A-Naughty-Biography and other poems

Thus I left those hallowed halls,

Its blackboards and its pictured walls,

With maps and charts of every size,

To torture brain and tease the eyes;

And fondly fancied I was through;

I knew twice now what others knew,

And all I had to do was show

My talents off, and catch a beau.

What consternation then was mine,

When aunt’s original design

Was carried out, to have me teach—

I’d almost rather beg or preach;

But as it was her great desire,

And as I had no wealthy sire,

My talents must my banker be—

So I took a class in A, B, C.

Again I must divide my time,

between a share of prose and rhyme;

I taught all day which was my prose—

The rhyme in evening, was my beau.

My daily duties never flagged,

But evening callers often lagged;

I’d wonder too how they could know

My many charms and tarry so!

How often evenings I have sat,

Impromptu welcomes all so pat;

I’d tell the girl to say “I’m home,”

Alas the callers never come!

And I would sit and read a book,

I’d read before, and never look

Disconcerted or annoyed,

Till evening hopes were all destroyed.

Then, disappointed, I’d retire,

And try to think of something higher,

But bitter pangs would rend my heart,

And dreams and nightmares make me start.

Sometimes a beau would happen in,

And make me most commit a sin,

By seeming very much surprised,

When really I had half surmised

That he was coming for a week—

But this was just a girlish freak.

They really ought to like to come,

I made them feel so much at home;

They seemed so happy while they stayed,

And left reluctantly, they said;

And I would often think it true,

And show my sorrow—wouldn’t you?

But, ah, alas! I soon began

To see the sad deceit of man;

I’d sit and watch and wait in vain,

My nose against the window-pane,

Or listen with an anxious spell,

To hear the ringing of the bell,

And bless the beggar that would dare,

To waken hope and bring despair!

Thus matters stood at seventeen—

An age that’s always noted been

For sunny happiness and joys—

And so would mine, but for the boys;

The very ones that suited me,

My aunty never seemed to see

With loving eyes as I desired,

And those she liked I ne’er admired;

And when we did on one agree

He hardly ever fancied me!

The scrapes and troubles I have had,

Enough to make a martyr sad;

These sorrows didn’t happen once,

But worried me for weeks and months.

At last becoming better known,

New suitors I began to own,

And having more, had bitter choice

And had occasion to rejoice

That I was blest with lots of beaus,

But none seemed anxious to propose.

They’d come and go with thoughtless air,

And I, pretending not to care,

Would bid them welcome and adieu,

As sweet and kind as if I knew

Their very heart-throb was for me—

Their lives one line of constancy!

How many sorry sighs I’ve had

About a wayward truant lad,

How oft “unwisely but too well,”

Would love assert its magic spell,

And hold my heart so tight and strong—

I’m glad it never lasted long!

I’ve thought at times I couldn’t live,

Unless Augustus would forgive

The little pique I showed last night,

Done really more in love than spite.

I’ve gone to bed and tried to weep

Myself into a troubled sleep;

But oft the sorrow I’d forget,

Before I found my eyes were wet!

Or Morpheus would my senses blind,

And leave love’s trials all behind.

How kind in Nature to prepare

A heart elastic, that can bear

The miseries and weighty woes

That must attend the age of beaus.

For, with so many different kind,

You couldn’t well make up your mind,

Especially when you didn’t know

Which was destined for your beau.

To wait and wait, and then to find

The wrong one is the one inclined

To breathe his hopes into your ears,

A nuisance is that seldom cheers.

Just after such a blow as this,

I thought I saw much future bliss,

In a student of the “nobby” kind,

So rich and handsome and refined.

But, oh, dear me! my brief delight

Was shattered by his getting tight,

And a love of fully thirty days

Was checked by aunt in many ways.

I thought at last it might be best

To let my student lover rest.

My next, an artist proud and poor,

By chance then living in next door,

Was always at my beck and call,

Which aunty didn’t like at all—

She said he was a fop and dandy.

To me he was so nice and handy,

And then so pleasant and polite,

We had engagements every night;

Till all at once my artist beau

Was told by aunt ’twas best to go—

The love that lasted three long months

Was crushed and killed by her at once.

And then I had an interval

Of several weeks in which to fill

The place of lovers I had lost—

But no one knew the pain it cost,

And nothing but a handsome clerk

I chanced to meet while at his work,

Could make amends for all my woes;

But he, alas! did not propose.

I think he would, but times were hard,

Which often happy hopes retard.

I, knowing this, would not allow

Him any chance to make a vow,

For poverty, though not a crime,

Has always been a dread of mine.

His handsome eyes and wavy hair,

Were great temptations I declare;

And then his love was firm and true

But he hadn’t cash enough for two.

So we sighed in silence o’er our fate,

And wisely thought it best to wait—

The other callers too seemed slow,

I’ve often wondered why ’twas so.

I had no wealth, or charms to praise;

But, then, I had such “winning ways,”

That ought to take, and may-be will—

At least I won’t give up until

I hear from some more hopeful source,

All true love has a crooked course.

I know the chap I’d like to catch—

I think ’twould be a splendid match—

I wonder what he thinks of me?

I’ll wait a while and we will see;

He has a tender sort of way

When he wishes me to sing or play;

And, when the hour comes to leave,

He often looks disposed to grieve.

He’s handsome, too, but awful shy,

Has such a melting, mellow eye,

It makes me reconciled to wait

If just to see, at any rate,

If time won’t ripen his desire,

And sparks of love for me inspire;

And while I wait he’ll never know

I ever wished to have a beau.

Here twice this week, I do declare,

And took me out once to the fair;

I really think he’s coming round,

So I’ll keep cool and hold my ground;

Should he propose, I’ll show surprise,

And stammer, No, with drooping eyes:

That’s the way they do in books,

Nor show their haste by eager looks;

I hope he won’t discover mine,

Nor take in earnest my decline,

It really wasn’t final, nay,

It only meant a slight delay

In making up my maiden mind,

And, in repeating he will find

That after the surprise was o’er,

I’d “love and honor and adore.”

But blessed luck, and happy fate,

That didn’t give me long to wait.

One quiet eve, in early fall,

He came, and made a lovely call;

No other beaus that night appeared,

As both of us at first had feared;

And aunty being out of town,

We didn’t dread her maiden frown.

So being favored thus by fate,

His smothered love he did relate.

Our happiness and new-made bliss

Was sanctioned by the sealing kiss.

I quite forgot the sighs and looks

So recommended in the books,

And answered, Yes, without delay

Or looking once another way.

He found I wasn’t hard to woo,

My answer came so frank and true;

For when you’re suited, what’s the sense

Of being kept in such suspense,

Till silly rules of etiquette

Love’s happy longings all upset?

That evening Cupid’s capers thrived,

Till all at once my aunt arrived;

I fear we guilty look and feel,

Our awkward actions can’t conceal

How matters stand, but I will try

By tact detection to defy.

We treat each other calmly cool,

Talk carelessly of church and school,

Or any subject but the one

That we have just agreed upon.

To please my aunty’s prudish ear,

We shunned the theme to us so dear,

Till passing hours in hasty flight,

Suggest to us a sad good-night.

Now he is gone—how queer I feel!

I wish I only dared reveal

My pent up joy unto my aunt;

I want to, but I really can’t.

She always seemed to like this beau

As well as any that I know,

But then she never thought that he

Would ever care a fig for me;

And now I fear that when she finds

He really loves and has designs,

She might at once discover flaws

To cause her to object or pause,

And then what misery would be mine

No heart could know or tongue define.

The fearful Rubicon is past;

I’ve told her all—her sanction asked,

And she consents—most strange to tell,

I find my suitor suits her well;

But wonders what he e’er could see

In such a wayward girl as me.

Indeed, I’ve often wondered too,

Though other people never knew,

But what I thought I was a prize;

Nor did my suitor e’er surmise—

He thought me all that he desired;

That trait in him I so admired!

For total blindness in a beau

Is one the best gifts that I know;

So, feeling so secure in this,

We might have lived a life of bliss,

But for a couple other beau,

Who thought at once that they’d propose;

They never dreamed of it before,

Nor would till they had been four score.

If I had still kept “fancy free,”

They never would have fancied me.

“It seldom rains but what it pours”—

Too many beaus are often bores.

I cutely kept my matters mum,

But found it truly troublesome;

I told them I was nothing loth

To love, indeed to marry, both—

For still on mischief I was bent,

And seldom said a word I meant;

Must ever have my share of fun

At sad expense of “number one.”

I really felt, I blush to tell,

That I was getting quite a “belle,”

And could afford to put on airs,

When offers tackled me in pairs!

And then, too, I had been so fast

In saying yes, that I would blast

Those tender hopes I lately made—

Two lovers cast one in the shade.

I timed my hours to see them all,

Preventing, thus, a lover’s squall,

And thought my wits were working fine,

When, all at once, that aunt of mine

Commenced, she said, “to smell a rat,”

And then we had a lively spat.

I hardly need to tell the rest—

For aunty always came out best—

And I was then obliged to be

Content with one, instead of three,

And though I loved the first one well,

I missed the two, I blush to tell.

If aunty hadn’t been so queer,

I’d had three lovers all the year,

But now I stuck to number one,

And left the other two undone.

And neither of them seemed to die,

I can not tell the reason why;

They nearly always do in books,

Or turn out bad, which I think looks

More in keeping with their grief.

I wonder how they got relief?

Indeed, I hear they’re living yet,

And doing well, and their regret

Lasted but a little while,

And terminated in a smile

That they had missed the happy chance—

That wasn’t my fault, but my aunt’s.

But dear devoted number one

Forgave the flirting I had done,

And now, as always, I could see

How much too good he was for me.

At once I thought, with aunty’s aid,

I’d try to settle, and be staid,

Becoming worthy of so fine

And noble-hearted beau as mine.

How easy ’tis for folks to talk,

But oh! how hard to walk the chalk.

The only hope that I could find

Was keeping my beloved blind,

An easy task, I’m glad to say.

Till he wanted me to “name the day,”

So what’s the use of waiting now

For consummation of our vow,

When heart and hand and ready will

Are longing for us to fulfill

That little form and loving rite

That permanently hearts unite?

So I shall name an early day,

And wed at once, without delay.

My trousseau won’t be much to get;

Indeed, I’m never one to fret

About apparel new and fine,

Or try my neighbors to outshine.

And then, too, meaning no offense,

To teachers in the abstract sense,

Light and slender was my purse.

To some, I know, that’s quite a curse;

To me, it being nothing new,

My wants were rather small and few.

My preparations soon were done,

Interspersed with lots of fun;

My wedding day was near at hand

And I was feeling mighty grand.

And each of my “five hundred friends”

Got tickets, and the fête attends;

I, robed in white, with fleecy veil,

With orange wreath and courtly trail,

Fancied that, at my levee

They’d all admire and envy me;

But strange to say, I never heard

The very first admiring word!

But then the guests, the gifts, the ring,

And all the joys that weddings bring—

A sweetish scare, I must confess,

Was mingled with my happiness.

I could not see the sense of tears,

When I had been, for several years,

Just waiting for this happy day,

To give my willing self away;

Yet still I trembled as I swore,

“To love and honor and adore.”

My single friends, that disbelieve

My statements, I will give them leave

To marry for themselves, and see

How scared and happy they will be;

My married ones already know

That what I’ve said is really so.

The altar often ends the tale—

The fair one then, that we assail,

Is shelved at once, and cast aside

As soon as she is made a bride;

Now, twenty years of merry life

Is passed—I became a wife.

The “Naughty” heroine, you see,

Has finished her “Biography.”

I’ll say a few words at the close,

In case discussions ever rose

About my traits in after life—

I mean when I became a wife.

A lenient husband’s charity,

In trust and boundless love for me,

O’erlooked my early erring ways,

And filled my ear with daily praise.

Indulgent friends would kindly say

Such pleasant things most every day,

And looked so mildly on my mirth,

It made me overrate my worth,

And feel reformed, as aunty quotes,

“That I have sown my wildest oats.”

The stern realities of life

Will sober down the gayest wife.

The cares and crosses surely come

To cloud, at times, the brightest home;

And mine was not exempt from these,

For sighs and sorrows and disease

Were all, in turn, my painful lot—

’Twere better though they were forgot.

I’ll finish in the brightest strain,

Nor have my friends peruse, with pain,

A clouded page, when my intent

Was solely for their merriment;

They’ll see how short these twenty years,

Beside the first, in print appears.

The reason ’s easy understood:

The traits depicted here are good,

And occupy a smaller space

Than wicked ones I had to trace.

I wanting quite a good sized book,

My sinnings and short comings took

The other side, I do engage,

Would hardly fill the second page.

I’ll say, for fear my friends deplore,

These vixen traits are mine no more;

The heroine, once known as “Naughty,”

Is now reformed—“fair, fat, and forty.”

A verdant youth of modest mien

Fell in love with the village queen,

When strolling through the clover;

And in his homely honest way

Rudely coined what he would say,

And how he’d always love her.

He looked in her coquettish eye,

With hope and fear for her reply;

But she so careless seeming,

Scarce listened to his honeyed words,

But turned their sweetness into curds,

And woke him from his dreaming.

She laughed aloud, with merry glee,

At the very thought of such as he

Presuming to the honor

Of loving her, the village belle;

Indeed, his feelings he must quell,

Nor force his love upon her.

There were a dozen love-sick swains

Awaiting to blow out their brains

When she refused affection;

Which, of course, she would to all but one,

And when the others’ fates were known,

They’d die of deep dejection.

She would not wed a country lad,

Did she want a husband e’er so bad—

She sighed for city suitors;

Uriah’s hopes were sadly crushed,

His tender words at once were hushed,

Her wishes were his tutors.

There’s Harry Banks just fresh from Yale,

Who’s apt and easy at the tale

That Cupid first invented;

He doesn’t blush or stammer through,

As though the art were strange and new,

Act awkward or demented;

But takes the favored fair one’s hand,

With melting looks and accents bland,

He tells his heart’s emotion;

And though he’s often tight, they say,

I like his jovial, genial way,

His lover-like devotion.

I really think my choice is made

In favor of the college blade;

And, though a reckless rover,

I vow his wild and winning ways

Would any maiden’s fancy daze

That craved a dashing lover.

He’ll sow his “wild oats” soon, I know,

And then he’s such a “nobby” beau,

I feel I’m blest to get him;

And Oh, the gay, bright city life,

That will be mine, when I’m his wife,

And the girls that will regret him.

So argued our fair village belle,

And wed the dashing college swell,

And left our poor Uriah,

And all the other sighing swains,

Whose hearts had turned their youthful brains.

And set their souls on fire.

But ah, alas! one little year,

Has changed her happiness to care,

And time too soon discloses,

By sunken cheek and saddened eye,

Her heavy heart and stifled sigh,

Her bed is not of roses.

The dashing beau of other days,

Has lost his soft persuasive ways;

Her city life and lover

Are but a myth to what they seemed,

As she in girlish fancy dreamed,

When strolling ’midst the clover.

This season of old,

We’ve often been told,

Was the time of all others

For youth to be bold;

So the brave and the fair

May venture to dare,

Like the birds of the air,

Their feelings unfold.

This day of the year,

To the young very dear,

Suggests to the heart

A sweet happiness near;

And a hope bright and gay,

May tempt them to say,

On St. Valentine’s Day,

Words tender and queer.

Shy lovers, begin,

Faint hearts never win,

Nor is it a sin

To love wisely and well;

And the coy and the fair

May be yearning to hear,

At least once a year,

What a lover might tell.

So, gents, your attention;

I beg you will mention

To the fair of your choice

Your honest intention;

And should she reject you,

Don’t let it deject you,

But think it an ounce

Of healthy prevention.

They say Cupid’s arrows

Pierce even the sparrows;

The thought surely harrows

The youth of to-day;

For who with right reason,

In love-making season,

Would like by the birds

To be “given away?”

The gentle rain that softly falls,

Befriending earth and ocean,

Awakens many a happy thought,

As well as sad emotion.

It tells of changing Nature’s tears,

That fall to freshen beauty;

It teaches us that gloomy hours

May darken pleasant duty.

Tearful times must come to all,

And joy be mixed with sadness;

Our years are not one summer dream,

Our hearts one glow of gladness;

But like the gentle rain to earth,

Bereaving while it brightens,

A few dark days, in every life,

Each coming blessing heightens.

We greet the golden sunshine more,

That follows after showers,

Just as we welcome happiness

Succeeding dreary hours;

Were years continued summer time,

Or filled with constant glory,

Were Nature always in her prime,

And life one cloudless story,

We’d poorly prize the blessings sent—

No contrast to create content.

I love to live in autumn days,

To linger in their balmy haze,

To ponder in a dreamy maze,

Upon their many glories.

I love to watch the setting sun,

To see the stars come one by one,

And fade away when they are done,

Telling their nightly story.

I love sweet autumn’s golden hours,

Though chilling winds and fading flowers,

Tell of Nature’s waning powers,

Still I love the season;

They speak of ripeness, ere decay

Has swept their beauties all away;

The change of leaf from green to gray

Must charm the dullest reason.

The garnered grain, the golden sheaf,

The varied bough, the yellow leaf,

Teem with beauties, all too brief,

That vanish as we view them.

I’d have the autumn’s gentle sway

Control the year from June to May;

I’d have its glories ne’er decay,

Nor winter snows to strew them.

This golden month, with varied leaves,

So full of waning glories,

Adorns the groves that it bereaves,

And fills the woods with stories

Of fleeting verdure, fading flowers—

Dying Nature’s empty bowers.

It stills the birds and chills the air,

It scatters roses here and there,

Making bush and branches bare

Of foliage and beauty.

The verdant leaves of summer lie

Seared, beneath an autumn sky,

Left to wither and to die,

As Nature’s latest duty.

I dream of thee in dewy hours,

I think of thee by day,

I muse upon thy winning powers,

When thou art far away.

I love to live in love with thee,

To watch thy pensive eye,

To linger in thy memory,

To soothe thy bosom’s sigh.

I fain would have thy love-lit face

Forever turned on me,

Oh, may we not in future trace

One common destiny?

And then together we could tread

Life’s flowery fields as one,

Dependent on each other’s love,

As earth is on the sun.

Each joy in life would brighter be,

If thou wert always near,

And every sorrow lighter be,

If thou wert there to cheer.

So let me linger by thy side,

In love with thee alone,

Should fortune frown or ills betide,

Thy presence would atone.

And blest and happy in thy smiles,

Despite of cross or care,

I’d pray for rare longevity,

Thy holy love to share.

And then when life should cease to be,

And earthly love grow cold,

My songs throughout eternity

Should angel love unfold.

We bore our Bessie’s angel form,

Which now in death reposes,

To the silent grave, in summer days,

When earth was bathed in sunny rays,

When June birds sang their summer lays,

We laid her ’neath the roses.

We watched the form we loved so well,

As the grave so greedy closes,

We heard the sod as it sadly fell,

A heartless tale it seemed to tell,

Its echo like a funeral knell,

Was heard among the roses.

We turned away and left her there,

With flowers around, above her,

We breathed the soothing summer air,

Which bade us hope and hush despair,

We gave our child to angel care,

And trust to God to love her.

We sought our sorrow-stricken home,

Which naught but grief discloses,

Each echo there repeats a groan,

Each merry laugh is now a moan,

For angel Bessie sleeps alone,

Beneath the summer roses.

The Autumn boughs are growing bare,

The leaves are changed and falling,

And dying nature everywhere

Obeys grim Winter’s calling;

The fields bereft of grass and grain,

The waving woods deserted,

The fountains gush, the songsters strain,

To wailing winds converted.

All nature frowns in drear dismay,

As Autumn beauties pass away.

We see them all decay and die,

Each bud and tree and flower,

The trailing vines neglected lie,

Around the summer bower;

O’er slopes so lately pleasure’s haunts,

The withered leaves are blowing,

The broken branch, the barren bough

The sterile grounds are strewing;

Earth’s beauties vanish one by one,

As nature’s yearly race is run.

November’s winds are bleak and cold,

Its skies are gray and dreary,

Its landscapes no delights unfold,

To rest the eye that’s weary.

There’s naught around, beneath, above,

But tells of fading glory,

Each lonely lawn, and leafless grove

Confirms the saddened story;

Earth sobs her grief, and Boreas sighs,

As changing Nature droops and dies.

An early friend, of brilliant mind,

In manhood’s summer stricken blind;

Earth’s beauties faded day by day,

Till views and visions passed away,

And left a blank in the midst of bloom—

A spirit crushed in a life of gloom.

A heart bowed down in manly grief,

No hope of light to bring relief.

His sun is set at early noon,

His rayless night ’s without a moon;

His life’s bright zenith ’s clouded o’er,

To him the stars will rise no more.

No sunny scenes illume his way,

The flowers bloom and then decay,

The planets daily set and rise

Before those yearning, sightless eyes.

To him, all life is one long night,

The season’s change brings no delight;

His vacant orbs scan nothing new,

But stare in vain for one dim view

Of sights and scenes of other days,

When life was full of sunny rays;

He’d freely give all earthly gold

For one glad glimpse of scenes of old.

Familiar faces, favorite friends,

That by his side in love attends;

What priceless gift ’twould be for him

To see those forms, though faint and dim;

To trace the features, watch the eye

Of loved ones, flitting fondly by,

And gaze upon her gentle face,

Whose charms e’en darkness can’t efface.

Oh, could this dreary winter dream

Be gladdened by one golden gleam,

One sunbeam’s blessed brightening ray

Could turn this darkness into day.

But this eclipse, this sunless gloom,

That now makes life a living tomb,

May know no dawn till earthly night

Gives place to heaven’s eternal light.

As I sit by the seaside,

And watch the blue waves

On the boundless bright bosom of ocean,

The roar of the billows,

The sea as it raves,

Awaken ecstatic emotion.

I long for the leisure

To stay by its side,

To linger in love by its beauties,

To listen entranced,

To gaze with delight,

And regret that I have other duties.

I regret that dull life,

With its prosy routine,

Must claim my attention to-morrow;

That I must awake

From my bright ocean dream,

And leave the cool seaside in sorrow.

This world of delight,

This home by the sea,

This hour so full of enjoyment,

How I wish that the future

Had nothing for me

But just such happy employment.

I’d live by the sea,

All these long summer days

I’d watch the bright breakers at even,

I’d wander at twilight,

And silently gaze

On the beauties of ocean and heaven.

Till Luna lends light

To the billowy scene,

That sparkles like gems in its glory;

As tipping the waves

With her silvery sheen.

She nightly renews her bright story.

I’d gaze at the stars

In the heavens on high,

And list to the music of ocean,

Till the moan of the sea

And the zephyr’s soft sigh

Would turn my delight to devotion.

I could muse on those orbs,

Thus mirrored by waves,

In revery live by the hour

By the side of the sea,

As it sighs or it raves,

And dream of Omnipotent power.