A CORNER IN CURLS
Once on a time when Men were Bold
And Women Fair—to be precise—
A Princess lived whose Hair was Gold
Beyond the Dreams of Avarice;
Beauty she had and Wealth untold,
Besides a Fabulous Amount
Of Jewels rare and Crowns of Gold,
And Suitors more than she could count.
Such Suitors! Though her Fingers Fair
Had been as leaves upon the Trees
They still were far too few to wear
The Rings they offered, on their Knees.
In Coaches, Caravans, and Ships
The Suitors came in Flocks untold,
Happy to kiss her Finger-tips
And beg from her a Lock of Gold.
For though she seemed to Cupid’s Dart
Impervious, and would not share
The smallest atom of her Heart,
She was most lavish with her Hair.
To all who craved the Golden Boon
She gave, until one Night Her Maid
Exclaimed, “Alas! Your Highness soon
Will not have Hair enough to braid!”
Next day the Court was in a state,
The usual audience was refused,
A Notice hung upon the Gate—
“The Princess begs to be Excused.”
Daily the Throng of Suitors grew
And clamoured madly at the door,
Until at length they formed a queue
Extending for a mile or more.
The Chancellor was in despair.
“Princess, it comes to this,” he said,
“That either you must lose your hair
Or I must surely lose my head!”
The Princess turned away her face.
“Oh, dear,” she cried, “this grieves me sore;
It will be hard to fill your place—
You were a first-rate Chancellor!
“But do not grieve—I have a plan
To keep your head and save my Pride.”
Then to the marble gate she ran,
Unloosed her hair, stepped forth, and cried:
“Brave Suitors, look upon this Gold,
This mint of Curls—lo, I present
A share to each of you—behold
My Notes of Curl—at five per cent.!”
A cheer rose from a Thousand Throats;
The panic passed—and months flew by.
The Princess issued Tons of Notes,
When lo!—a Bolt from out the Sky—
A message came, brought by a Churl:
“Pont Morgan, Sultan of Peru,
Has bought up all your Notes of Curl,
And all your Notes are falling Due!”
The Princess grew distraught with fears
By Day. At night she tossed in Bed,
Dreaming an Awful Pair of Shears
Hung by a Hair above her Head.
At last the Fatal Morning came,
And with it came Pont Morgan, too
With Awful Shears to press his claim,
And an Enormous Retinue.
“The Law is just!” the People cried;
“And She the Penalty must pay!”
The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide,
When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!”
An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud,
And clad in Silken Cap and Gown,
Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd,
And struck the Awful Scissors down.
“Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ere
You touch a Hair of that Fair Head;
For know you not that Every Hair
Is numbered—as the Prophet said?
“Show me the Notes—see, here is writ
A number plain across each Bond,
And you may only draw for it
The numbered Hair to correspond.
“So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you draw
A Single Hair from that Gold Head;
If it be wrong—then by the Law
Your Life and Lands are forfeited!”
“Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!”
The People cried with mad uproar.
The Sultan turned a deadly white,
And fell in Fits upon the Floor.
“O Lady, whosoe’er you be,
Claim what you will in all my Land!”
The Princess cried. “I am,” said he,
“Not Maid, but Man—I claim your Hand.”
“’Tis yours! Right gladly will I be
Your Bride—for in Creation’s Plan
I never dreamed to find,” said she,
“A Portia’s Logic in a Man!”