Part 2

I’m tired now of history. I’ve learned it all, and can not see Why we have to know so much About the English, French, and Dutch, And all these men of ancient times, Their virtue, valor, and their crimes. We have as many of to-day As we can well their traits portray. Then why go back to ages past To get our heroes for a cast? Or worry o’er the wars of yore, When we can have them at our door, Green and fresh, of recent date, In our own land, indeed our state?

What trials teachers do invent. They never seem to be content Without a torture of some kind To agitate the pupil’s mind. And as for rest or idle hours, The very thought their temper sours. But study early, study late, Things you like and things you hate; Study hard and study long, Whether you are weak or strong.

I tried my best to keep my brain Healthy, sound, and free from pain; I never had it suffer aught From exercise of weighty thought. All extra care and overwork, My great ambition was to shirk; To save the tissues of my mind, I’ve always been somewhat inclined! I’d study just to struggle through, But not enough to make me blue, Nor any recreation miss, Which now I think accounts for this Entire health which is my boast, That over study might have lost.

In moderation thus I went From grade to grade, and was content. In tricks and trifling, mirth and fun, Was always passing number one. The teachers vexed at every turn, And wanting me to leave or learn, Would often help me gladly through Their special class into a new, Thus hoping then and there to find More occupation for my mind, And for themselves relief and rest. How little my adieus distressed; For those bereft of such a prize Looked coolly on with driest eyes!

Once or twice I skipped a grade, And cast the good girls in the shade, Thus rid that teacher most entire Of all the mischief I’d inspire; ’Twas less in learning than in luck, Together with my tact and pluck, That helped me prematurely through, But that is nothing odd or new.

I gushed as much at my advance As though it was no game of chance, And never hinted in the least, As honors on me so increased, ’Twas troubled teachers pushing me To get me through thus rapidly.

So thus, for two years and a half-- I think of it, and have to laugh-- I spent the chequered, closing days Of school life, with its blame and praise, Till all at once the president, On my departure firmly bent, Informed me I must now begin My graduating bays to win. He seemed quite glad to have me leave, Indeed, there’s no one seemed to grieve About my going at this date, So I resolved to graduate.

My parting essay now I write, And try sad feelings to excite. I use the most pathetic strain, As though I’d willingly remain To share those sweet scholastic joys That leaving school at once destroys. I tried to make their bosoms sigh For blessings now about to fly.

But, ah! alas, what cool content My phrases to their faces lent! I sadly spoke of happy scenes Of school life, with its hopes and dreams, Of patient teachers, just and kind, And wondered if we’d ever find In life again, such friends as these, (And, aside, I thought) as hard to please.

I really felt it was a time When I should utter thoughts sublime, But no one seemed to be disposed To feel the slightest discomposed; Nor could I hear a sob or sigh, Or see a single moistened eye!

Each teacher that I left behind Seemed reconciled and well resigned To hear my valedictory read, And every parting word I said Gave pleasure, I could plainly see, To all the high-school faculty.

That day in June I’ll ne’er forget, Their happy faces haunt me yet. So eager, anxious, and content, To lose a light, ’twas only lent. I felt their hearts were made of stone, To be so glad when I was gone. Our president, so mild and meek, So happy was, he scarce could speak; He said my _welfare_ was his aim, But now my _farewell_ was the same! So I hurriedly my parchment drew, And bid the _happy_ school adieu.

GIRLHOOD.

Thus I left those hallowed halls, Its blackboards and its pictured walls, With maps and charts of every size, To torture brain and tease the eyes; And fondly fancied I was through; I knew twice now what others knew, And all I had to do was show My talents off, and catch a beau.

What consternation then was mine, When aunt’s original design Was carried out, to have me teach-- I’d almost rather beg or preach; But as it was her great desire, And as I had no wealthy sire, My talents must my banker be-- So I took a class in A, B, C.

Again I must divide my time, between a share of prose and rhyme; I taught all day which was my prose-- The rhyme in evening, was my beau. My daily duties never flagged, But evening callers often lagged; I’d wonder too how they could know My many charms and tarry so!

How often evenings I have sat, Impromptu welcomes all so pat; I’d tell the girl to say “I’m home,” Alas the callers never come! And I would sit and read a book, I’d read before, and never look Disconcerted or annoyed, Till evening hopes were all destroyed. Then, disappointed, I’d retire, And try to think of something higher, But bitter pangs would rend my heart, And dreams and nightmares make me start.

Sometimes a beau would happen in, And make me most commit a sin, By seeming very much surprised, When really I had half surmised That he was coming for a week-- But this was just a girlish freak.

They really ought to like to come, I made them feel so much at home; They seemed so happy while they stayed, And left reluctantly, they said; And I would often think it true, And show my sorrow--wouldn’t you?

But, ah, alas! I soon began To see the sad deceit of man; I’d sit and watch and wait in vain, My nose against the window-pane, Or listen with an anxious spell, To hear the ringing of the bell, And bless the beggar that would dare, To waken hope and bring despair!

Thus matters stood at seventeen-- An age that’s always noted been For sunny happiness and joys-- And so would mine, but for the boys; The very ones that suited me, My aunty never seemed to see With loving eyes as I desired, And those she liked I ne’er admired; And when we did on one agree He hardly ever fancied me!

The scrapes and troubles I have had, Enough to make a martyr sad; These sorrows didn’t happen once, But worried me for weeks and months. At last becoming better known, New suitors I began to own, And having more, had bitter choice And had occasion to rejoice That I was blest with lots of beaus, But none seemed anxious to propose. They’d come and go with thoughtless air, And I, pretending not to care, Would bid them welcome and adieu, As sweet and kind as if I knew Their very heart-throb was for me-- Their lives one line of constancy!

How many sorry sighs I’ve had About a wayward truant lad, How oft “unwisely but too well,” Would love assert its magic spell, And hold my heart so tight and strong-- I’m glad it never lasted long!

I’ve thought at times I couldn’t live, Unless Augustus would forgive The little pique I showed last night, Done really more in love than spite. I’ve gone to bed and tried to weep Myself into a troubled sleep; But oft the sorrow I’d forget, Before I found my eyes were wet! Or Morpheus would my senses blind, And leave love’s trials all behind.

How kind in Nature to prepare A heart elastic, that can bear The miseries and weighty woes That must attend the age of beaus. For, with so many different kind, You couldn’t well make up your mind, Especially when you didn’t know Which was destined for your beau. To wait and wait, and then to find The wrong one is the one inclined To breathe his hopes into your ears, A nuisance is that seldom cheers.

Just after such a blow as this, I thought I saw much future bliss, In a student of the “nobby” kind, So rich and handsome and refined. But, oh, dear me! my brief delight Was shattered by his getting tight, And a love of fully thirty days Was checked by aunt in many ways. I thought at last it might be best To let my student lover rest.

My next, an artist proud and poor, By chance then living in next door, Was always at my beck and call, Which aunty didn’t like at all-- She said he was a fop and dandy. To me he was so nice and handy, And then so pleasant and polite, We had engagements every night; Till all at once my artist beau Was told by aunt ’twas best to go-- The love that lasted three long months Was crushed and killed by her at once.

And then I had an interval Of several weeks in which to fill The place of lovers I had lost-- But no one knew the pain it cost, And nothing but a handsome clerk I chanced to meet while at his work, Could make amends for all my woes; But he, alas! did not propose. I think he would, but times were hard, Which often happy hopes retard. I, knowing this, would not allow Him any chance to make a vow, For poverty, though not a crime, Has always been a dread of mine. His handsome eyes and wavy hair, Were great temptations I declare; And then his love was firm and true But he hadn’t cash enough for two. So we sighed in silence o’er our fate, And wisely thought it best to wait-- The other callers too seemed slow, I’ve often wondered why ’twas so.

I had no wealth, or charms to praise; But, then, I had such “winning ways,” That ought to take, and may-be will-- At least I won’t give up until I hear from some more hopeful source, All true love has a crooked course. I know the chap I’d like to catch-- I think ’twould be a splendid match-- I wonder what he thinks of me? I’ll wait a while and we will see; He has a tender sort of way When he wishes me to sing or play; And, when the hour comes to leave, He often looks disposed to grieve.

He’s handsome, too, but awful shy, Has such a melting, mellow eye, It makes me reconciled to wait If just to see, at any rate, If time won’t ripen his desire, And sparks of love for me inspire; And while I wait he’ll never know I ever wished to have a beau.

Here twice this week, I do declare, And took me out once to the fair; I really think he’s coming round, So I’ll keep cool and hold my ground; Should he propose, I’ll show surprise, And stammer, No, with drooping eyes: That’s the way they do in books, Nor show their haste by eager looks; I hope he won’t discover mine, Nor take in earnest my decline, It really wasn’t _final_, nay, It only meant a slight delay In making up my maiden mind, And, in repeating he will find That after the surprise was o’er, I’d “love and honor and adore.”

But blessed luck, and happy fate, That didn’t give me long to wait. One quiet eve, in early fall, He came, and made a lovely call; No other beaus that night appeared, As both of us at first had feared; And aunty being out of town, We didn’t dread her maiden frown. So being favored thus by fate, His smothered love he did relate. Our happiness and new-made bliss Was sanctioned by the sealing kiss.

I quite forgot the sighs and looks So recommended in the books, And answered, Yes, without delay Or looking once another way. He found I wasn’t hard to woo, My answer came so frank and true; For when you’re suited, what’s the sense Of being kept in such suspense, Till silly rules of etiquette Love’s happy longings all upset?

That evening Cupid’s capers thrived, Till all at once my aunt arrived; I fear we guilty look and feel, Our awkward actions can’t conceal How matters stand, but I will try By tact detection to defy. We treat each other calmly cool, Talk carelessly of church and school, Or any subject but the one That we have just agreed upon. To please my aunty’s prudish ear, We shunned the theme to us so dear, Till passing hours in hasty flight, Suggest to us a sad good-night.

Now he is gone--how queer I feel! I wish I only dared reveal My pent up joy unto my aunt; I want to, but I really can’t. She always seemed to like this beau As well as any that I know, But then she never thought that he Would ever care a fig for me; And now I fear that when she finds He really loves and has designs, She might at once discover flaws To cause her to object or pause, And then what misery would be mine No heart could know or tongue define.

The fearful Rubicon is past; I’ve told her all--her sanction asked, And she consents--most strange to tell, I find my suitor suits her well; But wonders what he e’er could see In such a wayward girl as me. Indeed, I’ve often wondered too, Though other people never knew, But what I thought I was a prize; Nor did my suitor e’er surmise-- He thought me all that he desired; That trait in him I so admired!

For total blindness in a beau Is one the best gifts that I know; So, feeling so secure in this, We might have lived a life of bliss, But for a couple other beau, Who thought at once that they’d propose; They never dreamed of it before, Nor would till they had been four score. If I had still kept “fancy free,” They never would have fancied me. “It seldom rains but what it pours”-- Too many beaus are often bores. I cutely kept my matters mum, But found it truly troublesome; I told them I was nothing loth To love, indeed to marry, both-- For still on mischief I was bent, And seldom said a word I meant; Must ever have my share of fun At sad expense of “number one.”

I really felt, I blush to tell, That I was getting quite a “belle,” And could afford to put on airs, When offers tackled me in pairs! And then, too, I had been so fast In saying yes, that I would blast Those tender hopes I lately made-- Two lovers cast one in the shade.

I timed my hours to see them all, Preventing, thus, a lover’s squall, And thought my wits were working fine, When, all at once, that aunt of mine Commenced, she said, “to smell a rat,” And then we had a lively spat. I hardly need to tell the rest-- For aunty always came out best-- And I was then obliged to be Content with one, instead of three, And though I loved the first one well, I missed the two, I blush to tell. If aunty hadn’t been so queer, I’d had three lovers all the year, But now I stuck to number one, And left the other two undone.

And neither of them seemed to die, I can not tell the reason why; They nearly always do in books, Or turn out bad, which I think looks More in keeping with their grief. I wonder how they got relief? Indeed, I hear they’re living yet, And doing well, and their regret Lasted but a little while, And terminated in _a smile_ That they had missed the happy chance-- That wasn’t my fault, but my aunt’s.

But dear devoted number one Forgave the flirting I had done, And now, as always, I could see How much too good he was for me. At once I thought, with aunty’s aid, I’d try to settle, and be staid, Becoming worthy of so fine And noble-hearted beau as mine.

How easy ’tis for folks to talk, But oh! how hard to walk the chalk. The only hope that I could find Was keeping my beloved blind, An easy task, I’m glad to say. Till he wanted me to “name the day,” So what’s the use of waiting now For consummation of our vow, When heart and hand and ready will Are longing for us to fulfill That little form and loving rite That permanently hearts unite? So I shall name an early day, And wed at once, without delay. My trousseau won’t be much to get; Indeed, I’m never one to fret About apparel new and fine, Or try my neighbors to outshine. And then, too, meaning no offense, To teachers in the abstract sense, Light and slender was my purse. To some, I know, that’s quite a curse; To me, it being nothing new, My wants were rather small and few.

My preparations soon were done, Interspersed with lots of fun; My wedding day was near at hand And I was feeling mighty grand. And each of my “five hundred friends” Got tickets, and the fête attends; I, robed in white, with fleecy veil, With orange wreath and courtly trail, Fancied that, at my levee They’d all admire and envy me; But strange to say, I never heard The very first admiring word!

But then the guests, the gifts, the ring, And all the joys that weddings bring-- A sweetish scare, I must confess, Was mingled with my happiness. I could not see the sense of tears, When I had been, for several years, Just waiting for this happy day, To give my willing self away; Yet still I trembled as I swore, “To love and honor and adore.”

My single friends, that disbelieve My statements, I will give them leave To marry for themselves, and see How scared and happy they will be; My married ones already know That what I’ve said is really so.

The altar often ends the tale-- The fair one then, that we assail, Is shelved at once, and cast aside As soon as she is made a bride; Now, twenty years of merry life Is passed--I became a wife. The “Naughty” heroine, you see, Has finished her “Biography.”

A “GOOD BYE”-OGRAPHY.

I’ll say a few words at the close, In case discussions ever rose About my traits in after life-- I mean when I became a wife. A lenient husband’s charity, In trust and boundless love for me, O’erlooked my early erring ways, And filled my ear with daily praise. Indulgent friends would kindly say Such pleasant things most every day, And looked so mildly on my mirth, It made me overrate my worth, And feel reformed, as aunty quotes, “That I have sown my wildest oats.” The stern realities of life Will sober down the gayest wife. The cares and crosses surely come To cloud, at times, the brightest home; And mine was not exempt from these, For sighs and sorrows and disease Were all, in turn, my painful lot-- ’Twere better though they were forgot. I’ll finish in the brightest strain, Nor have my friends peruse, with pain, A _clouded_ page, when my intent Was solely for their merriment; They’ll see how short _these_ twenty years, Beside the first, in print appears. The reason ’s easy understood: The traits depicted here are _good_, And occupy a smaller space Than _wicked_ ones I had to trace. I wanting quite a good sized book, My sinnings and short comings took The other side, I do engage, Would hardly fill the second page. I’ll say, for fear my friends deplore, These vixen traits are mine no more; The heroine, once known as “Naughty,” Is now reformed--“fair, fat, and forty.”

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE VILLAGE BELLE.

A verdant youth of modest mien Fell in love with the village queen, When strolling through the clover; And in his homely honest way Rudely coined what he would say, And how he’d always love her.

He looked in her coquettish eye, With hope and fear for her reply; But she so careless seeming, Scarce listened to his honeyed words, But turned their sweetness into curds, And woke him from his dreaming.

She laughed aloud, with merry glee, At the very thought of such as he Presuming to the honor Of loving her, the village belle; Indeed, his feelings he must quell, Nor force his love upon her.

There were a dozen love-sick swains Awaiting to blow out their brains When she refused affection; Which, of course, she would to all but one, And when the others’ fates were known, They’d die of deep dejection.

She would not wed a _country_ lad, Did she want a husband e’er so bad-- She sighed for _city_ suitors; Uriah’s hopes were sadly crushed, His tender words at once were hushed, Her wishes were his tutors.

There’s Harry Banks just fresh from Yale, Who’s apt and easy at the tale That Cupid first invented; He doesn’t blush or stammer through, As though the art were strange and new, Act awkward or demented;

But takes the favored fair one’s hand, With melting looks and accents bland, He tells his heart’s emotion; And though he’s often tight, they say, I like his jovial, genial way, His lover-like devotion.

I really think my choice is made In favor of the college blade; And, though a reckless rover, I vow his wild and winning ways Would any maiden’s fancy daze That craved a dashing lover.

He’ll sow his “wild oats” soon, I know, And then he’s such a “nobby” beau, I feel I’m blest to get him; And Oh, the gay, bright city life, That will be mine, when I’m his wife, And the girls that will regret him.

So argued our fair village belle, And wed the dashing college swell, And left our poor Uriah, And all the other sighing swains, Whose hearts had turned their youthful brains. And set their souls on fire.

But ah, alas! one little year, Has changed her happiness to care, And time too soon discloses, By sunken cheek and saddened eye, Her heavy heart and stifled sigh, Her bed is not of roses.

The dashing beau of other days, Has lost his soft persuasive ways; Her city life and lover Are but a myth to what they seemed, As she in girlish fancy dreamed, When strolling ’midst the clover.

ST. VALENTINE DAY.