All day she hurried to get through,The same as lots of wimmin do;Sometimes at night her husban' said,"Ma, ain't you goin' to come to bed?"And then she'd kinder give a hitch,And pause half way between a stitch,And sorter sigh, and say that sheWas ready as she'd ever be,She reckoned.And so the years went one by one,An' somehow she was never done;An' when the angel said, as how"Mis' Smith, it's time you rested now,"She sorter raised her eyes to lookA second, as a stitch she took;"All right, I'm comin' now," says she,"I'm ready as I'll ever be,I reckon."
Albert Bigelow Paine.
"I love you, my lord!"Was all that she said—What a dissonant chord,"I love you, my lord!"Ah! how I abhorredThat sarcastic maid!—"Ilove you? MyLord!"Was all that she said.
Paul T. Gilbert.
'Twas April when she came to town;The birds had come; the bees were swarming.Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown;I saw at once that she was charming.She took a cottage tinted green,Where dewy roses loved to mingle;And on the door, next day, was seenA dainty little shingle.Her hair was like an amber wreath;Her hat was darker, to enhance it.The violet eyes that glowed beneathWere brighter than her keenest lancet,The beauties of her glove and gownThe sweetest rhyme would fail to utter.Ere she had been a day in townThe town was in a flutter.The gallants viewed her feet and hands,And swore they never saw such wee things;The gossips met in purring bands,And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-things.The former drank the Doctor's healthWith clinking cups, the gay carousers;The latter watched her door by stealth,Just like so many mousers.But Doctor Bessie went her way,Unmindful of the spiteful cronies,And drove her buggy every dayBehind a dashing pair of ponies.Her flower-like face so bright she boreI hoped that time might never wilt her.The way she tripped across the floorWas better than a philter.Her patients thronged the village street;Her snowy slate was always quite full.Some said her bitters tasted sweet,And some pronounced her pills delightful.'Twas strange—I knew not what it meant—She seemed a nymph from Eldorado;Where'er she came, where'er she went,Grief lost its gloomy shadow.Like all the rest I, too, grew ill;My aching heart there was no quelling.I tremble at my doctor's bill—And lo! the items still are swelling.The drugs I've drunk you'd weep to hear!They've quite enriched the fair concocter,And I'm a ruined man, I fear,Unless—I wed the Doctor!
Samuel Minturn Peck.
Its eyes are gray;Its hair is either brownOr black;And, strange to say,Its dresses button downThe back!It wears a plumeThat loves to frisk aroundMy ear.It crowds the roomWith cushions in a moundAnd queerOld rugs and lampsIn corners à la TurqueAnd things.It steals my stamps,And when I want to workIt sings!It rides and skates—But then it comes and fillsMy wallsWith plaques and platesAnd keeps me paying billsAnd calls.It's firm; and ifI should my many woesDeplore,'Twould only sniffAnd perk its little noseSome more.It's bright, though small;Its name, you may have guessed,Is "Wife."But, after all,It gives a wondrous zestTo life!
Arthur Guiterman.
Since for kissing thee, Minguillo,Mother's ever scolding me,Give me swiftly back, thou dear one,Give the kiss I gave to thee.Give me back the kiss—that one, now;Let my mother scold no more;Let us tell her all is o'er:What was done is all undone now.Yes, it will be wise, Minguillo,My fond kiss to give to me;Give me swiftly back, thou dear one,Give the kiss I gave to thee.Give me back the kiss, for motherIs impatient—prithee, do!For that one thou shalt have two:Give me that, and take another.Yes, then will they be contented,Then can't they complain of me;Give me swiftly back, thou dear one,Give the kiss I gave to thee.
Unknown.
One stormy morn I chanced to meetA lassie in the town;Her locks were like the ripened wheat,Her laughing eyes were brown.I watched her as she tripped alongTill madness filled my brain,And then—and then—I know 'twas wrong—I kissed her in the rain!With rain-drops shining on her cheek,Like dew-drops on a rose,The little lassie strove to speakMy boldness to oppose;She strove in vain, and quiveringHer fingers stole in mine;And then the birds began to sing,The sun began to shine.Oh, let the clouds grow dark above,My heart is light below;'Tis always summer when we love,However winds may blow;And I'm as proud as any prince,All honors I disdain:She says I am herrain beausinceI kissed her in the rain.
Samuel Minturn Peck.
Tying her bonnet under her chin,She tied her raven ringlets in;But, not alone in the silken snareDid she catch her lovely floating hair,For, tying her bonnet under her chin,She tied a young man's heart within.They were strolling together up the hill,Where the wind comes blowing merry and chill;And it blew the curls, a frolicsome race,All over the happy peach-coloured face,Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in,Under her beautiful dimpled chin.And it blew a colour bright as the bloomOf the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume,All over the cheeks of the prettiest girlThat ever imprisoned a romping curl,Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin,Tied a young man's heart within.Steeper and steeper grew the hill—Madder, merrier, chillier still—The western wind blew down and playedThe wildest tricks with the little maid,As, tying her bonnet under her chin,She tied a young man's heart within.Oh, western wind, do you think it was fairTo play such tricks with her floating hair?—To gladly, gleefully do your bestTo blow her against the young man's breast,Where he as gladly folded her in,And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin?Oh, Ellery Vane! you little thoughtAn hour ago, when you besoughtThis country lass to walk with you,After the sun had dried the dew,What perilous danger you'd be inAs she tied her bonnet under her chin.
Nora Perry.
Over the way, over the way,I've seen a head that's fair and gray;I've seen kind eyes not new to tears,A form of grace, though full of years—Her fifty summers have left no flaw—And I, a youth of twenty-three,So love this lady, fair to see,I want her for my mother-in-law!Over the way, over the way,I've seen her with the children play;I've seen her with a royal graceBefore the mirror adjust her lace;A kinder woman none ever saw;God bless and cheer her onward path,And bless all treasures that she hath,And let her be my mother-in-law!Over the way, over the way,I think I'll venture, dear, some day(If you will lend a helping hand,And sanctify the scheme I've planned);I'll kneel in loving, reverent aweDown at the lady's feet, and say:"I've loved your daughter many a day—Please won't you be my mother-in-law?"
Mary Mapes Dodge.
They're always abusing the women,As a terrible plague to men;They say we're the root of all evil,And repeat it again and again—Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed,All mischief, be what it may.And pray, then, why do you marry us,If we're all the plagues you say?And why do you take such care of us,And keep us so safe at home,And are never easy a momentIf ever we chance to roam?When you ought to be thanking HeavenThat your plague is out of the way,You all keep fussing and fretting—"Where is my Plague to-day?"If a Plague peeps out of the window,Up go the eyes of men;If she hides, then they all keep staringUntil she looks out again.
Aristophanes.
Did you hear of the Widow MaloneO hone!Who lived in the town of AthloneAlone?O, she melted the heartsOf the swains in them parts;So lovely the Widow Malone,O hone!So lovely the Widow Malone.Of lovers she had a full scoreOr more;And fortunes they all had galoreIn store;From the minister downTo the clerk of the Crown,All were courting the Widow MaloneO hone!All were courting the Widow Malone.But so modest was Mrs. Malone,'Twas known,That no one could see her alone,O hone!Let them ogle and sigh,They could ne'er catch her eye;So bashful the Widow Malone,O hone!So bashful the Widow Malone.Till one Mister O'Brien from Clare,How quare!'Tis little for blushing they careDown there;Put his arm round her waist,Gave ten kisses at laste,And says he, "You're my Molly Malone,My own."Says he, "You're my Molly Malone."And the widow they all thought so shy—My eye!Never thought of a simper or sigh;For why?"O Lucius," said she,"Since you've now made so free,You may marry your Mary Malone,Your own;You may marry your Mary Malone."There's a moral contained in my song,Not wrong;And one comfort it's not very long,But strong:—If for widows you die,Learn to kiss—not to sigh,For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone!O hone!O they're all like sweet Mistress Malone!
Charles Lever.
A district school, not far away,Mid Berkshire's hills, one winter's day,Was humming with its wonted noiseOf threescore mingled girls and boys;Some few upon their tasks intent,But more on furtive mischief bent.The while the master's downward lookWas fastened on a copy-book;When suddenly, behind his back,Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack!As 'twere a battery of blissLet off in one tremendous kiss!"What's that?" the startled master cries;"That, thir," a little imp replies,"Wath William Willith, if you pleathe,—I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!"With frown to make a statue thrill,The master thundered, "Hither, Will!"Like wretch o'ertaken in his track,With stolen chattels on his back,Will hung his head in fear and shame,And to the awful presence came,—A great, green, bashful simpleton,The butt of all good-natured fun.With smile suppressed, and birch upraised,The thunderer faltered,—"I'm amazedThat you, my biggest pupil, shouldBe guilty of an act so rude!Before the whole set school to boot—What evil genius put you to't?""'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad,"I did not mean to be so bad;But when Susannah shook her curls,And whispered, I was 'fraid of girlsAnd dursn't kiss a baby's doll,I couldn't stand it, sir, at all,But up and kissed her on the spot!I know—boo—hoo—I ought to not,But, somehow, from her looks—boo—hoo—I thought she kind o' wished me to!"
William Pitt Palmer.
I wus mighty good-lookin' when I wus young—Peert an' black-eyed an' slim,With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights,'Späcially Jim.The likeliest one of 'em all wus he,Chipper an' han'som' an' trim;But I toss'd up my head, an' made fun o' the crowd,'Späcially Jim.I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' menAn' I wouldn't take stock inhim!But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk,'Späcially Jim.I gotsotired o' havin' 'em roun'('Späcially Jim!),I made up my mind I'd settle downAn' take up with him;So we was married one Sunday in church,'Twas crowded full to the brim,'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all,'Späcially Jim.
Bessie Morgan.
As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping,With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled,And all the sweet buttermilk water'd the plain."O, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now,Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again!'Twas the pride of my dairy: O Barney M'Cleary!You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine."I sat down beside her,—and gently did chide her,That such a misfortune should give her such pain;A kiss then I gave her,—and ere I did leave her,She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again.'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason,Misfortunes will never come single,—that's plain,For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster,The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.
Edward Lysaght.
Why don't the men propose, mamma?Why don't the men propose?Each seems just coming to the point,And then away he goes;It is no fault of yours, mamma,Thateverybody knows;Youfêtethe finest men in town,Yet, oh! they won't propose.I'm sure I've done my best, mamma,To make a proper match;For coronets and eldest sons,I'm ever on the watch;I've hopes when somedistinguébeauA glance upon me throws;But though he'll dance and smile and flirt,Alas! he won't propose.I've tried to win by languishing,And dressing like a blue;I've bought big books and talked of themAs if I'd read them through!With hair cropp'd like a man I've feltThe heads of all the beaux;But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,And oh! they won't propose.I threw aside the books, and thoughtThat ignorance was bliss;I felt convinced that men preferredA simple sort of Miss;And so I lisped out nought beyondPlain "yesses" or plain "noes,"And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;Yet, oh! they won't propose.Last night at Lady Ramble's routI heard Sir Henry GaleExclaim, "Now Iproposeagain——"I started, turning pale;I really thought my time was come,I blushed like any rose;But oh! I found 'twas only atEcartéhe'd propose.And what is to be done, mamma?Oh, what is to be done?I really have no time to lose,For I am thirty-one;At balls I am too often leftWhere spinsters sit in rows;Why don't the men propose, mamma?Whywon'tthe men propose?
Thomas Haynes Bayly.
Oh, I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good,But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would.The little chills run up and down my spine when'er we meet,Though she seems a gentle creature and she's very trim and neat.And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin,But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin,And she pricks you, and she sticks you, in a way that can't be said—When you seek for what has hurt you, why, you cannot find the head.But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain—If anybody asks you why, you really can't explain.A pin is such a tiny thing,—of that there is no doubt,—Yet when it's sticking in your flesh, you're wretched till it's out!She is wonderfully observing—when she meets a pretty girlShe is always sure to tell her if her "bang" is out of curl.And she is so sympathetic: to a friend, who's much admired,She is often heard remarking, "Dear, you look so worn and tired!"And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyedThe new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride,And she said, "Oh, how becoming!" and then softly added, "ItIs really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit."Then she said, "If you had heard me yestereve, I'm sure, my friend,You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend."And she left me with the feeling—most unpleasant, I aver—That the whole world would despise me if it had not been for her.Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless wayShe gives me the impression I am at my worst that day,And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet)With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust—Use does not seem to blunt her point, not does she gather rust—Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would beginTo tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stoodWhile he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline—"You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood;I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine!""And what would you do with it?—tell me," she said,While an arch smile play'd over her beautiful face."I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maidWould fly to my side, and would there take her place.""Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yoursWithout any magic," the fair maiden cried;"A favour so slight one's good-nature secures;"And she playfully seated herself by his side."I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charmWould work so, that not even modesty's checkWould be able to keep from my neck your white arm."She smiled, and she laid her white arm round his neck."Yet once more I would blow, and the music divineWould bring me a third time an exquisite blissYou would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mineAnd your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss."The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee—"What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make!For only consider how silly 'twould beTo sit there and whistle for what you might take."
Unknown.
I
Scene:A wayside shrine in France.Persons: Celeste, Pierre, a Cloud.Celeste(gazing at the solitary white Cloud):I wonder what your thoughts are, little Cloud,Up in the sky, so lonely and so proud!Cloud: Not proud, dear maiden; lonely, if you will.Long have I watched you, sitting there so stillBefore that little shrine beside the way,And wondered where your thoughts might be astray;Your knitting lying idle on your knees,And worse than idle—like Penelope's,Working its own undoing!Celeste(picks up her knitting): Who was she?Saints! What a knot!—Who was Penelope?What happened toherknitting? Tell me, Cloud!Cloud: She was a Queen; she wove her husband's shroud.Celeste(drops the knitting).His shroud!Cloud:There, there! 'Twas only an excuseTo put her lovers off, a wifely ruse,Bidding them bide till it was finished, sheEach night the web unravelled secretly.Celeste: He came home safe?Cloud:If I remember right,It was the lovers needed shrouds that night!It is an old, old tale. I heard it throughA Wind whose ancestor it was that blewUlysses' ship across the purple seaBack to his people and Penelope.We Clouds pick up strange tales, as far and wideAnd to and fro above the world we ride,Across uncharted seas, upon the swellOf viewless waves and tides invisible,Freighted with friendly flood or forkèd flame,Knowing not whither bound nor whence we came;Now drifting lonely, now a companyOf pond'rous galleons—Celeste:Oft-times I seeA Cloud, as by some playful fancy stirred,Take likeness of a monstrous beast or birdOr some fantastic fish, as though 'twere clayMoulded by unseen hands.Cloud:Then tell me, pray,What I resemble now!Celeste:I scarcely know.But had you asked a little while ago,I should have said a camel; then your humpDissolved, and you became a gosling plump,Downy and white and warm—Cloud:What!Warm, up here?Ten thousand feet above the earth!Celeste:Oh dear!What am I thinking of! Of course I knowHow cold it is. Pierre has told me soA thousand times.Cloud:And who is this PierreThat tells you all the secrets of the air?How came he to such frigid heights to soar?Celeste: Pierre's my—He is in the Flying Corps.Cloud: Ah, now I understand! And he's away?Celeste: He left at dawn, where for he would not say,Telling me only 'twas a bombing raidSomewhere—My God! What's that?Cloud:What, little maid?Celeste(pointing): That—over there—beyond the wooded crest!Cloud: Only a skylark dropping to her nest;Her mate is hov'ring somewhere near. I heardHis tremulous song of love—Celeste:That was no bird!(Drops upon her knees.)O Mary! Blessed Mother! Hear, my prayer!That one that fell—grant it was not Pierre!Here is the cross my mother gave me—IWill burn the longest candle it will buy!Cloud: Courage, my child! Your prayer will not be vain!Who guards the lark, will guide your lover's plane.The West Wind's calling. I must go!—Hark! ThereHe sings again!Le bon Dieu garde, ma chère!
II
Pierre: I made a perfect landing over thereBehind the church—Celeste:The Virgin heard my prayer!Now I must burn the candle that I vowed—Pierre: Then 'twas our Blessed Lady sent that CloudThat saved me when the Boche came up behind.I made a lightning turn, only to findThe Boche on top of me. It seemed a kindOf miracle to see that Cloud—I swearA moment past the sky was everywhereAs clear as clear; there was no Cloud in sight.It looked to me, floating there calm and white.Like a great mother hen, and I a chick.She seemed to call me, and I scurried quickBehind her wing. That spoiled the Boche's game,And gave me time to turn and take good aim.I emptied my last drum, and saw him dropTen thousand feet in flames—Celeste(shuddering):Stop! Pierre, stop!Maybe a girl is waiting for him too—Pierre: 'Twas either him or me—Celeste:Thank God, not you!Pierre(pointing to the church): Come, let us burn the candle that you vowed.Celeste: Two candles!Pierre: Who's the other for?Celeste: The Cloud!
Oliver Herford.
"You gave me the key of your heart, my love;Then why do you make me knock?""Oh, that was yesterday, Saints above!And last night—I changed the lock!"
John Boyle O'Reilly.
It worries me to beat the bandTo hear folks say our lives is grand;Wish they'd try some one-night stand.Ain't it awful, Mabel?Nothin' ever seems to suit—The manager's an awful brute;Spend our lives jest lookin' cute.Ain't it awful, Mabel?Met a boy last Tuesday night,Was spendin' money left and right—-Me, gee! I couldn't eat a bite!Ain't it awful, Mabel?Then I met another guy—Hungry! well, I thought I'd die!But I couldn't make him buy.Ain't it awful, Mabel?Lots of men has called me dear,Said without me life was drear,But men is all so unsincere!Ain't it awful, Mabel?I tell you, life is mighty hard,I've had proposals by the yard—Some of 'em would 'a had me starred.Ain't it awful, Mabel?Remember that sealskin sacque of mine?When I got it, look'd awful fine—I found out it was a shine.Ain't it awful, Mabel?Prima donna's sore on me;My roses had her up a tree—I jest told her to "twenty-three."Ain't it awful, Mabel?My dear, she went right out and wiredThe New York office to have me "fired";But say! 'twas the author had me hired.Ain't it awful, Mabel?I think hotels is awful mean,Jim and me put out of room sixteen—An' we was only readin' Laura Jean.Ain't it awful, Mabel?The way folks talk about us too;For the smallest thing we do—'Nuff to make a girl feel blue.Ain't it awful, Mabel?My Gawd! is that the overture?I never will be on, I'm sure—The things us actresses endure,Ain't it awful, Mabel?
John Edward Hazzard.
Oh, Wing Tee WeeWas a sweet Chinee,And she lived in the town of Tac.Her eyes were blue,And her curling queueHung dangling down her back;And she fell in love with gay Win SilWhen he wrote his name on a laundry bill.And, oh, Tim ToldWas a pirate bold,And he sailed in a Chinese junk;And he loved, ah me!Sweet Wing Tee Wee,But his valiant heart had sunk;So he drowned his blues in fickle fizz,And vowed the maid would yet be his.So bold Tim ToldShowed all his goldTo the maid in the town of Tac;And sweet Wing WeeEloped to sea,And nevermore came back;For in far Chinee the maids are fair,And the maids are false,—as everywhere.
J. P. Denison.
Beside a Primrose 'broider'd RillSat Phyllis Lee in Silken DressWhilst Lucius limn'd with loving skillHer likeness, as a Shepherdess.Yet tho' he strove with loving skillHis Brush refused to work his Will."Dear Maid, unless you close your EyesI cannot paint to-day," he said;"Their Brightness shames the very SkiesAnd turns their Turquoise into Lead."Quoth Phyllis, then, "To save the SkiesAnd speed your Brush, I'll shut my Eyes."Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,Not dreaming of such Treachery,Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,"Without the Light, how can one See?""If you aresurethat none can seeI'll keep them shut," said Phyllis Lee.
Oliver Herford.
Werther had a love for CharlotteSuch as words could never utter;Would you know how first he met her?She was cutting bread and butter.Charlotte was a married lady,And a moral man was Werther,And for all the wealth of Indies,Would do nothing for to hurt her.So he sigh'd and pined and ogled,And his passion boil'd and bubbled,Till he blew his silly brains out,And no more was by it troubled.Charlotte, having seen his bodyBorne before her on a shutter,Like a well-conducted person,Went on cutting bread and butter.
W. M. Thackeray.
Tom's album was filled with the pictures of bellesWho had captured his manly heart,From the fairy who danced for the front-row swellsTo the maiden who tooled her cart;But one face as fair as a cloudless dawnCaught my eye, and I said, "Who's this?""Oh, that," he replied, with a skilful yawn,"Is the girl I couldn't kiss."Her face was the best in the book, no doubt,But I hastily turned the leaf,For my friend had let his cigar go out,And I knew I had bared his grief:For caresses we win and smiles we gainYield only a transient bliss,And we're all of us prone to sigh in vainFor "the girl we couldn't kiss."
Harry Romaine.
Young Rory O'More, courted Kathleen Bawn,He was bold as a hawk,—she as soft as the dawn;He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,And he thought the best way to do that was to tease."Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry,(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye),"With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about,Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out.""Oh, jewel," says Rory, "that same is the wayYou've thrated my heart for this many a day;And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not to be sure?For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More."Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like,For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike;The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound.""Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground.""Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go;Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!""Oh," says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear,For drames always go by conthraries, my dear;Oh! jewel, keep draming that same till you die,And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie!And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not, to be sure?Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More."Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teas'd me enough,Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste."Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm around her neck,So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,And he look'd in her eyes that were beaming with light,And he kiss'd her sweet lips;—don't you think he was right?"Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more,That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me before.""Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure,For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.
Samuel Lover.
"Le temps le mieux employé est celui qu' on perd."—Claude Tillier.
"Le temps le mieux employé est celui qu' on perd."
—Claude Tillier.
I'd read three hours. Both notes and textWere fast a mist becoming;In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed,And filled the room with humming.Then out. The casement's leafage sways,And, parted light, disclosesMiss Di., with hat and book,—a mazeOf muslin mixed with roses."You're reading Greek?" "I am—and you?""O, mine's a mere romancer!""So Plato is." "Then read him—do;And I'll read mine in answer."I read. "My Plato (Plato, too,—That wisdom thus should harden!)Declares 'blue eyes look doubly blueBeneath a Dolly Varden.'"She smiled. "My book in turn avers(No author's name is stated)That sometimes those PhilosophersAre sadly mis-translated.""But hear,—the next's in stronger style:The Cynic School assertedThat two red lips which part and smileMay not be controverted!"She smiled once more—"My book, I find,Observes some modern doctorsWould make the Cynics out a kindOf album-verse concoctors."Then I—"Why not? 'Ephesian law,No less than time's tradition,Enjoined fair speech on all who sawDiana's apparition.'"She blushed—this time. "If Plato's pageNo wiser precept teaches,Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage,And walk to Burnham-beeches.""Agreed," I said. "For Socrates(I find he too is talking)Thinks Learning can't remain at easeWhile Beauty goes a-walking."She read no more, I leapt the sill:The sequel's scarce essential—Nay, more than this, I hold it stillProfoundly confidential.
Austin Dobson.
"The case is proceeding."
From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's—At least, on a practical plan—To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,One love is enough for a man.But no case that I ever yet met isLike mine: I am equally fondOf Rose, who a charming brunette is,And Dora, a blonde.Each rivals the other in powers—Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints—Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;Miss Do., perpendicular saints.In short, to distinguish is folly;'Twixt the pair I am come to the passOf Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—Or Buridan's ass.If it happens that Rosa I've singledFor a soft celebration in rhyme,Then the ringlets of Dora get mingledSomehow with the tune and the time;Or I painfully pen me a sonnetTo an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,And behold I am writing upon itThe legend, "To Rose,"Or I try to draw Dora (my blotterIs all overscrawled with her head),If I fancy at last that I've got her,It turns to her rival instead;Or I find myself placidly addingTo the rapturous tresses of RoseMiss Dora's bud-mouth, and her maddingIneffable nose.Was there ever so sad a dilemma?For Rose I would perish (pro tem.);For Dora I'd willingly stem a—(Whatever might offer to stem);But to make the invidious election,—To declare that on either one's sideI've a scruple,—a grain, more affection,Icannotdecide.And, as either so hopelessly nice is,My sole and my final resourceIs to wait some indefinite crisis,—Some feat of molecular force,To solve me this riddle conduciveBy no means to peace or repose,Since the issue can scarce be inclusiveOf DoraandRose.
(Afterthought)
But, perhaps, if a third (say a Nora),Not quite so delightful as Rose,—Not wholly so charming as Dora,—Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,—As the claims of the others are equal,—And flight—in the main—is the best,—That I might ... But no matter,—the sequelIs easily guessed.
Austin Dobson.
NELLIE
If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir,Beckon and nod, a melodrama through,I would not turn abstractedly away, Sir,If I were you!
FRANK
If I were you, when persons I affected,Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew,I would at least pretend I recollected,If I were you!
NELLIE
If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two,I would not dance withodiousMiss M'Tavish,If I were you!
FRANK
If I were you, who vow you cannot sufferWhiff of the best,—the mildest "honey dew,"I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer,If I were you!
NELLIE
If I were you, I would not, Sir, be bitter,Even to write the "Cynical Review";—
FRANK
No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter,If I were you!
NELLIE
Really! You would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful,—Hot as Othello, and as black of hue;Borrow my fan. I would not look sofrightful,If I were you!
FRANK
"It is the cause." I mean your chaperon isBringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu!Ishall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis,If I were you!
NELLIE
Go, if you will. At once! And by express, Sir!Where shall it be? To China—or Peru?Go. I should leave inquirers my address, Sir,If I were you!
FRANK
No—I remain. To stay and fight a duelSeems, on the whole, the proper thing to do—Ah, you are strong,—I would not then be cruel,If I were you!
NELLIE
One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,—
FRANK
One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,—
NELLIE
If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted?
FRANK
I should admit that I waspiqué, too.
NELLIE
Ask me to dance. I'd say no more about it,If I were you!
[Waltz—Exeunt.]
Austin Dobson.
Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square,Has made three separate journeys to Paris;And her father assures me, each time she was there,That she and her friend Mrs. Harris(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history,But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery)Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping,In one continuous round of shopping;—Shopping alone, and shopping together,At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather:For all manner of things that a woman can putOn the crown of her head or the sole of her foot,Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist,Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced,Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,In front or behind, above or below;For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls;Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls;Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in,Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in;Dresses in which to do nothing at all;Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall,—All of them different in color and pattern,Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin,Brocade, and broadcloth, and other materialQuite as expensive and much more ethereal:In short, for all things that could ever be thought of,Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of,From ten-thousand-francs robes to twenty-sous frills;In all quarters of Paris, and to every store:While McFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore.They footed the streets, and he footed the bills.The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamerArgoFormed, McFlimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo,Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest,Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest,Which did not appear on the ship's manifest,But for which the ladies themselves manifestedSuch particular interest that they investedTheir own proper persons in layers and rowsOf muslins, embroideries, worked underclothes,Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those;Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties,Gavegood-byto the ship, andgo-byto the duties.Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt,Miss Flora had grown so enormously stoutFor an actual belle and a possible bride;But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out,And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside,Which, in spite of collector and custom-house sentry,Had entered the port without any entry.And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the dayThe merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway,This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square,The last time we met, was in utter despair,Because she had nothing whatever to wear!Nothing to wear! Now, as this is a true ditty,I do not assert—this you know is between us—That she's in a state of absolute nudity,Like Powers's Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus;But I do mean to say I have heard her declare,When at the same moment she had on a dressWhich cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less,And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess,That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear!I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora'sTwo hundred and fifty or sixty adorers,I had just been selected as he who should throw allThe rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowalOn myself, after twenty or thirty rejectionsOf those fossil remains which she called her "affections,"And that rather decayed but well-known work of art,Which Miss Flora persisted in styling "her heart."So we were engaged. Our troth had been plightedNot by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove;But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted,Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love—Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs,Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes,Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions;It was one of the quietest business transactions,With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any,And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany.On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss,She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis,And by way of putting me quite at my ease,"You know, I'm to polka as much as I please,And flirt when I like,—now stop,—don't you speak,—And you must not come here more than twice in the week,Or talk to me either at party or ball;But always be ready to come when I call:So don't prose to me about duty and stuff,—If we don't break this off, there will be time enoughFor that sort of thing; but the bargain must be,That as long as I choose I am perfectly free:For this is a sort of engagement, you see,Which is binding on you, but not binding on me."Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey, and gained her,With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her,I had, as I thought, a contingent remainderAt least in the property, and the best rightTo appear as its escort by day and by night;And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball,—Their cards had been out for a fortnight or so,And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe,—I considered it only my duty to callAnd see if Miss Flora intended to go.I found her—as ladies are apt to be foundWhen the time intervening between the first soundOf the bell and the visitor's entry is shorterThan usual—I found—I won't say I caught—herIntent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaningTo see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning.She turned as I entered—"Why, Harry, you sinner,I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!""So I did," I replied; "but the dinner is swallowed,And digested, I trust; for 'tis now nine or more:So being relieved from that duty, I followedInclination, which led me, you see, to your door.And now will your Ladyship so condescendAs just to inform me if you intendYour beauty and graces and presence to lend(All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow)To the Stuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?"The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air,And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry,mon cher,I should like above all things to go with you there;But really and truly—I've nothing to wear.""Nothing to wear? Go just as you are:Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far,I engage, the most bright and particular starOn the Stuckup horizon—" I stopped, for her eye,Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery,Opened on me at once a most terrible batteryOf scorn and amazement. She made no reply,But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say,"How absurd that any sane man should supposeThat a lady would go to a ball in the clothes,No matter how fine, that she wears every day!"So I ventured again—"Wear your crimson brocade."(Second turn-up of nose)—"That's too dark by a shade."—"Your blue silk—" "That's too heavy."—"Your pink—" "That's too light."—"Wear tulle over satin." "I can't endure white."—"Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch—""I haven't a thread of point lace to match."—"Your brown moire-antique—" "Yes, and look like a Quaker."—"The pearl-colored—" "I would, but that plaguy dressmakerHas had it a week."—"Then that exquisite lilac,In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock."(Here the nose took again the same elevation)—"I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation."—"Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike itAs morecomme il faut"—"Yes, but, dear me, that leanSophronia Stuckup has got one just like it,And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen."—"Then that splendid purple, that sweet mazarine,That superbpoint d'aiguille, that imperial green,That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine—""Not one of all which is fit to be seen,"Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed."Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushedOpposition, "that gorgeous toilette which you sportedIn Paris last spring, at the grand presentation,When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation;And by all the grand court were so very much courted."The end of the nose was portentously tipped up,And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation,As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation,"I have worn it three times at the least calculation,And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!"Here Iripped outsomething, perhaps rather rash—Quite innocent, though; but to use an expressionMore striking than classic, it "settled my hash,"And proved very soon the last act of our session."Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceilingDoesn't fall down and crush you!—oh, you men have no feeling.You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures,Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers,Your silly pretence—why, what a mere guess it is!Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities?I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear,And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care,But you do not believe me" (here the nose went still higher):"I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar.Our engagement is ended, sir—yes, on the spot;You're a brute, and a monster, and—I don't know what."I mildly suggested the words Hottentot,Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief,As gentle expletives which might give relief:But this only proved as a spark to the powder,And the storm I had raised came faster and louder;It blew, and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailedInterjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failedTo express the abusive, and then its arrearsWere brought up all at once by a torrent of tears;And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs-Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat too,Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo,In lieu of expressing the feelings which layQuite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say:Then, without going through the form of a bow,Found myself in the entry,—I hardly knew how,—On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square,At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair;Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze,And said to myself, as I lit my cigar,—Supposing a man had the wealth of the CzarOf the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days,On the whole do you think he would have much time to spareIf he married a woman with nothing to wear?
William Allen Butler.