Part 11

A BAGATELLE! Ah, Mistress Prue, So gaily laughing all life through, You call it that, the flower you fling Lightly aside, the song you sing, The fan, the glove no longer new.

But to your careless eyes of blue A bow, a heart that’s fond and true, Is, like your glove, that worthless thing— A bagatelle.

While I who prize your glove, your shoe, The rose that o’er your lips you drew, Hold worthless spring’s fresh blossoming, Hold worthless life’s whole offering, Because my love is but to you A bagatelle. _James G. Burnett._

A LOVE TEST

SWEET, do you ask me if you love or no? Soon will your answers to my questions show: If in your cheeks hot blushes come and go, Like rose-leaves shaken on new-fallen snow; If tender sorrows in your heart arise, And sudden teardrops tremble in your eyes; If from my presence you would sigh to part, Believe me, darling, I have touched your heart.

If when I speak your blue-veined eyelids sink, And veil the thoughts you scarcely dare to think: If when I greet you, hardly you reply, And when we part, but breathe a faint “Good-bye!” If your sweet face to mine you cannot raise, Yet fear not so to meet another’s gaze; If all these things to make you glad combine, Believe me, darling, that your heart is mine. _Carl Herlozssohn._

THE MISTAKEN MOTH

’MID the summer flush of roses Red and white, Sat a damsel fair, a very Pretty sight; Till a butterfly, so smart, With a flutter and a dart, Kissed her mouth and made her start In a fright.

“Ah, forgive me!” begged the insect, “If you please; I assure you that I didn’t Mean to tease. I but took your rosebud lip For the rose wherein I dip, All its honey sweet to sip At mine ease.”

Said the beauty, to the moth, “You may try To excuse your forward conduct, Sir, but I Wish it clearly understood That such roses are too good To be kissed by every rude Butterfly!” _Translated from Wegener._

MY PRETTY NEIGHBOR

IF you’ve nothing, dear, to tell me, Why, each morning passing by, With your sudden smiles compel me, To adore you, then repel me, Pretty little neighbor, why? Why if you have naught to tell me, Do you so my patience try?

If you’ve nothing sweet to teach me, Tell me why you press my hand? I’ll attend if you’ll impeach me Of my sins, or even preach me Sermons hard to understand; But if you have naught to teach me, Dear, your meaning I demand!

If you wish me, love, to leave you, Why forever walk my way? Then, when gladly I receive you, Wherefore do I seem to grieve you? Must I then, in truth, believe you Wish me, darling, far away? Do you wish me, love, to leave you? Pretty little neighbor, say! _Translated from Wegener._

IF

IF a man could live a thousand years, When half his life had passed, He might, by strict economy, A fortune have amassed.

Then having gained some common-sense, And knowledge, too, of life, He could select the woman who Would make him a true wife.

But as it is, man hasn’t time To even pay his debts, And weds to be acquainted with The woman whom he gets. _H. C. Dodge._

TO MISTRESS PYRRHA

WHAT perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, With smiles for diet, Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, On the quiet? For whom do you bind up your tresses, As spun-gold yellow,— Meshes that go with your caresses, To snare a fellow?

How will he rail at fate capricious, And curse you duly, Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,— You perfect, truly! Pyrrha, your love’s a treacherous ocean; He’ll soon fall in there! Then shall I gloat on his commotion, For I have been there! _Eugene Field._

THE TEA-GOWN

MY lady has a tea-gown That is wondrous fair to see,— It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed, As a tea-gown ought to be; And I thought she must be jesting Last night at supper when She remarked by chance, that it came from France, And had cost but two pounds ten.

Had she told me fifty shillings, I might (and wouldn’t you?) Have referred to that dress in a way folks express By an eloquent dash or two; But the guileful little creature Knew well her tactics when She casually said that that dream in red Had cost but two pounds ten.

Yet our home is all the brighter For the dainty, sentient thing, That floats away where it properly may, And clings where it ought to cling; And I count myself the luckiest Of all us married men That I have a wife whose joy in life Is a gown at two pounds ten.

It isn’t the gown compels me Condone this venial sin; It’s the pretty face above the lace, And the gentle heart within. And with her arms about me I say, and say again, “’Twas wondrous cheap,”—and I think a heap Of that gown at two pounds ten! _Eugene Field._

A PARAPHRASE

HOW happens it, my cruel miss, You’re always giving me the mitten? You seem to have forgotten this: That you no longer are a kitten!

A woman that has reached the years Of that which people call discretion Should put away all childish fears And see in courtship no transgression.

A mother’s solace may be sweet, But Hymen’s tenderness is sweeter; And though all virile love be meet, You’ll find the poet’s love is metre. _Eugene Field._

A LEAP-YEAR EPISODE

CAN I forget that winter night In eighteen eighty-four, When Nellie, charming little sprite, Came tapping at the door? “Good evening, miss,” I blushing said, For in my heart I knew— And, knowing, hung my pretty head— That Nellie came to woo.

She clasped my big red hand, and fell Adown upon her knees, And cried: “You know I love you well, So be my husband, please!” And then she swore she’d ever be A tender wife and true— Ah, what delight it was to me That Nellie came to woo!

She’d lace my shoes and darn my hose And mend my shirts, she said; And grease my comely Roman nose Each night on going to bed; She’d build the fires and fetch the coal, And split the kindling, too— Love’s perjuries o’erwhelmed her soul When Nellie came to woo.

And as I blushing, gave no check To her advances rash, She twined her arms about my neck, And toyed with my moustache; And then she pleaded for a kiss, While I—what could I do But coyly yield me to that bliss When Nellie came to woo?

I am engaged, and proudly wear A gorgeous diamond ring, And I shall wed my lover fair Some time in gentle spring. I face my doom without a sigh— And so, forthsooth, would you, If you but loved as fond as I The Nellie who came to woo. _Eugene Field._

BALLADE OF LADIES’ NAMES

BROWN’S for Lalage, Jones for Lelia, Robinson’s bosom for Beatrice glows, Smith is a Hamlet before Ophelia. The glamour stays if the reason goes! Every lover the years disclose Is of a beautiful name made free. One befriends, and all others are foes. Anna’s the name of names for me.

Sentiment hallows the vowels of Delia; Sweet simplicity breathes from Rose; Courtly memories glitter in Celia; Rosalind savours of quips and hose, Araminta of wits and beaux, Prue of puddings, and Coralie All of sawdust and spangled shows; Anna’s the name of names for me.

Fie upon Caroline, Madge, Amelia— These I reckon the essence of prose!— Cavalier Katharine, cold Cornelia, Portia’s masterful Roman nose,

Maud’s magnificence, Totty’s toes, Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea, Nell’s impertinence, Pamela’s woes! Anna’s the name of names for me.

ENVOY

Ruth like a gillyflower smells and blows, Sylvia prattles of Arcadee, Sybil mystifies, Connie crows, Anna’s the name of names for me! _W. E. Henley._

BALLADE OF JUNE

LILACS glow, and jasmines climb, Larks are loud the livelong day. O the golden summer-prime! June takes up the sceptre of May, And the land beneath her sway Glows, a dream of flowerful closes, And the very wind’s at play With Sir Love among the roses.

Lights and shadows in the lime Meet in exquisite disarray. Hark! the rich recurrent rhyme Of the blackbird’s roundelay! Where he carols, frank and gay, Fancy no more glooms or proses; Joyously she flits away With Sir Love among the roses.

O the cool sea’s slumbrous chime! O the links that beach the bay, Tricked with meadow-sweet and thyme, Where the brown bees murmur and stray! Lush the hedgerows, ripe the hay! Many a maiden, binding posies, Finds herself at Yea-and-Nay With Sir Love among the roses.

ENVOY

Boys and girls, be wise, I pray! Do as dear Queen June proposes, For she bids you troop and stay With Sir Love among the roses. _W. E. Henley._

BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER

MOUNTAINS that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Grass that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill; Wind-shadows in the wheat; A water-cart in the street; The fringe of foam that girds An islet’s ferneries; A green sky’s minor thirds— To live, I think of these!

Of ice and glass the tinkle, Pellucid, silver-shrill; Peaches without a wrinkle; Cherries and snow, at will From china bowls that fill The senses with a sweet Incuriousness of heat; A melon’s dripping sherds; Cream-clotted strawberries; Dusk dairies set with curds— To live, I think of these!

Vale-lily and periwinkle; Wet stone-crop on the sill; The look of leaves a-twinkle With windlets clear and still; The feel of a forest rill That wimples fresh and fleet About one’s naked feet; The muzzles of drinking herds; Lush flags and bulrushes; The chirp of rain-bound birds— To live, I think of these!

ENVOY

Dark aisles, new packs of cards, Mermaidens’ tails, cool swards, Dawn dews and starlit seas, White marbles, whiter words— To live, I think of these! _W. E. Henley._

A ROSE

’TWAS a Jacqueminot rose That she gave me at parting; Sweetest flower that blows. ’Twas a Jacqueminot rose. In the love garden close, With the swift blushes starting, ’Twas a Jacqueminot rose That she gave me at parting.

If she kissed it, who knows— Since I will not discover, And love is that close, If she kissed it, who knows? Or if not the red rose Perhaps then the lover! If she kissed it, who knows, Since I will not discover.

Yet at least with the rose Went a kiss that I’m wearing! More I will not disclose, Yet at least with the rose Went whose kiss no one knows,— Since I’m only declaring, “Yet at least with the rose Went a kiss that I’m wearing.” _Arlo Bates._

TO MINNIE

(_With a Hand Glass_)

A PICTURE-FRAME for you to fill, A paltry setting for your face, A thing that has no worth until You lend it something of your grace,

I send (unhappy I that sing Laid by awhile upon the shelf) Because I would not send a thing Less charming than you are yourself.

And happier than I, alas! (Dumb thing, I envy its delight) ’Twill wish you well, the looking-glass, And look you in the face to-night. _Robert Louis Stevenson._

AN AMERICAN GIRL

SHE’S had a Vassar education, And points with pride to her degrees; She’s studied household decoration: She knows a dado from a frieze, And tells Corots from Boldonis; A Jacquemart etching, or a Haden, A Whistler, too, perchance might please A free and frank young Yankee maiden.

She does not care for meditation; Within her bonnet are no bees; She has a gentle animation, She joins in singing simple glees. She tries no trills, no rivalries With Lucca (now Baronin Raden), With Nilsson or with Gerster; she’s A free and frank young Yankee maiden.

I’m blessed above the whole creation, Far, far, above all other he’s; I ask you for congratulation On this the best of jubilees: I go with her across the seas Unto what Poe would call an Aiden,— I hope no servant’s there to tease A free and frank young Yankee maiden.

ENVOY

Princes, to you the western breeze Bears many a ship and heavy laden, What is the best we send in these? A free and frank young Yankee maiden. _Brander Matthews._

LARKS AND NIGHTINGALES

ALONE I sit at eventide: The twilight glory pales, And o’er the meadows far and wide Chant pensive bobolinks. (One might say nightingales!)

Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old “manse o’er the lea” Flies slow the cawing crow. (In England ’twere a rook!)

The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men. (Oh, that we had swains!)

From farm-yards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids, Sweeter than oriole’s. (Yes, thank you—Philomel’s!)

I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun’s bright flame And heard the chickadee. (Alas! we have no lark!)

We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, No swains, no nightingales, No singing milkmaids (save in books): The poet does his best— It is the rhyme that fails! _Nathan Haskell Dole._

CAELI

IF stars were really watching eyes Of angel armies in the skies, I should forget all watchers there, And only for your glances care.

And if your eyes were really stars, With leagues that none can mete for bars To keep me from their longed-for day, I could not feel more far away. _Francis William Bourdillon._

LADY MINE

LADY mine, most fair thou art With youth’s gold and white and red; ’Tis a pity that thy heart Is so much harder than thy head.

This has stayed my kisses oft, This from all thy charms debarr’d, That thy head is strangely soft, While thy heart is strangely hard.

Nothing had kept us apart— I had loved thee, I had wed— Hadst thou had a softer heart Or a harder head.

But I think I’ll bear Love’s smart Till the wound has healed and fled, Or thy head is like thy heart, Or thy heart is like thy head. _Herbert Edwin Clarke._

THE RIPEST PEACH[A]

THE ripest peach is highest on the tree— And so her love, beyond the reach of me, Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes, bow Her heart down to me where I worship now!

She looms aloft where every eye may see The ripest peach is highest on the tree. Such fruitage as her love I know, alas! I may not reach here from the orchard grass.

I drink the sunshine showered past her lips As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips. The ripest peach is highest on the tree, And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly.

Why—why do I not turn away in wrath And pluck some heart here hanging in my path?— Love’s lower boughs bend with them—but, ah me! The ripest peach is highest on the tree. _James Whitcomb Riley._

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From “Old-Fashioned Roses,” copyright 1906. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

“I JOURNEYED SOUTH TO MEET THE SPRING”

I JOURNEYED South to meet the Spring To feel the soft tide’s gentle rise That to my heart again should bring, Foretold by many a whispering wing, The old, the new, the sweet surprise.

For once, the wonder was not new— And yet it wore a newer grace: For all its innocence of hue, Its warmth and bloom and dream and dew, I had but left—in Helen’s face. _Robert Underwood Johnson._

BEFORE THE BLOSSOM

IN the tassel-time of spring Love’s the only song to sing; Ere the ranks of solid shade Hide the bluebird’s flitting wing, While in open forest glade No mysterious sound or thing Haunt of green has found or made, Love’s the only song to sing.

Though in May each bush be dressed Like a bride, and every nest Learn Love’s joyous repetend, Yet the half-told tale is best At the budding,—with its end Much too secret to be guessed, And its fancies that attend April’s passion unexpressed.

Love and Nature communing Gave us Arcady. Still ring— Vales across and groves among— Wistful memories, echoing Pans far-off and fluty song Poet! nothing harsher sing; Be, like Love and Nature, young In the tassel-time of spring. _Robert Underwood Johnson._

LOVE IN THE CALENDAR

WHEN chinks in April’s windy dome Let through a day of June, And foot and thought incline to roam, And every sound’s a tune; When Nature fills a fuller cup, And hides with green the gray,— Then, lover, pluck your courage up To try your fate in May.

Though proud she was as sunset clad In Autumn’s fruity shades, Love too is proud, and brings (gay lad!) Humility to maids. Scorn not from nature’s mood to learn, Take counsel of the day: Since haughty skies to tender turn, Go try your fate in May.

Though cold she seemed as pearly light Adown December eves, And stern as night when March winds smite The beech’s lingering leaves; Yet Love hath seasons like the year, And grave will turn to gay,— Then, lover, hearken not to fear, But try your fate in May.

And you whose art it is to hide The constant love you feel: Beware, lest overmuch of pride Your happiness shall steal. No longer pout, for May is here, And hearts will have their way; Love’s in the calendar, my dear, So yield to fate—and May! _Robert Underwood Johnson._

MY GRANDMOTHER’S TURKEY-TAIL FAN

IT owned not a color that vanity dons Or slender wits choose for display; Its beautiful tint was a delicate bronze, A brown softly blended with gray. From her waist to her chin, spreading out without break, ’Twas built on a generous plan: The pride of the forest was slaughtered to make My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.

For common occasions it never was meant: In a chest between two silken cloths ’Twas kept safely hidden with careful intent In camphor to keep out the moths. ’Twas famed far and wide through the whole country side, From Beersheba e’en unto Dan; And often at meeting with envy ’twas eyed, My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.

Camp-meetings, indeed, were its chiefest delight. Like a crook unto sheep gone astray It beckoned backsliders to re-seek the right, And exhorted the sinners to pray. It always beat time when the choir went wrong, In psalmody leading the van. Old Hundred, I know, was its favorite song— My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.

A fig for the fans that are made nowadays, Suited only to frivolous mirth! A different thing was the fan that I praise, Yet it scorned not the good things of earth. At bees and at quiltings ’twas aye to be seen; The best of the gossip began When in at the doorway had entered serene My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan.

Tradition relates of it wonderful tales. Its handle of leather was buff. Though shorn of its glory, e’en now it exhales An odor of hymn-books and snuff. Its primeval grace, if you like, you can trace: ’Twas limned for the future to scan, Just under a smiling gold-spectacled face, My grandmother’s turkey-tail fan. _Samuel Minturn Peck._

VALENTINE

IF thou canst make the frost be gone, And fleet away the snow (And that thou canst, I trow); If thou canst make the spring to dawn, Hawthorn to put her brav’ry on, Willow, her weeds of fine green lawn, Say why thou dost not so— Aye, aye! Say why Thou dost not so!

If thou canst chase the stormy rack, And bid the soft winds blow (And that thou canst, I trow); If thou canst call the thrushes back To give the groves the songs they lack, And wake the violet in thy track, Say why thou dost not so— Aye, aye! Say why Thou dost not so!

If thou canst make my winter spring, With one word breathed low (And that thou canst, I know); If in the closure of a ring Thou canst to me such treasure bring, My state shall be above a king, Say why thou dost not so— Aye, aye! Say why Thou dost not so! _Edith Matilda Thomas._

A VALENTINE

OH! little loveliest lady mine, What shall I send for your valentine? Summer and flowers are far away; Gloomy old Winter is king to-day; Buds will not blow, and sun will not shine: What shall I do for a valentine?

I’ve searched the gardens all through and through For a bud to tell of my love so true; But buds are asleep, and blossoms are dead, And the snow beats down on my poor little head: So, little loveliest lady mine, Here is my heart for your valentine! _Laura Elizabeth Richards._

ON A HYMN-BOOK

OLD hymn-book, sure I thought I’d lost you In the days now long gone by; I’d forgotten where I tossed you: Gracious! how I sigh.

In the church a thin partition Stood between her pew and mine; And her pious, sweet contrition Struck me as divine.

Yes, remarkably entrancing Was she in her sable furs; And my eyes were always glancing Up, old book, to hers.

Bless you, very well she knew it, And I’m sure she liked it too; Once she whispered, “Please don’t do it,” But her eyes said, “Do.”

How to speak—to tell my passion? How to make her think me true? Love soon found a curious fashion, For he spoke through you.

How I used to search your pages For the words I wished to say; And received my labour’s wages Every Sabbath day.

Ah, how sweet it was to hand her You, with lines I’d marked when found! And how well I’d understand her When she blushed and frowned.

And one day, old book, you wriggled From my hand and, rattling fell Upon the floor; and she—she giggled, Did Miss Isabel.

Then when next we met out walking, I was told in fearful tones, How she’d got a dreadful talking From the Reverend Jones.

Ah me! No man could resist her In those sweet and buried years, So I think—I think I kissed her, Just to stop her tears.