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 hairAnd 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 clothesThan 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 petsMiss Markham and Lydia Thompson.He and his comrades can drink champagneLike so many juvenile Comuses;If you want to insult him, just talk of boys' play,—Why, even on billiards he's almostblasé,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 laceDecking a figure of corsetted grace;Her words are minced, and her spoiled young faceWears 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"Ofsuchis the kingdom of heaven?"
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 hairAnd 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 clothesThan 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 petsMiss Markham and Lydia Thompson.
He and his comrades can drink champagneLike so many juvenile Comuses;If you want to insult him, just talk of boys' play,—Why, even on billiards he's almostblasé,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 laceDecking a figure of corsetted grace;Her words are minced, and her spoiled young faceWears 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"Ofsuchis the kingdom of heaven?"
Through the windows on the parkFloat 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 NightGarlanded 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 liesHalf in slumber, half awake.Lay thy warm, white hand in mineLet the fingers clasp and twine,While my eager, panting heartBeats '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 thingsGreasy with the tallow drips;Wet and torn, with rusty wire,Blackened by the dying fire;Withered flowers, trampled deepIn the mire.Chinese lanterns, Bernstein's band,Belladonna, lily white,These made up the fairy-landWhere I wandered all last night;Ruled in all its rosy glowBy a merry Queen, you knowJolly, dancing, laughing, witching,Veuve Cliquot.
Through the windows on the parkFloat 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 NightGarlanded 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 liesHalf in slumber, half awake.Lay thy warm, white hand in mineLet the fingers clasp and twine,While my eager, panting heartBeats '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 thingsGreasy with the tallow drips;Wet and torn, with rusty wire,Blackened by the dying fire;Withered flowers, trampled deepIn the mire.
Chinese lanterns, Bernstein's band,Belladonna, lily white,These made up the fairy-landWhere I wandered all last night;Ruled in all its rosy glowBy a merry Queen, you knowJolly, dancing, laughing, witching,Veuve Cliquot.
"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 doWith but little labor,For with all my heart and soulI do love my neighbor.Mighty little credit, that,To my self-denial;Not to love her, though, might beSomething of a trial,Why, the rosy light, that peepsThrough the glass above her,Lingers round her lips:—you seeE'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 breathOf the Spring, that passesThrough the fragrant, budding woods,O'er the meadow-grasses.And I've preached the word I know,For it was my dutyTo convert the stubborn heartOf the little beauty.Once again success has crownedMissionary labor,For her sweet eyes own that sheAlso loves her neighbor.
"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 doWith but little labor,For with all my heart and soulI do love my neighbor.
Mighty little credit, that,To my self-denial;Not to love her, though, might beSomething of a trial,Why, the rosy light, that peepsThrough the glass above her,Lingers round her lips:—you seeE'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 breathOf the Spring, that passesThrough the fragrant, budding woods,O'er the meadow-grasses.
And I've preached the word I know,For it was my dutyTo convert the stubborn heartOf the little beauty.Once again success has crownedMissionary labor,For her sweet eyes own that sheAlso loves her neighbor.
"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 wayAt 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 meetsKiss 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 lovedLike you read about in books—Mingling souls, and tender eyes—Love, and that, in all their looks;Thoughts of you, and no one else;Voice that has a tender ring,Sacrifices made, and—well—You know—all that sort of thing.That's all worn-out talk, they say,Don't see any of it now—Spooning on yourfiancéeIsn't good style, anyhow.Just suppose that one of us,—Nell and me, you know—some dayGot like that on some one else—Might be rather awkward—eh!All in earnest, like the books—Wouldn't it be awful rough!Jove! if I—but pshaw, what bosh!Nell and I are safe enough.—Some time in the Spring, I think;Be on hand to wish us joy?Be a groomsman, if you like—Lots of wine—good-bye, old boy."
"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 wayAt 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 meetsKiss 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 lovedLike you read about in books—Mingling souls, and tender eyes—Love, and that, in all their looks;Thoughts of you, and no one else;Voice that has a tender ring,Sacrifices made, and—well—You know—all that sort of thing.That's all worn-out talk, they say,Don't see any of it now—Spooning on yourfiancéeIsn't good style, anyhow.Just suppose that one of us,—Nell and me, you know—some dayGot like that on some one else—Might be rather awkward—eh!All in earnest, like the books—Wouldn't it be awful rough!Jove! if I—but pshaw, what bosh!Nell and I are safe enough.—Some time in the Spring, I think;Be on hand to wish us joy?Be a groomsman, if you like—Lots of wine—good-bye, old boy."
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 itWhen 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 meWithout mussing up all my hair!Your arm, Charley, there goes the organ—Who'd think there would be such a crowd!Oh, I mustn't look round, I'd forgotten,See, Charley, who was it that bowed?Why—it's Nellie Allaire, with her husband—She's awfully jealous, I know,Most all of my things were imported,And she had a home-madetrousseau.And there's Annie Wheeler—Kate Hermon—I didn't expect her at all—If she's not in that same old blue satinShe wore at the Charity Ball!Is that Fanny Wade?—Edith Pommeton—And Emma, and Jo—all the girls!I knew they'd not miss my wedding—I hope they'll all notice my pearls.Is the carriage there?—give me my cloak, Jane,Don't get it all over my veil—No! you take the other seat, Charley—I need all of this for my trail.
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 itWhen 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 meWithout mussing up all my hair!Your arm, Charley, there goes the organ—Who'd think there would be such a crowd!Oh, I mustn't look round, I'd forgotten,See, Charley, who was it that bowed?Why—it's Nellie Allaire, with her husband—She's awfully jealous, I know,Most all of my things were imported,And she had a home-madetrousseau.And there's Annie Wheeler—Kate Hermon—I didn't expect her at all—If she's not in that same old blue satinShe wore at the Charity Ball!Is that Fanny Wade?—Edith Pommeton—And Emma, and Jo—all the girls!I knew they'd not miss my wedding—I hope they'll all notice my pearls.Is the carriage there?—give me my cloak, Jane,Don't get it all over my veil—No! you take the other seat, Charley—I need all of this for my trail.
"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!'Paradingyourshame'!—I don't see it.It'shersnow, alone; for at lastYou drove her to give you good reason,Divorced her, and so it's all passed.Foryou, 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—Youstartedwrong, Charley Leclear.You weren't in love when you married—'Nor she!'—well, I know, but she triedTo keep it dark. You wouldn't let her,But laughed at her for it. Her prideWouldn't stand that, you know. Did you everSee a spirited girl in your life,Who would patiently pose to be pitiedAs a 'patient Griselda'-like wifeWhen her husband neglects her so plainlyAs you did?—although, on the whole,When the wife is the culprit, I've noticedIt's rather the favorite rôle.So she flirted a little—in public—She'd chances enough and to spare,Ah,thenif you'd only turned jealous—But you didn't notice nor care.Then her sickness came—even we fellowsAll 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 haveleftyou. She didn't,But told all her woes to Jack Guelph.When a girl's lost all love for her husband,And is cursed with a masculine friendTo confide in, and he is a blackguard,She isn't far off from the end.Oh, I'm through—ofcoursenobody blamed youIn the end, when you got your divorce—You were right enough there—she'd levantedWith Guelph, and you'd no other course.What I mean is, if you'd acted squarely,The row would have never occurred,And foryouto be doing the tragic,Strikes me as a little absurd.As it stands, you've the best of the bargain,And she's got a good deal the worst,Leave it there, and—just touch the bell, will you?You're nearest, I'm dying of thirst."
"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!'Paradingyourshame'!—I don't see it.It'shersnow, alone; for at lastYou drove her to give you good reason,Divorced her, and so it's all passed.Foryou, 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—Youstartedwrong, Charley Leclear.You weren't in love when you married—'Nor she!'—well, I know, but she triedTo keep it dark. You wouldn't let her,But laughed at her for it. Her prideWouldn't stand that, you know. Did you everSee a spirited girl in your life,Who would patiently pose to be pitiedAs a 'patient Griselda'-like wifeWhen her husband neglects her so plainlyAs you did?—although, on the whole,When the wife is the culprit, I've noticedIt's rather the favorite rôle.So she flirted a little—in public—She'd chances enough and to spare,Ah,thenif you'd only turned jealous—But you didn't notice nor care.Then her sickness came—even we fellowsAll 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 haveleftyou. She didn't,But told all her woes to Jack Guelph.When a girl's lost all love for her husband,And is cursed with a masculine friendTo confide in, and he is a blackguard,She isn't far off from the end.Oh, I'm through—ofcoursenobody blamed youIn the end, when you got your divorce—You were right enough there—she'd levantedWith Guelph, and you'd no other course.What I mean is, if you'd acted squarely,The row would have never occurred,And foryouto be doing the tragic,Strikes me as a little absurd.As it stands, you've the best of the bargain,And she's got a good deal the worst,Leave it there, and—just touch the bell, will you?You're nearest, I'm dying of thirst."
"'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, lookingsopleading—I cut him, of course. Wouldn't you?If I meet him alone, I'll explain it;But knowingher, what could I do?Poor fellow! He looks sadly altered—I think it a sin, and a shame,The way he was wrecked by thatcreature!Iknowhe was never to blame.He never suspected. He liked her—He'd known her for most of his life—And of course, itwasquite a temptationTo run off with another man's wife.At his age, you know—barely thirty—So romantic, and makes such a noiseIn one's club—why, onecan'tbut excuse him,Nowcanone, dear? Boys will be boys.I've known him so long—why, he'd come hereAnd talk to me just like a son.It's my duty—I feel as a mother—To save him; the thing can be doneVery easily. First, I must show himHow grossly the woman deceivedAnd entrapped him.—It made such a scandalYou know, that hecan'tbe receivedAt all, any more, till he drops her—He'll certainly not be so madAs to hold to her still. Oh, I know himSo well—I'm quite sure he'll be gladOnanyexcuse, to oblige meIn a matter so trifling indeed.Then the way will be clear.We'llreceive him,And the rest will soon follow our lead.We must keep our eyes on him more closelyHereafter; young men of his wealthAnd position are so sorely temptedTo waste time, and fortune, and healthIn frivolous pleasures and pastimes,That there's but one safe-guard in lifeFor them and their money—we've seen it—A really nice girl for a wife.Too bad you've no daughter! My MamieHad influence with him for goodBefore this affair—when he comes hereShe'll meet him, I'm sure, as she should—That is, as if nothing had happened—And greet him with sisterly joy;Between us I know we cansavehim.I'll write him to-morrow, poor boy."
"'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, lookingsopleading—I cut him, of course. Wouldn't you?If I meet him alone, I'll explain it;But knowingher, what could I do?Poor fellow! He looks sadly altered—I think it a sin, and a shame,The way he was wrecked by thatcreature!Iknowhe was never to blame.He never suspected. He liked her—He'd known her for most of his life—And of course, itwasquite a temptationTo run off with another man's wife.At his age, you know—barely thirty—So romantic, and makes such a noiseIn one's club—why, onecan'tbut excuse him,Nowcanone, dear? Boys will be boys.I've known him so long—why, he'd come hereAnd talk to me just like a son.It's my duty—I feel as a mother—To save him; the thing can be doneVery easily. First, I must show himHow grossly the woman deceivedAnd entrapped him.—It made such a scandalYou know, that hecan'tbe receivedAt all, any more, till he drops her—He'll certainly not be so madAs to hold to her still. Oh, I know himSo well—I'm quite sure he'll be gladOnanyexcuse, to oblige meIn a matter so trifling indeed.Then the way will be clear.We'llreceive him,And the rest will soon follow our lead.We must keep our eyes on him more closelyHereafter; young men of his wealthAnd position are so sorely temptedTo waste time, and fortune, and healthIn frivolous pleasures and pastimes,That there's but one safe-guard in lifeFor them and their money—we've seen it—A really nice girl for a wife.Too bad you've no daughter! My MamieHad influence with him for goodBefore this affair—when he comes hereShe'll meet him, I'm sure, as she should—That is, as if nothing had happened—And greet him with sisterly joy;Between us I know we cansavehim.I'll write him to-morrow, poor boy."
The Spring has grown to Summer;The sun is fierce and high;The city shrinks, and withersBeneath 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 ovensWe sit without our coats;Our cuffs are moist and shapeless,No collars binds our throats.We carry huge umbrellasOn Broad Street and on Wall,Oh, how thermometers go up!And, oh, how stocksdofall!The nights are full of music,Melodious Teuton troopsBeguile 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 withAre far away, alas!The feet that kissed its pavementAre 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-roomsThey dance the hours away.Their voices through the quietOf 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 ruinOn other men look down;We're but the broken play-thingsThey've left behind in town.Oh, happy Gran'dame Nature,Whose wandering children comeTo light with happy facesThe dear old mother-home,Be tender with our darlings,Each merry maiden bearsSuch love and longing with her—Men's lives are wrapped in theirs.
The Spring has grown to Summer;The sun is fierce and high;The city shrinks, and withersBeneath 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 ovensWe sit without our coats;Our cuffs are moist and shapeless,No collars binds our throats.We carry huge umbrellasOn Broad Street and on Wall,Oh, how thermometers go up!And, oh, how stocksdofall!
The nights are full of music,Melodious Teuton troopsBeguile 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 withAre far away, alas!The feet that kissed its pavementAre 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-roomsThey dance the hours away.Their voices through the quietOf 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 ruinOn other men look down;We're but the broken play-thingsThey've left behind in town.
Oh, happy Gran'dame Nature,Whose wandering children comeTo light with happy facesThe dear old mother-home,Be tender with our darlings,Each merry maiden bearsSuch love and longing with her—Men's lives are wrapped in theirs.
"THE FEET THAT KISSED ITS PAVEMENT ARE DEEP IN COUNTRY GRASS."—Page 59."THE FEET THAT KISSED ITS PAVEMENTARE DEEP IN COUNTRY GRASS."—Page 59.
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 SummerAre 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 moreMade 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 groundSighs many a hapless cadet,Who's basked through the long days of SummerIn the smiles of a city coquette;And now the incipient heroBeholds 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 fillsThe souls of unfortunate fathersWho 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 knowThey'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.
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 SummerAre 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 moreMade 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 groundSighs many a hapless cadet,Who's basked through the long days of SummerIn the smiles of a city coquette;And now the incipient heroBeholds 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 fillsThe souls of unfortunate fathersWho 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 knowThey'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.
"AND THE BEAUTIES WE'VE SIGHED FOR ALL SUMMER ARE HURRYING BACK TO TOWN."—Page 62."AND THE BEAUTIES WE'VE SIGHED FOR ALL SUMMERARE HURRYING BACK TO TOWN."—Page 62.
"Sign the petition!" "Write my name!""She said, ask me!"—oh, she's fooling;Where do you think a girl like meCould 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 seeIt 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,Where it stood, and nodded all aloneLike a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy."Fond of flowers!" I like them—yes—Though, goodness knows, I don't see many—I'd have to buy them—they cost so much—And I never can spare a single penny."Go to the park!"—how can I, sir?The only day that I have is Sunday;And then there's always so much to doThat before I know it, almost, it's Monday.Like it sir, like it!—why, when I thinkOf the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking—I was country-bred, sir—my heart swells soThat I—there, there, what's the use of thinking!If I could write, sir—"make a cross,And let you write my name below it"—No, please; I'm ashamed I can't, sometimes,—I don't want all the girls to know it.And what's the use of it, anyway?They'll just say shortly, with careless faces,"If you're not suited, you'd better leave"—There's plenty of girls to fill our places.They're kind enough to their own, no doubt—Our head just worships his own young daughter,Just my age, sir—she's gone awayTo spend the Summer across the water.Butus—oh, well, we're only "hands,"Do you think to please us they'll bear losses?No, not a cent's worth—ah, you'll see—I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
"Sign the petition!" "Write my name!""She said, ask me!"—oh, she's fooling;Where do you think a girl like meCould 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 seeIt 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,Where it stood, and nodded all aloneLike a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy."Fond of flowers!" I like them—yes—Though, goodness knows, I don't see many—I'd have to buy them—they cost so much—And I never can spare a single penny."Go to the park!"—how can I, sir?The only day that I have is Sunday;And then there's always so much to doThat before I know it, almost, it's Monday.Like it sir, like it!—why, when I thinkOf the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking—I was country-bred, sir—my heart swells soThat I—there, there, what's the use of thinking!If I could write, sir—"make a cross,And let you write my name below it"—No, please; I'm ashamed I can't, sometimes,—I don't want all the girls to know it.And what's the use of it, anyway?They'll just say shortly, with careless faces,"If you're not suited, you'd better leave"—There's plenty of girls to fill our places.They're kind enough to their own, no doubt—Our head just worships his own young daughter,Just my age, sir—she's gone awayTo spend the Summer across the water.Butus—oh, well, we're only "hands,"Do you think to please us they'll bear losses?No, not a cent's worth—ah, you'll see—I'm a working girl, sir, and I know bosses.
You remember the nursery legend—We heard in the early days,Ere we knew of the world's deceptionOr walked in its dusty ways,And dwelt in a land of the fairiesWhere the air was golden haze—Of the maid, o'er whom the SummersOf youth passed, like a swellOf melody all unbroken,Till evil wrought its spell,And dream-embroidered curtainsOf slumber round her fell.The wood grew up round her castle,The centuries o'er it rolled,Wrapping its slumb'rous turretsIn clinging robes of mould,And her name became a legendBy Winter fire-sides told.Till the Prince came over the mountainsIn the morning-glow of youth;The forest sank before himLike 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 pleasureThat poured through each stony vein.And so love conquered an evilCenturies old in might,Scattering drowsy glamour,Piercing the murky night,Leading from thrall and darknessBeauty, and joy, and light.
You remember the nursery legend—We heard in the early days,Ere we knew of the world's deceptionOr walked in its dusty ways,And dwelt in a land of the fairiesWhere the air was golden haze—
Of the maid, o'er whom the SummersOf youth passed, like a swellOf melody all unbroken,Till evil wrought its spell,And dream-embroidered curtainsOf slumber round her fell.
The wood grew up round her castle,The centuries o'er it rolled,Wrapping its slumb'rous turretsIn clinging robes of mould,And her name became a legendBy Winter fire-sides told.
Till the Prince came over the mountainsIn the morning-glow of youth;The forest sank before himLike 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 pleasureThat poured through each stony vein.
And so love conquered an evilCenturies old in might,Scattering drowsy glamour,Piercing the murky night,Leading from thrall and darknessBeauty, and joy, and light.
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 sinFor 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 proudOf that bonnet, if Virot did make it,It's horrid fast-looking and loud.What a dress!—for a girl in her sensesTo 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 wonderWho 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 knowThat 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 dreadfulAfter all, for we don't dine till one;How can people say church is poky!—So wicked!—I think it's real fun.
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 sinFor 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 proudOf that bonnet, if Virot did make it,It's horrid fast-looking and loud.What a dress!—for a girl in her sensesTo 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 wonderWho 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 knowThat 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 dreadfulAfter all, for we don't dine till one;How can people say church is poky!—So wicked!—I think it's real fun.
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 MaudSomething for a valentine.So I ground some verses outIn 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 goodJust to waste that way on one.Jack, I told you, didn't I,All about that black-eyed girlUp in Stratford—last July—Oh! you know; you saw her curl?Well, old fellow, she's the oneThat this row is all about,For I sent her—who'd have thoughtMaud 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 supposeThat 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 downOn 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.
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 MaudSomething for a valentine.So I ground some verses outIn 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 goodJust to waste that way on one.Jack, I told you, didn't I,All about that black-eyed girlUp in Stratford—last July—Oh! you know; you saw her curl?Well, old fellow, she's the oneThat this row is all about,For I sent her—who'd have thoughtMaud 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 supposeThat 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 downOn 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.