Chapter IV: Introduction (4)

Oh, Ellery Vane! you little thought An hour ago, when you besought This country lass to walk with you, After the sun had dried the dew, What perilous danger you'd be in As she tied her bonnet under her chin.

_Nora Perry._

OVER THE WAY

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 grace Before 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 awe Down 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._

CHORUS OF WOMEN

FROM THE "THESMOPHORIAZUSÆ."

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 moment
If ever we chance to roam?
When you ought to be thanking Heaven
That 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 staring
Until she looks out again.

_Aristophanes._

THE WIDOW MALONE

Did you hear of the Widow Malone O hone! Who lived in the town of Athlone Alone? O, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts; So lovely the Widow Malone, O hone! So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score Or more; And fortunes they all had galore In store; From the minister down To the clerk of the Crown, All were courting the Widow Malone O 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 care Down 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._

THE SMACK IN SCHOOL

A district school, not far away, Mid Berkshire's hills, one winter's day, Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls and boys; Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent. The while the master's downward look Was fastened on a copy-book; When suddenly, behind his back, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack! As 'twere a battery of bliss Let 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 amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be 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 girls And 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._

'SPÄCIALLY JIM

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' men
An' I wouldn't take stock in _him!_
But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk,
'Späcially Jim.

I got _so_ tired o' havin' 'em roun'
('Späcially Jim!),
I made up my mind I'd settle down
An' 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._

KITTY OF COLERAINE

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?

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,
_That_ everybody knows;
You _fête_ the 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 some _distingué_ beau
A 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 them
As if I'd read them through!
With hair cropp'd like a man I've felt
The heads of all the beaux;
But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
And oh! they won't propose.

I threw aside the books, and thought
That ignorance was bliss;
I felt convinced that men preferred
A simple sort of Miss;
And so I lisped out nought beyond
Plain "yesses" or plain "noes,"
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;
Yet, oh! they won't propose.

Last night at Lady Ramble's rout
I heard Sir Henry Gale
Exclaim, "Now I _propose_ again----"
I started, turning pale;
I really thought my time was come,
I blushed like any rose;
But oh! I found 'twas only at
_Ecarté_ he'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 left
Where spinsters sit in rows;
Why don't the men propose, mamma?
Why _won't_ the men propose?

_Thomas Haynes Bayly._

A PIN

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 girl She 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 eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride, And she said, "Oh, how becoming!" and then softly added, "It Is 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 way She 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 begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.

_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._

THE WHISTLER

"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood
While 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 maid
Would fly to my side, and would there take her place."

"Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours
Without 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 charm
Would work so, that not even modesty's check
Would 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 divine
Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss
You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine
And 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 be
To sit there and whistle for what you might take."

_Unknown._

THE CLOUD

AN IDYLL OF THE WESTERN FRONT

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 still
Before 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 to _her_ knitting? 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 excuse
To put her lovers off, a wifely ruse,
Bidding them bide till it was finished, she
Each 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 through
A Wind whose ancestor it was that blew
Ulysses' ship across the purple sea
Back to his people and Penelope.
We Clouds pick up strange tales, as far and wide
And to and fro above the world we ride,
Across uncharted seas, upon the swell
Of 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 company
Of pond'rous galleons--

|Celeste|: Oft-times I see
A Cloud, as by some playful fancy stirred,
Take likeness of a monstrous beast or bird
Or some fantastic fish, as though 'twere clay
Moulded 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 hump
Dissolved, 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 know
How cold it is. Pierre has told me so
A thousand times.

|Cloud|: And who is this Pierre
That 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 raid
Somewhere--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 heard
His 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--I
Will 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! There
He sings again! _Le bon Dieu garde, ma chère!_

II

|Pierre|: I made a perfect landing over there
Behind 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 Cloud
That saved me when the Boche came up behind.
I made a lightning turn, only to find
The Boche on top of me. It seemed a kind
Of miracle to see that Cloud--I swear
A moment past the sky was everywhere
As 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 quick
Behind 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 drop
Ten 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._

CONSTANCY

"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._

AIN'T IT AWFUL, MABEL?

It worries me to beat the band To 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 wired The 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._

WING TEE WEE

Oh, Wing Tee Wee
Was a sweet Chinee,
And she lived in the town of Tac.
Her eyes were blue,
And her curling queue
Hung dangling down her back;
And she fell in love with gay Win Sil
When he wrote his name on a laundry bill.

And, oh, Tim Told
Was 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 Told
Showed all his gold
To the maid in the town of Tac;
And sweet Wing Wee
Eloped to sea,
And nevermore came back;
For in far Chinee the maids are fair,
And the maids are false,--as everywhere.

_J. P. Denison._

PHYLLIS LEE

Beside a Primrose 'broider'd Rill Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress Whilst Lucius limn'd with loving skill Her likeness, as a Shepherdess. Yet tho' he strove with loving skill His Brush refused to work his Will.

"Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes I cannot paint to-day," he said; "Their Brightness shames the very Skies And turns their Turquoise into Lead." Quoth Phyllis, then, "To save the Skies And 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 are _sure_ that none can see I'll keep them shut," said Phyllis Lee.

_Oliver Herford._

THE SORROWS OF WERTHER

Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such 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 body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.

_W. M. Thackeray._

THE UNATTAINABLE

Tom's album was filled with the pictures of belles
Who had captured his manly heart,
From the fairy who danced for the front-row swells
To the maiden who tooled her cart;
But one face as fair as a cloudless dawn
Caught 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 gain
Yield only a transient bliss,
And we're all of us prone to sigh in vain
For "the girl we couldn't kiss."

_Harry Romaine._

RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS

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 way You'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._

A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO

"_Le temps le mieux employé est celui qu' on perd._"
--|Claude Tillier|.

I'd read three hours. Both notes and text
Were 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, discloses
Miss Di., with hat and book,--a maze
Of 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 blue
Beneath a Dolly Varden.'"

She smiled. "My book in turn avers
(No author's name is stated)
That sometimes those Philosophers
Are sadly mis-translated."

"But hear,--the next's in stronger style:
The Cynic School asserted
That two red lips which part and smile
May not be controverted!"

She smiled once more--"My book, I find,
Observes some modern doctors
Would make the Cynics out a kind
Of album-verse concoctors."

Then I--"Why not? 'Ephesian law,
No less than time's tradition,
Enjoined fair speech on all who saw
Diana's apparition.'"

She blushed--this time. "If Plato's page
No 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 ease
While Beauty goes a-walking."

She read no more, I leapt the sill:
The sequel's scarce essential--
Nay, more than this, I hold it still
Profoundly confidential.

_Austin Dobson._

DORA VERSUS ROSE

"_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 is
Like mine: I am equally fond
Of 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 pass
Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,--
Or Buridan's ass.

If it happens that Rosa I've singled
For a soft celebration in rhyme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled
Somehow with the tune and the time;
Or I painfully pen me a sonnet
To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,
And behold I am writing upon it
The legend, "To Rose,"

Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter
Is 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 adding
To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding
Ineffable 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 side
I've a scruple,--a grain, more affection,
I _cannot_ decide.

And, as either so hopelessly nice is,
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis,--
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive
By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora _and_ Rose.

(_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 sequel
Is easily guessed.

_Austin Dobson._

TU QUOQUE

AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY

|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 with _odious_ Miss M'Tavish,
If I were you!

|frank|
If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer
Whiff 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 so _frightful_,
If I were you!

|frank|
"It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is
Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu!
_I_ shall 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 duel
Seems, 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 was _piqué_, too.

|nellie|
Ask me to dance. I'd say no more about it,
If I were you!

[Waltz--_Exeunt_.]

_Austin Dobson._

NOTHING TO WEAR.

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 put On 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 material Quite 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 steamer _Argo_ Formed, 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 manifested Such particular interest that they invested Their own proper persons in layers and rows Of muslins, embroideries, worked underclothes, Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those; Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties, Gave _good-by_ to the ship, and _go-by_ to the duties. Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt, Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout For 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 day The 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 dress Which 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's Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, I had just been selected as he who should throw all The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections Of 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 plighted Not 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 enough For 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 remainder At least in the property, and the best right To 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 call And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her--as ladies are apt to be found When the time intervening between the first sound Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter Than usual--I found--I won't say I caught--her Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning To 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 followed Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. And now will your Ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your 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 star On the Stuckup horizon--" I stopped, for her eye, Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, Opened on me at once a most terrible battery Of 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 suppose That 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 dressmaker Has 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 it As more _comme il faut_"--"Yes, but, dear me, that lean Sophronia 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 superb _point 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 crushed Opposition, "that gorgeous toilette which you sported In 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 I _ripped out_ something, perhaps rather rash-- Quite innocent, though; but to use an expression More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," And proved very soon the last act of our session. "Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling Doesn'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 hailed Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed To express the abusive, and then its arrears Were 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 lay Quite 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 Czar Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days, On the whole do you think he would have much time to spare If he married a woman with nothing to wear?

_William Allen Butler._

MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS

They nearly strike me dumb, And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat: This palpitation means These boots are Geraldine's-- Think of that!

Oh, where did hunter win So delectable a skin For her feet? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my sweet!

The faëry stitching gleams On the sides, and in the seams, And it shows The Pixies were the wags Who tipt those funny tags And these toes.

What soles to charm an elf! Had Crusoe, sick of self, Chanced to view _One_ printed near the tide, Oh, how hard he would have tried For the two!

For Gerry's debonair And innocent, and fair As a rose; She's an angel in a frock, With a fascinating cock To her nose.

The simpletons who squeeze Their extremities to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's.

Cinderella's _lefts and rights_, To Geraldine's were frights; And I trow, The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don; Set this dainty hand awhile On my shoulder, dear, and I'll Put them on.

_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

MRS. SMITH

Last year I trod these fields with Di, Fields fresh with clover and with rye; They now seem arid! Then Di was fair and single; how Unfair it seems on me, for now Di's fair--and married!

A blissful swain--I scorn'd the song Which says that though young Love is strong, The Fates are stronger; Breezes then blew a boon to men, The buttercups were bright, and then This grass was longer.

That day I saw and much esteem'd Di's ankles, which the clover seem'd Inclined to smother; It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun) The ribbon of her shoes, first one, And then the other.

I'm told that virgins augur some Misfortune if their shoe-strings come To grief on Friday: And so did Di, and then her pride Decreed that shoe-strings so untied Are "so untidy!"

Of course I knelt; with fingers deft I tied the right, and then the left; Says Di, "The stubble Is very stupid!--as I live, I'm quite ashamed!--I'm shock'd to give You so much trouble!"

For answer I was fain to sink To what we all would say and think Were Beauty present: "Don't mention such a simple act-- A trouble? not the least! in fact It's rather pleasant!"

I trust that Love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he's A graceless rover. She's happy now as _Mrs. Smith_-- And less polite when walking with Her chosen lover!

Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings, We've had our quarrels!-- I think that Smith is thought an ass; I know that when they walk in grass She wears _balmorals_.

_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

A TERRIBLE INFANT

I recollect a nurse call'd Ann, Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a fine young man Came up, and kiss'd the pretty lass. She did not make the least objection! Thinks I, "_Aha_! _When I can talk I'll tell Mamma_" --And that's my earliest recollection.

_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

SUSAN

A KIND PROVIDENCE

He dropt a tear on Susan's bier,
He seem'd a most despairing swain;
But bluer sky brought newer tie,
And--would he wish her back again?

The moments fly, and when we die,
Will Philly Thistletop complain?
She'll cry and sigh, and--dry her eye,
And let herself be woo'd again.

_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

"I DIDN'T LIKE HIM"

Perhaps you may a-noticed I been soht o' solemn lately,
Haven't been a-lookin' quite so pleasant.
Mabbe I have been a little bit too proud and stately;
Dat's because I'se lonesome jes' at present.
I an' him agreed to quit a week or so ago,
Fo' now dat I am in de social swim
I'se 'rived to de opinion dat he ain't my style o' beau,
So I tole him dat my watch was fas' fo' him.

|refrain|

Oh, I didn't like his clo'es,
An' I didn't like his eyes,
Nor his walk, nor his talk,
Nor his ready-made neckties.
I didn't like his name a bit,
Jes' 'spise the name o' Jim;
If dem ere reasons ain't enough,
I didn't like _Him_.

Dimon' ring he give to me, an' said it was a fine stone.
Guess it's only alum mixed wif camphor.
Took it roun' to Eisenstein; he said it was a rhinestone,
Kind, he said, he didn't give a dam fur.
Sealskin sack he give to me it got me in a row.
P'liceman called an' asked to see dat sack;
Said another lady lost it. Course I don't know how;
But I had to go to jail or give it back.

|refrain|

Oh, I didn't like his trade;
Trade dat kep' him out all night.
He'd de look ob a crook,
An' he owned a bull's-eye light.
So when policemen come to ask
What _I_ know 'bout dat Jim,
I come to de confusion dat
I didn't like _Him_.

_Harry B. Smith._

MY ANGELINE

She kept her secret well, oh, yes,
Her hideous secret well.
We together were cast, I knew not her past;
For how was I to tell?
I married her, guileless lamb I was;
I'd have died for her sweet sake.
How could I have known that my Angeline
Had been a Human Snake?
Ah, we had been wed but a week or two
When I found her quite a wreck:
Her limbs were tied in a double bow-knot
At the back of her swan-like neck.
No curse there sprang to my pallid lips,
Nor did I reproach her then;
I calmly untied my bonny bride
And straightened her out again.

_Refrain_

My Angeline! My Angeline! Why didst disturb my mind serene? My well-belovèd circus queen, My Human Snake, my Angeline! At night I'd wake at the midnight hour, With a weird and haunted feeling, And there she'd be, in her _robe de nuit_, A-walking upon the ceiling. She said she was being "the human fly," And she'd lift me up from beneath By a section slight of my garb of night, Which she held in her pearly teeth. For the sweet, sweet sake of the Human Snake I'd have stood this conduct shady; But she skipped in the end with an old, old friend, An eminent bearded lady. But, oh, at night, when my slumber's light, Regret comes o'er me stealing; For I miss the sound of those little feet, As they pattered along the ceiling.

_Refrain_

My Angeline! My Angeline! Why didst disturb my mind serene? My well-belovèd circus queen, My Human Snake, my Angeline!

_Harry B. Smith._

NORA'S VOW

Hear what Highland Nora said,-- "The Earlie's son I will not wed, Should all the race of nature die, And none be left but he and I. For all the gold, for all the gear, And all the lands both far and near, That ever valour lost or won, I would not wed the Earlie's son."

"A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke, "Are lightly made and lightly broke, The heather on the mountain's height Begins to bloom in purple light; The frost-wind soon shall sweep away That lustre deep from glen and brae; Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, May blithely wed the Earlie's son."

"The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest; The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn; Our kilted clans, when blood is high, Before their foes may turn and fly; But I, were all these marvels done, Would never wed the Earlie's son."

Still in the water-lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild swan made; Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river; To shun the clash of foeman's steel, No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel; But Nora's heart is lost and won, --She's wedded to the Earlie's son!

_Sir Walter Scott._

HUSBAND AND HEATHEN

O'er the men of Ethiopia she would pour her cornucopia, And shower wealth and plenty on the people of Japan, Send down jelly cake and candies to the Indians of the Andes, And a cargo of plum pudding to the men of Hindoostan; And she said she loved 'em so, Bushman, Finn, and Eskimo. If she had the wings of eagles to their succour she would fly Loaded down with jam and jelly, Succotash and vermicelli, Prunes, pomegranates, plums and pudding, peaches, pineapples, and pie.

She would fly with speedy succour to the natives of Molucca
With whole loads of quail and salmon, and with tons of fricassee
And give cake in fullest measure
To the men of Australasia
And all the Archipelagoes that dot the southern sea;
And the Anthropophagi,
All their lives deprived of pie,
She would satiate and satisfy with custards, cream, and mince;
And those miserable Australians
And the Borrioboolighalians,
She would gorge with choicest jelly, raspberry, currant, grape, and
quince.

But like old war-time hardtackers, her poor husband lived on crackers,
Bought at wholesale from a baker, eaten from the mantelshelf;
If the men of Madagascar,
And the natives of Alaska,
Had enough to sate their hunger, let him look out for himself.
And his coat had but one tail
And he used a shingle nail
To fasten up his galluses when he went out to his work;
And she used to spend his money
To buy sugar-plums and honey
For the Terra del Fuegian and the Turcoman and Turk.

_Sam Walter Foss._

THE LOST PLEIAD

'Twas a pretty little maiden In a garden gray and old, Where the apple trees were laden With the magic fruit of gold; But she strayed beyond the portal Of the garden of the Sun, And she flirted with a mortal, Which she oughtn't to have done! For a giant was her father and a goddess was her mother, She was Merope or Sterope--the one or else the other; And the man was not the equal, though presentable and rich, Of Merope or Sterope--I don't remember which!

Now the giant's daughters seven,
She among them, if you please,
Were translated to the heaven
As the starry Pleiades!
But amid their constellation
One alone was always dark,
For she shrank from observation
Or censorious remark.

She had yielded to a mortal when he came to flirt and flatter. She was Merope or Sterope--the former or the latter; So the planets all ignored her, and the comets wouldn't call On Merope or Sterope--I am not sure at all!

But the Dog-star, brightly shining
In the hottest of July,
Saw the pretty Pleiad pining
In the shadow of the sky,
And he courted her and kissed her
Till she kindled into light;
And the Pleiads' erring sister
Was the lady of the night!

So her former indiscretion as a fault was never reckoned, To Merope or Sterope--the first or else the second, And you'll never see so rigidly respectable a dame As Merope or Sterope--I can't recall her name!

_Arthur Reed Ropes._

THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN

They've got a brand-new organ, Sue,
For all their fuss and search;
They've done just as they said they'd do,
And fetched it into church.
They're bound the critter shall be seen,
And on the preacher's right
They've hoisted up their new machine
In everybody's sight.
They've got a chorister and choir,
Ag'in' _my_ voice and vote;
For it was never _my_ desire
To praise the Lord by note.

I've been a sister good an' true
For five-an'-thirty year;
I've done what seemed my part to do,
An' prayed my duty clear;
I've sung the hymns both slow and quick,
Just as the preacher read,
And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick,
I took the fork an' led;
And now, their bold, new-fangled ways
Is comin' all about;
And I, right in my latter days,
Am fairly crowded out!

To-day the preacher, good old dear,
With tears all in his eyes,
Read, "I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies."
I al'ays liked that blessed hymn--
I s'pose I al'ays will--
It somehow gratifies _my_ whim,
In good old Ortonville;
But when that choir got up to sing,
I couldn't catch a word;
They sung the most dog-gondest thing
A body ever heard!

Some worldly chaps was standin' near;
An' when I see them grin,
I bid farewell to every fear,
And boldly waded in.
I thought I'd chase their tune along,
An' tried with all my might;
But though my voice was good an' strong,
I couldn't steer it right.
When they was high, then I was low,
An' also contrawise;
An' I too fast, or they too slow,
To "mansions in the skies."

An' after every verse, you know
They play a little tune;
I didn't understand, and so
I started in too soon.
I pitched it pretty middlin' high,
I fetched a lusty tone,
But oh, alas! I found that I
Was singin' there alone!
They laughed a little, I am told;
But I had done my best;
And not a wave of trouble rolled
Across my peaceful breast.

And Sister Brown--I could but look--
She sits right front of me;
She never was no singin'-book,
An' never went to be;
But then she al'ays tried to do
The best she could, she said;
She understood the time right through,
An' kep' it with her head;
But when she tried this mornin', oh,
I had to laugh, or cough!
It kep' her head a-bobbin' so,
It e'en a'most came off.