems
to throb
Like a broken-paced
cob;
I fear I’m a coward
in love, as they say.
She’s commencing
to laugh;
How the fellows
will chaff.
By Jove, I’m not going
to ask her to-day.
Ye Retort Exasperating.
“Sweete maide,”
ye lovesicke youthe remarked,
“Thou’rt
fickle as my star!
By far ye worste I ever sparked,
You are!
You really are!
Albeit yt my brains are nil,
I’m gallante
as can be;
I’lle be to you whate’er
you wille,
If you’lle
be more to me.”
“Faire youthe,”
ye maide replied, “I do
Not barter, as
a rule,
But I’lle be sister
untoe you,—
Be you my Aprille
foole.”
A Rhyming Reverie.
It was a dainty lady’s
glove;
A souvenir to rhyme with love.
It was the memory of a kiss,
So called to make it rhyme
with bliss.
There was a month at Mt.
Desert,
Synonymous and rhymes with
flirt.
A pretty girl and lots of
style,
Which rhymes with happy for
a while.
There came a rival old and
bold,
To make him rhyme with gold
and sold.
A broken heart there had to
be.
Alas, the rhyme just fitted
me.
A Sure Winner.
Oh, treat me not with cold
disdain,
My pretty maids
of fashion;
Look upon the hearts you’ve
slain,
And listen to
my passion.
Though I am not so peerly
proud
As men of higher
station,
So handsome that the madding
crowd
Collects in admiration;
And have, perhaps, too great
a store
Of sandy hair
and freckles,
I’ve mortgages and bonds
galore,
And muchly many
shekels.
You yet may journey league
or mile
To wed, as you’re
aware.
Come, cease your longing for
mere style,
And take
A. MILLIONNAIRE.
Tantalization.
She stands beneath the mistletoe
As though she
did not know it.
She looks quite unconcerned,
you know,
And pretty, yes,—but,
blow it,
I have to turn and walk away;
I’ll have
revenge anon.
She knows quite well, alack
the day,
That my wife is
looking on.
His Usual Fate.
All one season
Lost to reason,
Breathing sea air
By the beach, where
Young hearts mingle,
Love was playful
All the day full.
We were single.
Now with mournful
Looks and scornful
Turns he too us;
He is through us,
Worried, harried.
Love is sighing;
Love is dying.
We are married.
On Two Letters from Her.
I wrote her a letter.
It took her quite two
To answer it after
she’d read it.
My letter contained what perhaps
even you
Have written,—at
least, you have said it.
My letter contained the old
tale of a heart
That longed to
be linked to another;
And I told her to think on
each separate part,
And ask the advice
of her mother.
She apparently did, for the
very next mail
Brought me a message
of woe.
It took her two letters; they
made me turn pale;
For they were
the letters “N” “O”.
A Serenade—en Deux Langues.
Sous le maple, mort de night,
Avec le lune beams
shining through,
Ecoutez-moi, mon hapless plight.
Je vous aime—qui
lovez-vous?
Je plink les strings de mon
guitar.
Il fait bien froid;
J’am nervous, too.
Dites-moi, dites-moi ce que
vous are?
Je vous aime;
qui lovez-vous?
Tu es si belle, je veux vous
wed.
Mon pere est riche—comme
riche est you?
Bonne nuit, adieu; J’ai
cold in head.
Je vous aime—qui
lovez-vous.
When a Girl says “No.”
When a girl says
“Yes,”
There’s
a quick caress,
A kiss, a sigh,
A melting eye.
There’s
a vision of things
That hard cash
brings,—
A winter at Nice
With a servant
apiece,
A long yachting
cruise,
Name in “personal
news,”
Plenty of wine,
Two hours to dine;
But it’s different quite
when a girl says “No.”
When a girl says “No,”
It’s so
different, oh!
No kiss, ten sighs,
Two tear-dimmed
eyes.
There’s
a vision of things
That poverty brings,—
A winter complete
On Uneasy Street,
A temptation to
rob,
A twelve-dollar
job,
A boarding-house
meal,
And you pray a
new deal;
For it’s different quite
when a girl says “No.”
Uncertainty.
Jenny has a laughing eye,
Yet she is most wondrous shy.
But
why?
Jenny says she hates the men;
Still she’ll marry.
Artful Jen!
But
when?
I’ve a rival who is
rich;
With one of us sweet Jen will
hitch.
But
which?
Her Peculiarities.
The Question of the Learned Man.
How doth the little blushing
maid
Employ each shining
hour?
Doth she, in sober thought
arrayed,
Learn knowledge
that is power?
Say, doth she mend her father’s
socks,
And cook his evening
meal?
And doth she make her own
sweet frocks
With adolescent
zeal?
The Reply of the Observant Youth.
Not much; not much. She
knows it all;
She doth not need
to learn.
She thinks of naught but rout
or ball,
And which youth
will be her’n.
She hustles for a diamond
ring;
She cares not
for her dad.
She does not make him anything,—
Except, she makes
him mad.
Tying the Strings of her Shoe.
Tying the strings of her shoe,
With only the
moon to see me.
Could I be quick? Could
you?
That is the time to woo
What would any one do?
I tied no knot
that would free me,
Tying the strings of her shoe,
With only the
moon to see me.
When You are Rejected.
Don’t say
“Good day,”
Then grab the door and slam
it.
Be quite
Polite;
Go out, and then say, “——
it.”
A Bachelor’s Views.
A
pipe, a book,
A
cosy nook,
A fire,—at least
its embers;
A
dog, a glass;—
’T
is thus we pass
Such hours as one remembers.
Who’d
wish to wed?
Poor
Cupid’s dead
These thousand
years, I wager.
The
modern maid
Is
but a jade,
Not worth the time to cage
her.
In
silken gown
To
“take” the town
Her first and last ambition.
What
good is she
To
you or me
Who have but a “position”?
So let us drink
To her,—but
think
Of him who has to keep her;
And sans
a wife
Let’s spend
our life
In bachelordom,—it’s
cheaper.
My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite,
My little sweet,
Why do you cry?
Why this small tear,
So pure and clear,
In each blue eye?
’My cigarette—
I’m smoking yet?’
(I’ll be
discreet.)
I toss it, see,
Away from me
Into the street.
You see I do
All things for you.
Come, let us sup.
(But oh, what joy
To be that boy
Who picked it
up.)
Discovered.
AN EPISODE ON BEACON HILL.
You are frowning;
I don’t
wonder.
Reading Browning;
Hard as thunder!
Oh, excuse me;
You adore it?
You amuse me;
I abhor it.
Let me see it.
Who has taught
you?
Now to me it—
Ah, I’ve
caught you.
It must be hard so
(Hence the frown?)
To read the bard so—
Upside down.
The Ice in the Punch.
The wail of the ’cello
is soft, sweet, and low;
There are strains of romance
in the thrumming banjo.
The violin’s note—feel
it float in your ear;
And the harp makes one fancy
that angels are near.
The voice of a young girl
can reach to the heart;
The song of the baritone—well,
it is art.
The flute and the lute in
gavotte—the guitar
In soft serenade—how
entrancing they are!
But to all the
mad millions
Who dance at cotillons
There’s naught like
the clink and the clank and the crunch
Of the ice in
the punch.
So here’s to the recipe,
ancient in Spain,
And here’s to the basket
of cobwebbed champagne.
Again to the genius who grows
the sharp spice,
But ten times to King Winter
who furnishes ice;
For to all the
mad millions
Who dance at cotillons
There’s naught like
the clink and the clank and the crunch
Of the ice in
the punch.
The Tale of a Broken Heart.
She was a
Beautiful,
Dutiful,
Grand,
And rollicking queen of Bohemia,
With a cheek that was
Rosier,
Cosier,
And
As soft as a lily, and creamier.
She was always com-
pelling me,
Selling me,
I
Was her slave, but she treated me shamefully.
She went on the
Stage, was a
Rage, as a—
Why—
As a page, and they spoke of her blamefully.
And then in the
Papers her
Capers were
Writ.
I love her no longer,—I
swear it;
But I oft spend a
Dollar and
Holler and
Sit
Through her antics. Oh, how can I bear it?
Where did you get it?
Pray, ladies, ye of wondrous clothes,
That draw admiring “ahs!” and “ohs!”
And “By Joves!” as men chat,
Permit me,—love the right bestows,—
Where did you get that hat?
The very hat, sweet maids,
I mean,
So often now on Broadway seen,
That is so very
flat;
Black as a rule, but sometimes
green.
Where did you
get that hat?
In shape an oyster-dish,—the
crown,—
A ribbon bristles up and down,
Quite striking—yes,
all that;
The sweetest, neatest thing
in town!
Where did
you get that hat?
“No!” The word
Fell upon my ears
Like the knell of a funeral
bell.
I had fondly expected
A whispered “yes”
that
Would steal into my soul
Like the song of an angel
From some distant Aidenn.
I arose and brushed off
The knees of my trousers.
“Farewell,” I
said; “you have ruined my life.”
“Nonsense,” she
replied in the cold, cutting voice
Of a woman who has been used
to $100 bills
And a coupe;
“There have been thirty-seven
before you, and they
Are all married and happy
now.
You see I know all about young
men.”
“I do not think a young,
timid girl
Should ‘No’ so
much,” I answered. And going out
(Carefully escorted by the
butler, for there was
A better overcoat than mine
in the hall),
I left her alone and unloved,—with
no one to care for her
Save a couple of dozen servants
And a doting father and mother.
A Midsummer Night’s Tempest.
AN EPILOGUE TO HAMLET, PERFORMED BY AMATEURS.
SCENE: Elsinore—a platform before the castle (on an improvised stage). Inky darkness. Shade of Hamlet (solus).
Shade of Hamlet: Oh, did you see him, did you see the knave, The spindle-shanked, low-browed, and cock-eyed Clerk to an attorney, play at Hamlet, Dream-souled Hamlet, wearing an eyeglass? Oh, it was horrible.
(Enter Shade of Laertes.)
Shade of Laertes: What’s the matter with Hamlet?
S. of H.: He’s not all right. No, by the fame of Shakespeare, he’s all wrong. A certain convocation of talented amateurs Are e’en at him. Your amateur is your only emperor for talent; There’s not a genius in the universe Who will essay as much.
S. of L.: Or, who will imitate nature so abominably. Your head is level, Ham., and I—even I, Laertes, suffered at the hands of one Whose fiery hair, parted in the middle Like a cranberry pie, caused me to believe That some of nature’s journeymen had made a man, And not made him well, he imitated nature So abominably.
S. of H.: Ha’ the fair Ophelia!
(Enter Shade of Ophelia.)
S. of O.: Yes, my lord, thine own Ophelia, Come back to earth with heaviness o’ grief Thy madness ne’er begot, for I have seen The efforts of a lisping, smirking maid, As graceful as a bean-pole, and as lean. Attempt to paint the sorrow of my heart. Oh, I would get me to a nunnery.
S of H.:
Let me Ophelyour pulse.
Mad—quite mad;
and all because
A creature whom these mortals
call a Miss,
Quite properly, as her efforts
are amiss,
Would fain portray thee.
Soft you, now!
O fair Ophelia. Nymph
in thine orisons
Be
all her sins remembered.
Why let the stricken deer
go weep,
The untrained
amateur play?
All those that watch must
surely weep.
So wise men stay
away.
(Flickering blue lights and curtain.)
The Abused Gallant.
Two lovely maidens (woe is
me!)
Play tennis with
my heart;
And each is wondrous fair
to see,
And each is wondrous
smart.
In learning, money, beauty,
birth,
None can surpass
them—none.
But each receives my “court”
with mirth,
And tells the
other one.
My “court”!
The term is fitly used—
A tennis court,
you see.
And I know well I am abused,
By the “racket”
they give me.
Maud strikes my heart a brutal
blow,
And Mabel cries
out, “Fault!”
And back and forth I undergo
A feminine assault.
Maud asks my age. Alas!
I hear
Sweet Mabel say,
“The goose
Is very nearly forty, dear.”
Maud answers,
“Oh, ’the deuce’!”
And so my poor heart with
their wit
Is volleyed oft
and oft,
Till Mabel cries, while holding
it,
“This heart
is far too soft.”
And firing it into the net,
She says, with
girlish vim,
“Although he isn’t
in our ‘set,’
We’re making
‘game’ of him.”
And making game they are,
I swear
By all the saints
above,
With all the terms of tennis
there
Save but the sweetest,
“love.”
After the Ball.
A last word in the vestibule,
A touch of taper
fingers,
A scent of roses, sweet and
cool,
When she has gone
still lingers.
He pauses at the carriage
door
To sigh a bit
and ponder
He thinks the matter o’er
and o’er,
And all his senses
wander.
With mantle thrown aside in
haste,
Her heart a bit
uncertain,
And neither time nor love
to waste,
She watches through
the curtain.
And she has played him well,
he knows
Nor has he dared
to stop her.
She wonders when he will propose;
He wonders how
he’ll drop her.
Vanity Fair.
Oh,
whence, oh, where
Is
Vanity Fair?
I want to be seen with the
somebodies there.
I’ve money and beauty
and college-bred brains;
Though my ’scutcheon’s
not spotless, who’ll mind a few stains?
To caper I wish in the chorus
of style,
And wed an aristocrat after
a while
So please tell
me truly, and please tell me fair,
Just how many miles it’s
from Madison Square.
It’s
here, it’s there,
Is
Vanity Fair.
It’s not
like a labyrinth, not like a lair.
It’s North and it’s
South, and it’s East and it’s West;
You can see it, oh, anywhere,
quite at its best.
Dame Fashion is queen, Ready
Money is king,
You can join it, provided
you don’t know a thing.
It’s miles
over here, and it’s miles over there;
And it’s
not seven inches from Madison Square.
For the Long Voyage.
“Were I a captain bold,”
I said,
And gently clasped
her hand,
“Wouldst sail with me,
by fancy led,
To every foreign
strand?
“Wouldst help me furl
my silver sail,
And be my trusty
crew?
Wouldst stand by in the midnight
gale,
My pilot tried
and true?”
“Well, no,” she
answered, blushing red,
“Such heavy
work I hate.
But,”—listen
what the maiden said,—
“I would
be your first mate.”
This is the end.
The printing was done by John Wilson & Son, Cambridge for Fredrick A. Stokes Company New York MDCCCICVIII