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 hair
And laughing eyes, we don't know where,
And no one can tell where they're banished.
How have the darlings vanished?
Fashion's pied piper, with magical air,
Has wooed them away, with their flaxen hair
And 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 clothes
Than the most of Dame Fashion's supporters.
"Allow me, my sons and daughters,—
Fetch them, Annette!" What, madam, those?
Children! such exquisite belles and beaux:—
True, they're in somewhat shorter clothes
Than 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 pets
Miss Markham and Lydia Thompson.
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 pets
Miss Markham and Lydia Thompson.
He and his comrades can drink champagne
Like so many juvenile Comuses;
If you want to insult him, just talk of boys' play,—
Why, even on billiards he's almost blasé,
Drops in at Delmonico's three times a day,
And is known at Jerry Thomas's.
Like so many juvenile Comuses;
If you want to insult him, just talk of boys' play,—
Why, even on billiards he's almost blasé,
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 lace
Decking a figure of corsetted grace;
Her words are minced, and her spoiled young face
Wears a simper far from charming.
Now, isn't that vision alarming?
Silk with panier, and puffs, and lace
Decking a figure of corsetted grace;
Her words are minced, and her spoiled young face
Wears 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.
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
"Of such is the kingdom of heaven?"
How can an answer be given?
Folly filling each curly head,
Premature vices, childhood dead,
Blighted blossoms—can it be said
"Of such is the kingdom of heaven?"
CHINESE LANTERNS.
Through the windows on the park
Float 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!
Float 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 Night
Garlanded with flowers of light,
And her goblet crowned with wine,
Golden bright.
Misty shadows wrap us round;
Light below and dark above,
Filled with softly-surging sound.
See the forehead of the Night
Garlanded 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 lies
Half in slumber, half awake.
Lay thy warm, white hand in mine
Let the fingers clasp and twine,
While my eager, panting heart
Beats 'gainst thine.
Quiet as a haunted lake;
In their depths the passion lies
Half in slumber, half awake.
Lay thy warm, white hand in mine
Let the fingers clasp and twine,
While my eager, panting heart
Beats '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—
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 things
Greasy with the tallow drips;
Wet and torn, with rusty wire,
Blackened by the dying fire;
Withered flowers, trampled deep
In the mire.
Painted paper, penny dips,—
Filled with roasted moths and things
Greasy with the tallow drips;
Wet and torn, with rusty wire,
Blackened by the dying fire;
Withered flowers, trampled deep
In the mire.
Chinese lanterns, Bernstein's band,
Belladonna, lily white,
These made up the fairy-land
Where I wandered all last night;
Ruled in all its rosy glow
By a merry Queen, you know
Jolly, dancing, laughing, witching,
Veuve Cliquot.
Belladonna, lily white,
These made up the fairy-land
Where I wandered all last night;
Ruled in all its rosy glow
By a merry Queen, you know
Jolly, dancing, laughing, witching,
Veuve Cliquot.
THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS.
"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 do
With but little labor,
For with all my heart and soul
I do love my neighbor.
So the parson preaches;
That's one-half the Decalogue.—
So the Prayer-book teaches.
Half my duty I can do
With but little labor,
For with all my heart and soul
I do love my neighbor.
Mighty little credit, that,
To my self-denial;
Not to love her, though, might be
Something of a trial,
Why, the rosy light, that peeps
Through the glass above her,
Lingers round her lips:—you see
E'en the sunbeams love her.
To my self-denial;
Not to love her, though, might be
Something of a trial,
Why, the rosy light, that peeps
Through the glass above her,
Lingers round her lips:—you see
E'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 breath
Of the Spring, that passes
Through the fragrant, budding woods,
O'er the meadow-grasses.
I'll go beyond the letter;
Love my neighbor as myself?
Yes, and ten times better.
For she's sweeter than the breath
Of the Spring, that passes
Through the fragrant, budding woods,
O'er the meadow-grasses.
And I've preached the word I know,
For it was my duty
To convert the stubborn heart
Of the little beauty.
Once again success has crowned
Missionary labor,
For her sweet eyes own that she
Also loves her neighbor.
For it was my duty
To convert the stubborn heart
Of the little beauty.
Once again success has crowned
Missionary labor,
For her sweet eyes own that she
Also loves her neighbor.
MARRIAGE A LÀ MODE.
A Trilogy.
I.
love's young dream.
a.d. 1880.
"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 way
At 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 meets
Kiss 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 loved
Like 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 your fiancée
Isn't good style, anyhow.
Just suppose that one of us,—
Nell and me, you know—some day
Got 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."
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 way
At 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 meets
Kiss 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 loved
Like 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 your fiancée
Isn't good style, anyhow.
Just suppose that one of us,—
Nell and me, you know—some day
Got 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."
II.
up the aisle.
a.d. 1881.
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 it
When 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 me
Without 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-made trousseau.
And there's Annie Wheeler—Kate Hermon—
I didn't expect her at all—
If she's not in that same old blue satin
She 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.
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 it
When 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 me
Without 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-made trousseau.
And there's Annie Wheeler—Kate Hermon—
I didn't expect her at all—
If she's not in that same old blue satin
She 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.
III.
divorce.
a.d., 1886.
The Club Window.
"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!
'Parading your shame'!—I don't see it.
It's hers now, alone; for at last
You drove her to give you good reason,
Divorced her, and so it's all passed.
For you, 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—
You started wrong, Charley Leclear.
You weren't in love when you married—
'Nor she!'—well, I know, but she tried
To keep it dark. You wouldn't let her,
But laughed at her for it. Her pride
Wouldn't stand that, you know. Did you ever
See a spirited girl in your life,
Who would patiently pose to be pitied
As a 'patient Griselda'-like wife
When her husband neglects her so plainly
As you did?—although, on the whole,
When the wife is the culprit, I've noticed
It's rather the favorite rôle.
So she flirted a little—in public—
She'd chances enough and to spare,
Ah, then if you'd only turned jealous—
But you didn't notice nor care.
Then her sickness came—even we fellows
All 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 have left you. 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 friend
To confide in, and he is a blackguard,
She isn't far off from the end.
Oh, I'm through—of course nobody blamed you
In the end, when you got your divorce—
You were right enough there—she'd levanted
With Guelph, and you'd no other course.
What I mean is, if you'd acted squarely,
The row would have never occurred,
And for you to 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."
For heaven's sake, old man, keep cool!
No end of the fellows are watching—
Go easy, don't act like a fool!
'Parading your shame'!—I don't see it.
It's hers now, alone; for at last
You drove her to give you good reason,
Divorced her, and so it's all passed.
For you, 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—
You started wrong, Charley Leclear.
You weren't in love when you married—
'Nor she!'—well, I know, but she tried
To keep it dark. You wouldn't let her,
But laughed at her for it. Her pride
Wouldn't stand that, you know. Did you ever
See a spirited girl in your life,
Who would patiently pose to be pitied
As a 'patient Griselda'-like wife
When her husband neglects her so plainly
As you did?—although, on the whole,
When the wife is the culprit, I've noticed
It's rather the favorite rôle.
So she flirted a little—in public—
She'd chances enough and to spare,
Ah, then if you'd only turned jealous—
But you didn't notice nor care.
Then her sickness came—even we fellows
All 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 have left you. 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 friend
To confide in, and he is a blackguard,
She isn't far off from the end.
Oh, I'm through—of course nobody blamed you
In the end, when you got your divorce—
You were right enough there—she'd levanted
With Guelph, and you'd no other course.
What I mean is, if you'd acted squarely,
The row would have never occurred,
And for you to 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."
IV.
at afternoon tea.
"'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, looking so pleading—
I cut him, of course. Wouldn't you?
If I meet him alone, I'll explain it;
But knowing her, what could I do?
Poor fellow! He looks sadly altered—
I think it a sin, and a shame,
The way he was wrecked by that creature!
I know he was never to blame.
He never suspected. He liked her—
He'd known her for most of his life—
And of course, it was quite a temptation
To run off with another man's wife.
At his age, you know—barely thirty—
So romantic, and makes such a noise
In one's club—why, one can't but excuse him,
Now can one, dear? Boys will be boys.
I've known him so long—why, he'd come here
And talk to me just like a son.
It's my duty—I feel as a mother—
To save him; the thing can be done
Very easily. First, I must show him
How grossly the woman deceived
And entrapped him.—It made such a scandal
You know, that he can't be received
At all, any more, till he drops her—
He'll certainly not be so mad
As to hold to her still. Oh, I know him
So well—I'm quite sure he'll be glad
On any excuse, to oblige me
In a matter so trifling indeed.
Then the way will be clear. We'll receive him,
And the rest will soon follow our lead.
We must keep our eyes on him more closely
Hereafter; young men of his wealth
And position are so sorely tempted
To waste time, and fortune, and health
In frivolous pleasures and pastimes,
That there's but one safe-guard in life
For them and their money—we've seen it—
A really nice girl for a wife.
Too bad you've no daughter! My Mamie
Had influence with him for good
Before this affair—when he comes here
She'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 can save him.
I'll write him to-morrow, poor boy."
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, looking so pleading—
I cut him, of course. Wouldn't you?
If I meet him alone, I'll explain it;
But knowing her, what could I do?
Poor fellow! He looks sadly altered—
I think it a sin, and a shame,
The way he was wrecked by that creature!
I know he was never to blame.
He never suspected. He liked her—
He'd known her for most of his life—
And of course, it was quite a temptation
To run off with another man's wife.
At his age, you know—barely thirty—
So romantic, and makes such a noise
In one's club—why, one can't but excuse him,
Now can one, dear? Boys will be boys.
I've known him so long—why, he'd come here
And talk to me just like a son.
It's my duty—I feel as a mother—
To save him; the thing can be done
Very easily. First, I must show him
How grossly the woman deceived
And entrapped him.—It made such a scandal
You know, that he can't be received
At all, any more, till he drops her—
He'll certainly not be so mad
As to hold to her still. Oh, I know him
So well—I'm quite sure he'll be glad
On any excuse, to oblige me
In a matter so trifling indeed.
Then the way will be clear. We'll receive him,
And the rest will soon follow our lead.
We must keep our eyes on him more closely
Hereafter; young men of his wealth
And position are so sorely tempted
To waste time, and fortune, and health
In frivolous pleasures and pastimes,
That there's but one safe-guard in life
For them and their money—we've seen it—
A really nice girl for a wife.
Too bad you've no daughter! My Mamie
Had influence with him for good
Before this affair—when he comes here
She'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 can save him.
I'll write him to-morrow, poor boy."
THE "STAY-AT-HOME'S" PLAINT.
The Spring has grown to Summer;
The sun is fierce and high;
The city shrinks, and withers
Beneath the burning sky.
Ailantus trees are fragrant,
And thicker shadows cast,
Where berry-girls, with voices shrill,
And watering carts go past.
The sun is fierce and high;
The city shrinks, and withers
Beneath 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 ovens
We sit without our coats;
Our cuffs are moist and shapeless,
No collars binds our throats.
We carry huge umbrellas
On Broad Street and on Wall,
Oh, how thermometers go up!
And, oh, how stocks do fall!
We sit without our coats;
Our cuffs are moist and shapeless,
No collars binds our throats.
We carry huge umbrellas
On Broad Street and on Wall,
Oh, how thermometers go up!
And, oh, how stocks do fall!
The nights are full of music,
Melodious Teuton troops
Beguile 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.
Melodious Teuton troops
Beguile 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 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 with
Are far away, alas!
The feet that kissed its pavement
Are deep in country grass.
Along the scented hedge-rows,
Among the green old trees,
Are blooming city faces
'Neath rosy-lined pongees.
Are far away, alas!
The feet that kissed its pavement
Are 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-rooms
They dance the hours away.
Their voices through the quiet
Of haunted Catskill break;
Or rouse those dreamy dryads,
The nymphs of Echo Lake.
They're bathing at Cape May;
In Saratoga's ball-rooms
They dance the hours away.
Their voices through the quiet
Of 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 ruin
On other men look down;
We're but the broken play-things
They've left behind in town.
And squeezed, perchance, of yore,
Now deftly grasp the bridle,
The mallet, and the oar.
The eyes that wrought our ruin
On other men look down;
We're but the broken play-things
They've left behind in town.
| "THE FEET THAT KISSED ITS PAVEMENT |
| ARE DEEP IN COUNTRY GRASS." —Page 59. |
THE "STAY-AT-HOME'S" PÆAN.
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 Summer
Are hurrying back into town.
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 Summer
Are 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.
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 more
Made 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.
Its billowy beaches no more
Made 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 ground
Sighs many a hapless cadet,
Who's basked through the long days of Summer
In the smiles of a city coquette;
And now the incipient hero
Beholds his enchantress depart,
With the spoils of her lightly-won triumph,
His buttons, as well as his heart.
Sighs many a hapless cadet,
Who's basked through the long days of Summer
In the smiles of a city coquette;
And now the incipient hero
Beholds 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.
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 fills
The souls of unfortunate fathers
Who 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.
That horror unspeakable fills
The souls of unfortunate fathers
Who 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 know
They'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.
For under their nonsense we know
They'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. |
EIGHT HOURS.
"Sign the petition!" "Write my name!"
"She said, ask me!"—oh, she's fooling;
Where do you think a girl like me
Could 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 see
It 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 alone
Like 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 do
That before I know it, almost, it's Monday.
Like it sir, like it!—why, when I think
Of the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking—
I was country-bred, sir—my heart swells so
That 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 away
To spend the Summer across the water.
But us—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.
"She said, ask me!"—oh, she's fooling;
Where do you think a girl like me
Could 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 see
It 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 alone
Like 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 do
That before I know it, almost, it's Monday.
Like it sir, like it!—why, when I think
Of the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking—
I was country-bred, sir—my heart swells so
That 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 away
To spend the Summer across the water.
But us—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.
SLEEPING BEAUTY.
a parable.
You remember the nursery legend—
We heard in the early days,
Ere we knew of the world's deception
Or walked in its dusty ways,
And dwelt in a land of the fairies
Where the air was golden haze—
We heard in the early days,
Ere we knew of the world's deception
Or walked in its dusty ways,
And dwelt in a land of the fairies
Where the air was golden haze—
Of the maid, o'er whom the Summers
Of youth passed, like a swell
Of melody all unbroken,
Till evil wrought its spell,
And dream-embroidered curtains
Of slumber round her fell.
Of youth passed, like a swell
Of melody all unbroken,
Till evil wrought its spell,
And dream-embroidered curtains
Of slumber round her fell.
The wood grew up round her castle,
The centuries o'er it rolled,
Wrapping its slumb'rous turrets
In clinging robes of mould,
And her name became a legend
By Winter fire-sides told.
The centuries o'er it rolled,
Wrapping its slumb'rous turrets
In clinging robes of mould,
And her name became a legend
By Winter fire-sides told.
Till the Prince came over the mountains
In the morning-glow of youth;
The forest sank before him
Like wrong before the truth,
And he passed the dim old portal,
With its warders so uncouth,
In the morning-glow of youth;
The forest sank before him
Like 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 pleasure
That poured through each stony vein.
And broke enchantment's chain,
The sleepy old castle wondered,
In its cobweb-cumbered brain,
At the tide of life and pleasure
That poured through each stony vein.
EASTER MORNING.
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 sin
For 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 proud
Of that bonnet, if Virot did make it,
It's horrid fast-looking and loud.
What a dress!—for a girl in her senses
To 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 wonder
Who 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 know
That 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 dreadful
After all, for we don't dine till one;
How can people say church is poky!—
So wicked!—I think it's real fun.
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 sin
For 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 proud
Of that bonnet, if Virot did make it,
It's horrid fast-looking and loud.
What a dress!—for a girl in her senses
To 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 wonder
Who 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 know
That 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 dreadful
After all, for we don't dine till one;
How can people say church is poky!—
So wicked!—I think it's real fun.
A LEGEND OF ST. VALENTINE.
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 Maud
Something for a valentine.
So I ground some verses out
In 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 good
Just to waste that way on one.
Jack, I told you, didn't I,
All about that black-eyed girl
Up in Stratford—last July—
Oh! you know; you saw her curl?
Well, old fellow, she's the one
That this row is all about,
For I sent her—who'd have thought
Maud 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 suppose
That 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 down
On 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.
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 Maud
Something for a valentine.
So I ground some verses out
In 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 good
Just to waste that way on one.
Jack, I told you, didn't I,
All about that black-eyed girl
Up in Stratford—last July—
Oh! you know; you saw her curl?
Well, old fellow, she's the one
That this row is all about,
For I sent her—who'd have thought
Maud 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 suppose
That 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 down
On 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.