GIRTON GIRL.

ByCATHERINE GRANT FURLEY.

“Why, sir, should you seem so startledWhen you chance to come on meTalking silly baby-languageTo the child upon my knee—To this happy, crowing urchin,While his peasant mother standsWatching us, while she is wipingThick-flaked soapsuds from her hands?“When you met me first, at dinner,At the Hall the other night,You were seated on my left hand,The professor on my right;And you saw I cared to listen—Saw it with a scornful mirth—To the facts that he was tellingOf the strata of the earth.“And again, when of the IliadMy companion chanced to speak,You were less pleased than astoundedThat I quoted Homer’s Greek.And beneath my half-closed eyelidsI observed your covert smile,When our hostess spoke of Ruskin,And I answered with Carlyle.“Then you thought you read me fully—‘Woman in her latest phase,Following with feebler footstepsIn far-reaching manhood’s ways.A half-taught, conceited creature,Something neither wise nor good;Losing for a vain chimeraAll the grace of womanhood.“‘Failing in her mad endeavour,Though in every languid veinLove-warmed heart-blood she replacesWith cold ichor from the brain.Woman striving to be manlike,Making him her enemy,Fighting where she best had yielded’—This was what you saw in me.“Sir, I claim to be a woman:Nothing less and nothing more;Laughing when my heart is joyful,Weeping when my heart is sore;Loving all things good and tender,Nor so coldly over-wiseAs to scorn a lover’s kisses,Or the light of children’s eyes.“Over-wise! Nay, it were follyIf I cherished in my mindOne poor fancy, one ambitionThat could part me from my kind—From the maiden’s hopes and longings,From the mother’s joy and care,From the gladness, labour, sorrow,That is every woman’s share.“Not for all life’s garb of dutyIn the self-same tint is dyed;I must walk alone, anotherShelters at a husband’s side.Yet I claim her for my sister,While—though I must stand apart—All her hopes, her fears, her wishesFind an echo in my heart.

“Why, sir, should you seem so startled

When you chance to come on me

Talking silly baby-language

To the child upon my knee—

To this happy, crowing urchin,

While his peasant mother stands

Watching us, while she is wiping

Thick-flaked soapsuds from her hands?

“When you met me first, at dinner,At the Hall the other night,You were seated on my left hand,The professor on my right;And you saw I cared to listen—Saw it with a scornful mirth—To the facts that he was tellingOf the strata of the earth.

“When you met me first, at dinner,

At the Hall the other night,

You were seated on my left hand,

The professor on my right;

And you saw I cared to listen—

Saw it with a scornful mirth—

To the facts that he was telling

Of the strata of the earth.

“And again, when of the IliadMy companion chanced to speak,You were less pleased than astoundedThat I quoted Homer’s Greek.And beneath my half-closed eyelidsI observed your covert smile,When our hostess spoke of Ruskin,And I answered with Carlyle.

“And again, when of the Iliad

My companion chanced to speak,

You were less pleased than astounded

That I quoted Homer’s Greek.

And beneath my half-closed eyelids

I observed your covert smile,

When our hostess spoke of Ruskin,

And I answered with Carlyle.

“Then you thought you read me fully—‘Woman in her latest phase,Following with feebler footstepsIn far-reaching manhood’s ways.A half-taught, conceited creature,Something neither wise nor good;Losing for a vain chimeraAll the grace of womanhood.

“Then you thought you read me fully—

‘Woman in her latest phase,

Following with feebler footsteps

In far-reaching manhood’s ways.

A half-taught, conceited creature,

Something neither wise nor good;

Losing for a vain chimera

All the grace of womanhood.

“‘Failing in her mad endeavour,Though in every languid veinLove-warmed heart-blood she replacesWith cold ichor from the brain.Woman striving to be manlike,Making him her enemy,Fighting where she best had yielded’—This was what you saw in me.

“‘Failing in her mad endeavour,

Though in every languid vein

Love-warmed heart-blood she replaces

With cold ichor from the brain.

Woman striving to be manlike,

Making him her enemy,

Fighting where she best had yielded’—

This was what you saw in me.

“Sir, I claim to be a woman:Nothing less and nothing more;Laughing when my heart is joyful,Weeping when my heart is sore;Loving all things good and tender,Nor so coldly over-wiseAs to scorn a lover’s kisses,Or the light of children’s eyes.

“Sir, I claim to be a woman:

Nothing less and nothing more;

Laughing when my heart is joyful,

Weeping when my heart is sore;

Loving all things good and tender,

Nor so coldly over-wise

As to scorn a lover’s kisses,

Or the light of children’s eyes.

“Over-wise! Nay, it were follyIf I cherished in my mindOne poor fancy, one ambitionThat could part me from my kind—From the maiden’s hopes and longings,From the mother’s joy and care,From the gladness, labour, sorrow,That is every woman’s share.

“Over-wise! Nay, it were folly

If I cherished in my mind

One poor fancy, one ambition

That could part me from my kind—

From the maiden’s hopes and longings,

From the mother’s joy and care,

From the gladness, labour, sorrow,

That is every woman’s share.

“Not for all life’s garb of dutyIn the self-same tint is dyed;I must walk alone, anotherShelters at a husband’s side.Yet I claim her for my sister,While—though I must stand apart—All her hopes, her fears, her wishesFind an echo in my heart.

“Not for all life’s garb of duty

In the self-same tint is dyed;

I must walk alone, another

Shelters at a husband’s side.

Yet I claim her for my sister,

While—though I must stand apart—

All her hopes, her fears, her wishes

Find an echo in my heart.

A GIRTON GIRL.

“True it is I love to studyEvery page of nature’s lore.Must that make my soul less gentle?Nay, it softens me the more.True it is I love the storyOf the old heroic age,True I love the aspirationsOf the poet and the sage;“But if poet, artist, thinker,Lend me some inspiring thought,Must it follow that the dutyOf the woman is forgot?No; ’tis you who err, believe me,Thinking, as perchance you do,That because her brain is empty,Woman’s heart must beat more true.“’Tis not learning that unsexes,’Tis not thought will make us cold,Nor at sight of heavy volumesLove on us relax his hold.Woman is for ever woman;O’er her life love rules supreme,Though his kingdom be but fancy,And the bliss he gives a dream.“Nought besides, however worthy,In her heart can take his place—But enough! The child is frightenedAt the graveness of my face.I must bring him back to laughter.Pray you, leave us for a time,Or you’ll hear a Girton studentTeaching him a nursery rhyme.”

“True it is I love to study

Every page of nature’s lore.

Must that make my soul less gentle?

Nay, it softens me the more.

True it is I love the story

Of the old heroic age,

True I love the aspirations

Of the poet and the sage;

“But if poet, artist, thinker,Lend me some inspiring thought,Must it follow that the dutyOf the woman is forgot?No; ’tis you who err, believe me,Thinking, as perchance you do,That because her brain is empty,Woman’s heart must beat more true.

“But if poet, artist, thinker,

Lend me some inspiring thought,

Must it follow that the duty

Of the woman is forgot?

No; ’tis you who err, believe me,

Thinking, as perchance you do,

That because her brain is empty,

Woman’s heart must beat more true.

“’Tis not learning that unsexes,’Tis not thought will make us cold,Nor at sight of heavy volumesLove on us relax his hold.Woman is for ever woman;O’er her life love rules supreme,Though his kingdom be but fancy,And the bliss he gives a dream.

“’Tis not learning that unsexes,

’Tis not thought will make us cold,

Nor at sight of heavy volumes

Love on us relax his hold.

Woman is for ever woman;

O’er her life love rules supreme,

Though his kingdom be but fancy,

And the bliss he gives a dream.

“Nought besides, however worthy,In her heart can take his place—But enough! The child is frightenedAt the graveness of my face.I must bring him back to laughter.Pray you, leave us for a time,Or you’ll hear a Girton studentTeaching him a nursery rhyme.”

“Nought besides, however worthy,

In her heart can take his place—

But enough! The child is frightened

At the graveness of my face.

I must bring him back to laughter.

Pray you, leave us for a time,

Or you’ll hear a Girton student

Teaching him a nursery rhyme.”

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