Part 12

Jones I gave a good sound chaffing; Called his sermon dry as bones; Soon fair Isabel was laughing— Said she hated Jones.

It was after that I lost you, For I needed you no more; Somewhere—anywhere I tossed you On a closet floor.

Reverend Samuel still preaches; Isabel her past atones; In his Sunday-school she teaches— Mrs. Samuel Jones. _W. J. Henderson._

THE BALLADE OF THE SUMMER-BOARDER

_LET all men living on earth take heed, For their own soul’s sake, to a rhyme well meant; Writ so that he who runs may read— We are the folk that a-summering went, Who while the year was young were bent— Yea, bent on doing this self-same thing Which we have done unto some extent. This is the end of our summering._

We are the folk who would fain be freed From wasteful burdens of rate and rent— From the vampire agents’ ravening breed— We are the folk that a-summering went. We hied us forth when the summer was blent With the fresh faint sweetness of dying spring, A-seeking the meadows dew besprent This is the end of our summering.

For O the waiters that must be fee’d, And our meat-time neighbour, the travelling “gent”; And the youth next door with the ophicleide! We are the folk that a-summering went! Who from small bare rooms wherein we were pent, While birds their way to the southward wing, Come back, our money for no good spent— This is the end of our summering.

ENVOY

Citizens! list to our sore lament— While the landlord’s hands to our raiment cling— We are the folk that a-summering went: This is the end of our summering. _H. C. Bunner._

INTERESTING

I ROWED her out on the broad bright sea, Till the land lay purple upon our lee.

The heavens were trying the waves to outshine, With never a cloud to the far sea-line.

On the reefs the billows in kisses broke— But oh, I was dying for one small smoke.

She spoke of the gulls and the waters green— But what is nature to Nicotine?

She spoke of the tides, and the Triton myth; And said Jones was engaged to the blonde Miss Smith.

She spoke of her liking lemon on clams; And Euclid, and parallelograms.

For her face was fair and her eyes were brown, And she was a girl from Boston town.

And I rowed and thought—but I never said— “Does Havana tobacco trouble your head?”

She talked of algæ—she talked of sand— And I thought: “Tobacco you cannot stand.”

She talked of the ocean-steamer’s speed— And I yearned for a whiff of the wicked weed.

And at last I spoke, between fright and fret: “Would you mind if I smoked a cigarette?”

She dropped her eyes on the ocean’s blue, And said: “Would you mind if I smoked too?” _H. C. Bunner._

THE WAY TO ARCADY

OH, what’s the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, what’s the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry?

Oh, what’s the way to Arcady? The spring is rustling in the tree— The tree the wind is blowing through— It sets the blossoms flickering white. I knew not skies could burn so blue Nor any breezes blow so light. They blow an old-time way for me, Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what’s the way to Arcady? Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, Quit mocking of the song-bird’s note. How have you heart for any tune, You with the wayworn russet shoon? Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. I’ll brim it well with pieces red, If you will tell the way to tread.

Oh, I am bound for Arcady, And if you but keep pace with me You tread the way to Arcady.

And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be?

Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know— Across the clover and the snow— Across the frost, across the flowers— Through summer seconds and winter hours. I’ve trod the way my whole life long, And know not now where it may be; My guide is but the stir to song, That tells me I cannot go wrong, Or clear or dark the pathway be Upon the road to Arcady.

But how shall I do who cannot sing? I was wont to sing, once on a time— There is never an echo now to ring Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

’Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he), The folk all sing in Arcady.

But how may he find Arcady Who hath nor youth nor melody?

What, know you not, old man (quoth he)— Your hair is white, your face is wise— That Love must kiss that Mortal’s eyes Who hopes to see fair Arcady? No gold can buy you entrance there; But beggared Love may go all bare— No wisdom won with weariness; But Love goes in with Folly’s dress— No fame that wit could ever win; But only Love may lead Love in To Arcady, to Arcady.

Ah, woe is me, through all my days Wisdom and wealth I both have got, And fame and name, and great men’s praise, But Love, ah, Love! I have it not. There was a time, when life was new— But far away, and half forgot— I only know her eyes were blue; But Love—I fear I knew it not. We did not wed, for lack of gold, And she is dead, and I am old. All things have come since then to me, Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.

Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he), My way’s for Love and Arcady.

But you, you fare alone, like me; The gray is likewise in your hair. What love have you to lead you there, To Arcady, to Arcady?

Ah, no, not lonely do I fare; My true companion’s Memory. With Love he fills the Spring-time air; With Love he clothes the Winter tree. Oh, past this poor horizon’s bound My song goes straight to one who stands— Her face all gladdening at the sound— To lead me to the Spring-green lands, To wander with enlacing hands. The songs within my breast that stir Are all of her, are all of her. My maid is dead long years (quoth he), She waits for me in Arcady.

Oh, yon’s the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, yon’s the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry. _H. C. Bunner._

DA CAPO

SHORT and sweet, and we’ve come to the end of it— Our poor little love lying cold. Shall no sonnet, then, ever be penned of it? Nor the joys and pains of it told? How fair was its face in the morning, How close its caresses at noon, How its evening grew chill without warning, Unpleasantly soon!

I can’t say just how we began it— In a blush, or a smile, or a sigh; Fate took but an instant to plan it; It needs but a moment to die. Yet—remember that first conversation, When the flowers you had dropped at your feet I restored. The familiar quotation Was—“Sweets to the sweet.”

Oh, their delicate perfume has haunted My senses a whole season through. If there was one soft charm that you wanted The violets lent it to you. I whispered you, life was but lonely: A cue which you graciously took; And your eyes learned a look for me only— A very nice look.

And sometimes your hand would touch my hand, With a sweetly particular touch; You said many things in a sigh, and Made a look express wondrously much. We smiled for the mere sake of smiling, And laughed for no reason but fun; Irrational joys; but beguiling— And all that is done!

We were idle, and played for a moment At a game that now neither will press: I cared not to find out what “No” meant; Nor your lips to grow yielding with “Yes.” Love is done with and dead; if there lingers A faint and indefinite ghost, It is laid with this kiss on your fingers— A jest at the most.

’Tis a commonplace, stale situation, Now the curtain comes down from above On the end of our little flirtation— A travesty romance for Love, If he climbed in disguise to your lattice, Fell dead of the first kisses’ pain: But one thing is left us now; that is— Begin it again. _H. C. Bunner._

THE MAID OF MURRAY HILL

SAINT Valentine, Saint Valentine! I love a maid of New York town, And every day, on my homeward way, She walks the Avenue down. At five o’clock, dear Saint, she goes Tripping down Murray Hill, And the hands of the clock in the old brick spire Stand still, stand still, stand still!

Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine! Oh, could you know how fair a maid— So trim of dress, and so gold of tress, You’d know why I’m afraid. I see her pass, I smile and bow, As I go up Murray Hill, And I say to a foolish hope of mine: Be still, be still, be still!

Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine, Oh, could you see how close her gown Binds tight and warm about her form, This maid of New York town, You’d know a mountain would to me Be less than Murray Hill, If only around her my arm could slip, And she’d stand still, stand still.

Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine! She is so fair, so rich, so great, I have no right to think what might Be this poor clerk’s estate. And yet the bells in yon brick spire, As we pass on Murray Hill, They ring, they ring—she’s not for me— And still—and still—and still— _H. C. Bunner._

KITTY’S SUMMERING

HAVE you seen e’er a sign of my Kitty? Have you seen a fair maiden go by Who was wed in this summer-struck city About the first week in July? How fair was her face there’s no telling; She was well-nigh as wealthy as fair, And of marble and brick was her dwelling On the North side of Washington Square.

Have you seen her at Newport a-driving? Have you seen her a-flirt at the pier? Is she written among the arriving At the Shoals or the Hamptons this year? Or out where the ocean bird flutters Are the sea-breezes tossing her hair? For closed are the ancient green shutters In the house on North Washington Square.

So you, too, are trying to find her? Then climb up these stairways with me, That twist and grow blinder and blinder, Till the skylight near heaven you see. Is the sun my dull studio gilding? Ah, no, it is Kitty sits there— She has moved to the Studio Building On the South side of Washington Square. _H. C. Bunner._

FORFEITS

THEY sent him round the circle fair, To bow before the prettiest there. I’m bound to say the choice he made A creditable taste displayed; Although—I can’t say what it meant— The little maid looked ill-content.

His task was then anew begun— To kneel before the wittiest one. Once more that little maid sought he, And went him down upon his knee. She bent her eyes upon the floor— I think she thought the game a bore.

He circled then—his sweet behest To kiss the one he loved the best. For all she frowned, for all she chid, He kissed that little maid, he did. And then—though why I can’t decide— The little maid looked satisfied. _H. C. Bunner._

WHEN WILL LOVE COME?

SOME find Love late, some find him soon, Some with the rose in May, Some with the nightingale in June, And some when skies are grey; Love comes to some with smiling eyes, And comes with tears to some; For some Love sings, for some Love sighs, For some Love’s lips are dumb. How will you come to me, fair Love? Will you come late or soon? With sad or smiling skies above, By light of sun or moon? Will you be sad, will you be sweet, Sing, sigh, Love, or be dumb? Will it be summer when we meet, Or autumn ere you come? _Pakenham Beatty._

HELIOTROPE

AMID the Chapel’s chequered gloom She laughed with Dora and with Flora And chattered in the lecture-room— That saucy little sophomora! Yet while, as in her other schools, She was a privileged transgressor, She never broke the simple rules Of one particular professor.

But when he spoke of varied lore, Paroxytones and modes potential, She listened with a face that wore A look half fond, half reverential. To her, that earnest voice was sweet, And, though her love had no confessor, Her girlish heart lay at the feet Of that particular professor.

And he had learned, among his books That held the lore of ages olden, To watch those ever-changing looks, The wistful eyes, the tresses golden, That stirred his pulse with passion’s pain And thrilled his soul with soft desire, And bade fond youth return again, Crowned with its coronet of fire.

Her sunny smile, her winsome ways, Were more to him than all his knowledge, And she preferred his words of praise To all the honours of the college. Yet “What am foolish I to him?” She whispered to her heart’s confessor. “She thinks me old and grey and grim,” In silence pondered the professor.

Yet once when Christmas bells were rung Above ten thousand solemn churches, And swelling anthems grandly sung Pealed through the dim cathedral arches; Ere home returning, filled with hope, Softly she stole by gate and gable, And a sweet spray of heliotrope Left on his littered study table.

Nor came she more from day to day Like sunshine through the shadows rifting: Above her grave, far, far away, The ever silent snows were drifting; And those who mourned her winsome face Found in its stead a sweet successor And loved another in her place— All, save the silent old professor.

But, in the tender twilight grey, Shut from the sight of carping critic, His lonely thoughts would often stray From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic, Bidding the ghost of vanished hope Mock with its past the sad possessor Of the dead spray of heliotrope That once she gave the old professor. _Harry Thurston Peck._

BORDERLAND

AND have you been to Borderland? Its country lies on either hand Beyond the river I-forget. One crosses by a single stone So narrow one must pass alone, And all about its waters fret— The laughing river I-forget.

Beneath the trees of Borderland One seems to know and understand, Beside the river I-forget, All languages of men and birds; And all the sweet, unspoken words One ever missed are murmured yet By that sweet river I-forget.

One hears there many things afar From cities where strange peoples are, Beyond the river I-forget; And stranger things are in the air, But what they are one does not care, For Hope lies sleeping and Regret Beside the river I-forget.

Some day together hand in hand I’ll take you there to Borderland, Beyond the river I-forget; Some day when all our dreams come true, One kiss for me and one for you, We’ll watch the red sun sink and set Across the river I-forget. _Herman Knickerbocker Vielé._

EPITHALAMIUM

THE marriage bells have rung their peal, The wedding march has told its story. I’ve seen her at the altar kneel In all her stainless, virgin glory; She’s bound to honor, love, obey, Come joy or sorrow, tears or laughter. I watched her as she rode away, And flung the lucky slipper after.

She was my first, my very first, My earliest inamorata, And to the passion that I nursed For her I well nigh was a martyr. For I was young, and she was fair, And always gay and bright and chipper, And, oh, she wore such sunlit hair, Such silken stockings! such a slipper!

She did not wish to make me mourn— She was the kindest of God’s creatures; But flirting was in her inborn, Like brains and queerness in the Beechers. I do not fear your heartless flirt— Obtuse her dart and dull her probe is; But when girls do not mean to hurt, But _do_—_Orate tunc pro nobis!_

A most romantic country place; The moon at full, the month of August; An inland lake across whose face Played gentle zephyrs, ne’er a raw gust. Books, boats, and horses to enjoy, The which was all our occupation; A damsel and a callow boy— There! now you have the situation.

We rode together miles and miles, My pupil she, and I her Chiron; At home I reveled in her smiles And read her extracts out of Byron. We roamed by moonlight, chose our stars (I thought it most authentic billing), Explored the woods, climbed over bars, Smoked cigarettes and broke a shilling.

An infinitely blissful week Went by in this Arcadian fashion; I hesitated long to speak, But ultimately breathed my passion. She said her heart was not her own; She said she’d love me like a sister; She cried a little (not alone); I begged her not to fret, and—kissed her.

I lost some sleep, some pounds in weight, A deal of time, and all my spirits, And much—how much I dare not state— I mused upon that damsel’s merits. I tortured my unhappy soul, I wished I never might recover; I hoped her marriage bells might toll A requiem for her faithful lover.

And now she’s married, now she wears A wedding-ring upon her finger; And I—although it odd appears— Still in the flesh I seem to linger. Lo, there my swallow-tail, and here Lies by my side a wedding favor; Beside it stands a mug of beer, I taste it—how divine its flavor!

I saw her in her bridal dress Stand pure and lovely at the altar; I heard her firm response—that “Yes,” Without a quiver or a falter. And here I sit and drink to her Long life and happiness, God bless her! Now fill again. No heel-taps, sir; Here’s to—Success to her successor! _E. S. Martin._

INFIRM

“I WILL not go,” he said, “for well I know her eyes’ insidious spell, And how unspeakably he feels Who takes no pleasure in his meals. I know a one-idea’d man Should undergo the social ban, And if she once my purpose melts I know I’ll think of nothing else.

“I care not though her teeth are pearls— The town is full of nicer girls! I care not though her lips are red— It does not do to lose one’s head! I’ll give her leisure to discover, For once, how little I think of her; And then, how will she feel?” cried he— And took his hat and went to see. _E. S. Martin._

WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

I LOVED a maid (oh, she was fair of face!) But common words above Was my true love— So I was silent for a little space— Yet, ’gainst the day I meant that she should hear me, I sought for stately words that might endear me.

My ardent lips, I vowed, should not repeat What countless lovers swear:— “Oh, thou art fair!” I scorned to merely say, “I love thee, Sweet!” So spent long days with rhetoric and tutor, In framing sentences I dreamed might suit her.

Oh, how I pondered what she best might hear! Words should like jewels shine To make her mine— No commonplaces must offend her ear: But while for proper words my passion tarried I learned the maiden some one else had married! _Margaret Deland._

THE BLUEBELL

IN love she fell, My shy Bluebell, With a strolling Bumblebee; “I love you so,” He whispered low, “Sweet, give your heart to me!”

“I love but you, And I’ll be true, Oh, give me your heart, I pray?” She bent her head,— “I will,” she said; When, lo, he flew away! _Margaret Deland._

A MODERN MARTYRDOM

THE Weverwend Awthur Murway Gween, They say is verwy clevah; And sister Wuth could heah him pweach, Fohevah and fohevah. And I went down to heah him pweach, With Wuth and my Annette, Upon the bwave, hewoic deaths The ancient mawtahs met; And as he wepwesented them, In all their acts and feachaws, The ancient mawtahs, dontcherknow? Were doocid clevah cweachaws.

But, aw deah me! They don’t compah In twue hewoic bwavewy, To a bwave hewo fwiend of mine, Young Montmowenci Averwy. He earned foah dollahs everwy week, And not anothah coppah; But this bwave soul wesolved to dwess Pwe-eminently pwoppah. So this was all the food each day, The bwave young cweachaw had— One glaws of milk, a cigawette, Foah cwackers, and some bwead.

He lived on foahteen cents a day, And cherwished one great passion: The pwecious pwoject of his soul, Of being dwessed in fashion. But when he’d earned a suit entiah, To his supweme chagwin, Just then did shawt-tailed coats go out, And long-tailed coats come in; But naught could bweak his wigid will And now, I pway you, note, That he gave up his glaws of milk And bought a long-tailed coat.

But then the fashion changed once moah, And bwought a gwievous plight; It changed from twousers that are loose To twousers that are tight. Then his foah cwackers he gave up, He just wenounced their use; And changed to twousers that are tight From twousers that are loose. And then the narrow-toed style shoes To bwoad-toed changed instead; Then he pwocured a bwoad-toed paih, And gave up eating bwead.

Just then the bwoad-bwimmed style of hat To narrow bwims gave way; And so his twibulations gwew, Incweasing everwy day. But he pwocured a narrow bwim, Of verwy stylish set; But bwave, bwave soul! he had to dwop His pwecious cigawette. But now when his whole suit confohmed To fashion’s wegulation For lack of cwackers, milk, and bwead, He perwished of stahvation.

Thus in his owah of victowry, He passed on to his west— I weally nevah saw a cawpse So fashionably dwessed. My teahs above his well-dwessed clay Fell like the spwingtime wains; My eyes had nevah wested on Such pwoppah dwessed wemains. The ancient mawtahs—they were gwand And glowious in their day; But this bwave Montmowenci was As gweat and gwand as they. _Sam Walter Foss._

A CORSAGE BOUQUET

MYRTILLA, to-night, Wears Jacqueminot roses, She’s the loveliest sight! Myrtilla to-night:— Correspondingly light My pocket-book closes. Myrtilla, to-night Wears Jacqueminot roses. _Charles Henry Lüders._

THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA BROWN

THOUGH I met her in the summer, when one’s heart lies ‘round at ease As it were in tennis costume, and a man’s not hard to please; Yet I think at any season to have met her was to love, While her tones, unspoiled, unstudied, had the softness of the dove.

At request she read us poems, in a nook among the pines, And her artless voice lent music to the least melodious lines; Though she lowered her shadowing lashes, in an earnest reader’s wise, Yet we caught blue gracious glimpses of the heavens that were her eyes.