Part 13

As in Paradise I listened. Ah, I did not understand That a little cloud, no larger than the average human hand, Might, as stated oft in fiction, spread into a sable pall, When she said that she should study elocution in the fall.

I admit her earliest efforts were not in the Ercles vein: She began with “Lit-tle Maaybel, with her faayce against the paayne, And the beacon-light a-trrremble—” which, although it made me wince, Is a thing of cheerful nature to the things she’s rendered since.

Having learned the Soulful Quiver, she acquired the Melting Mo-o-an, And the way she gave “Young Grayhead” would have liquefied a stone; Then the Sanguinary Tragic did her energies employ, And she tore my taste to tatters when she slew “The Polish Boy.”

It’s not pleasant for a fellow when the jewel of his soul Wades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs in frenzy roll: What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me grievous pain, When she rose in social gatherings and “searched among the slain.”

I was forced to look upon her, in my desperation dumb— Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was come She would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very least— As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast.

Once, ah! once I fell a-dreaming; some one played a polonaise I associated strongly with those happier August days; And I mused, “I’ll speak this evening,” recent pangs forgotten quite. Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish: “Curfew SHALL not ring to-night!”

Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy warm romance! Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in France? Oh, as she “cull-imbed” that ladder, swift my mounting hope came down. I am still a single cynic; she is still Cassandra Brown! _Helen Gray Cone._

FROM THREE FLY LEAVES

AH Phyllis! did I only dare To hope that, as the years go by, And you, a maid divinely fair, The cynosure of every eye, Have fixed the wandering minds of men, And found a fare for scores of hearses, You still will open, now and then, My little book of verses;

Or did I, bolder yet, aspire To hope that any phrase of mine, Aglow with memory’s cheering fire Will burn within that heart of thine; Although my brow be bare of bays, My coffers not replete with gain, I shall not—what’s the foolish phrase?— Have written quite in vain. _J. K. Stephen._

QUESTION AND ANSWER

THE QUESTION

THE river is flowing, The stars coming forth: Great ruddy clouds going From westward to north.

The rushes are waving, The water’s still blue: And I am behaving Decorously too:

The amorous zephyr Breathes soft in our ear: Who hears not is deafer Than adders, my dear:

Ah! list to the whisper Of waters and sky! Thames, vagabond lisper Grows subtle and sly.

How trebly delicious The air-draughts we quaff: The hour is propitious:— Oh! ... why do you laugh?

THE ANSWER

Ask the sky why it flushes, The clouds why they glow: The weir why it gushes, The reeds why they grow:

The moon why it rises, The sun why it sets: Her why she surprises, Him why he forgets:

The star why it twinkles, The west why it shines: The brow why it wrinkles, The heart why it pines:

Mankind why they blunder, The corn why there’s chaff: Ask yourself why you wonder— Not me why I laugh! _J. K. Stephen._

A RHYME FOR PRISCILLA

DEAR Priscilla, quaint and very Like a modern Puritan, Is a modest, literary, Merry young American: Horace she has read, and Bion Is her favorite in Greek; Shakespeare is a mighty lion In whose den she dares but peek; Him she leaves to some sage Daniel, Since of lions she’s afraid,— She prefers a playful spaniel, Such as Herrick or as Praed; And it’s not a bit satiric To confess her fancy goes From the epic to a lyric On a rose.

Wise Priscilla, dilettante, With a sentimental mind, Doesn’t deign to dip in Dante And to Milton isn’t kind; L’Allegro, Il Penseroso Have some merits she will grant, All the rest is only so-so,— Enter Paradise she can’t! She might make a charming angel (And she will if she is good), But it’s doubtful if the change’ll Make the Epic understood: Honey-suckling, like a bee she Goes and pillages his sweets, And it’s plain enough to see she Worships Keats.

Gay Priscilla,—just the person For the Locker whom she loves; What a captivating verse on Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves He could write in catching measure, Setting all the heart astir! And to Aldrich what a pleasure It would be to sing of her,— He, whose perfect songs have won her Lips to quote them day by day. She repeats the rhymes of Bunner In a fascinating way, And you’ll often find her lost in— She has reveries at times— Some delightful one of Austin Dobson’s rhymes.

O Priscilla, sweet Priscilla, Writing of you makes me think, As I burn my brown Manila And immortalize my ink, How well satisfied these poets Ought to be with what they do When, especially, they know it’s Read by such a girl as you: I who sing of you would marry Just the kind of girl you are,— One who doesn’t care to carry Her poetic taste too far,— One whose fancy is a bright one, Who is fond of poems fine, And appreciates a light one Such as mine. _Frank Dempster Sherman._

THE OLD COLLECTOR

’TIS strange to look across the street And feel that we no more shall greet Our middle-aged, precise, and neat, Old-fashioned neighbor. It seems, in his unlighted hall, His much-prized pictures on the wall Must miss his presence, and recall His loving labor.

His manner was serene and fine, Fashioned on some Old-World design. His wit grew keener with the wine, And kindlier after; And when the revelry rang high, No one could make more apt reply; Yet, though they sometimes marked his sigh, None heard his laughter.

He held as foolish him who dotes On politics or petticoats; He vowed he’d hear no talk of votes Or silly scandals. No journeys tempted him; he swore He held his world within his door, And there he’d dwell till life was o’er, Secure from vandals.

“Why should I roam the world again?” He said. “Domingo shows me Spain; The dust of travel then were vain. What springtime chances To match my Corot there! One glance Is worth a year of actual France. The real ne’er equals the romance, Nor fact our fancies.”

His walls were decked with maidens fair— A Henner with rich auburn hair; A Reynolds with the stately air That fits a beauty; There glanced a Greuze with girlish grace; And yonder, with the strong, calm face, The peasant sister of her race, Whose life is duty.

He valued most the sunny day Because it lighted his Dupré, And showed his small Meissonier In proper fashion. And tender was the glance he bent Upon his missal’s ornament, Whereon some patient monk had spent His artist passion.

I used to love to see him pass His fingers o’er some rare old glass. He never took delight _en masse_; He loved each treasure: The precious bronzes from Japan, The rugs from towered Ispahan, His rose-tint Sèvres, his famous fan— Each had its pleasure.

And so he held that Art was all; Yet when Death made the solemn call, Before the desk in his long hall They found him sitting. Within the hands clasped on his breast An old daguerreotype was pressed— A sweet-faced, smiling girl, and dressed In frills befitting.

Naught of his story can we know, Nor whose the fault so long ago, Nor with what meed of weal or woe His love was blended. Yet o’er his rare Delft mantel-tiles Bellini’s sweet Madonna smiles As though she knew the weary miles For him are ended. _Beatrice Hanscom._

THE LAST DITCH

LOVE, through your varied views on Art Untiring have I followed you, Content to know I had your heart And was your Art-ideal, too.

As, dear, I was when first we met. (’Twas at the time you worshipped Leighton, And were attempting to forget Your Foster and your Noel Paton.)

“Love rhymes with Art,” said your dear voice, And, at my crude, uncultured age, I could but blushingly rejoice That you had passed the Rubens stage.

When Madox Brown and Morris swayed Your taste, did I not dress and look Like any Middle Ages maid In an illuminated book?

I wore strange garments, without shame, Of formless form and toneless tones, I might have stepped out of the frame Of a Rossetti or Burne-Jones.

I stole soft frills from Marcus Stone, My waist wore Herkomer’s disguise, My slender purse was strained, I own, But—my silk lay as Sargent’s lies.

And when you were abroad—in Prague— ’Mid Cherets I had shone, a star; Then for your sake I grew as vague As Mr. Whistler’s ladies are.

But now at last you sue in vain, For here a life’s submission ends: Not even for you will I grow plain As Aubrey Beardsley’s “lady friends.”

Here I renounce your hand—unless You find your Art-ideal elsewhere; I _will not_ wear the kind of dress That Laurence Housman’s people wear! _E. Nesbit._

BE YE IN LOVE WITH APRIL-TIDE

BE ye in love with April-tide? I’ faith, in love am I! For now ’tis sun, and now ’tis shower, And now ’tis frost, and now ’tis flower, And now ’tis Laura laughing-eyed, And now ’tis Laura shy!

Ye doubtful days, O slower glide! Still smile and frown, O sky! Some beauty unforeseen I trace In every change of Laura’s face;— Be ye in love with April-tide? I’ faith, in love am I! _Clinton Scollard._

STRAWBERRIES

AGAIN the year is at the prime With flush of rose and cuckoo-croon; Care doffs his wrinkled air, and Time Foots to a gamesome tune. So, ho, my lads, an’ if you will But follow underneath the hill, It’s strawberries! strawberries! You shall feast, and have your fill!

The elder clusters promise wine Where dips the path along the lane; The early lowing of the kine Floats in a far refrain; You will forget to dream indeed Of fruit that Georgian loam-lands breed In strawberries! strawberries! That wait for us in Martin’s mead.

Then haste, before the sun be high, And, haply, catch the morning star; For, ere the cups of dew be dry, The berries sweetest are. And if, perchance, a rustic lass In merriment a-milking pass, It’s strawberries! strawberries! On her lips as in the grass. _Clinton Scollard._

APPLIED ASTRONOMY

HE took me out to see the stars, That astronomic bore; He said there were two moons near Mars, While Jupiter had four.

I thought of course he’d whisper soon What fourfold bliss ’twould be To stroll beneath that fourfold moon On Jupiter with me.

And when he spoke of Saturn’s ring, I was convinced he’d say That was the very kind of thing To offer me some day.

But in a tangent off he went To double stars. Now that Was most suggestive, so content And quite absorbed I sat.

But no, he talked a dreary mess, Of which the only fraction That caught my fancy, I confess, Was “mutual attraction.”

I said I thought it very queer And stupid altogether, For stars to keep so very near, And yet not come together.

At that he smiled, and turned his head; I thought he’d caught the notion. He merely bowed good-night and said, Their safety lay in motion. _Esther B. Tiffany._

COURTSHIP

IT chanced, they say, upon a day, A furlong from the town, That she was strolling up the way As he was strolling down— She humming low, as might be so, A ditty sweet and small; He whistling loud a tune, you know, That had no tune at all. It happened so—precisely so— As all their friends and neighbours know.

As I and you perhaps might do, They gazed upon the ground; But when they’d gone a yard or two Of course they both looked round. They both were pained, they both explained What caused their eyes to roam; And nothing after that remained But he should see her home. It happened so—precisely so As all their friends and neighbours know.

Next day to that ’twas common chat, Admitting no debate, A bonnet close beside a hat Was sitting on a gate. A month, not more, had bustled o’er, When, braving nod and smile, One blushing soul came through the door Where two went up the aisle. It happened so—precisely so— As all their friends and neighbours know. _Frederick Langbridge._

EYES OF BLACK AND EYES OF BLUE

(_From the Viceroy_)

ONE day I swear by the eyes of black, The next by the eyes of blue; ’Tis in merry black eyes that the love-light lies, But the blue are more apt to be true. The dusky-eyed maid has a laughing look That can make you the world forget, my boy; But the gentle blue eye never causes a sigh, And it rarely denotes the coquette, my boy.

Eyes of black or eyes of blue, Devil a bit does it matter I say! If I love one to-day, why to-morrow I may Have a caprice for the brown or the gray. So here is a toast to the feminine host, The blue eyes for me or the black for you. The one for a time I shall think sublime, And then if you like I will change with you.

One day I sing of the raven curls, The next of the ringlets fair. Be mine the brunette of the tresses jet, Mine the Hebe of golden hair. For the gypsy-like maid has a heart that’s warm, You are lucky indeed if you’re hers, my boy; But there’s many a blonde can be equally fond, If you’re only the one she prefers, my boy.

Raven hair or hair of gold, Devil a bit does it matter I say! If I love one to-day, why to-morrow I may Have a caprice for the auburn gay; So here is a toast to the feminine host, Blond ringlets for me and the black for you. The one for a time I shall think sublime, And then if you like I will change with you. _Harry B. Smith._

HER FAULTS

(_From the Mandarin_)

MY sweetheart has her faults in plenty, Which I perceive with much distress; For instance, she is only twenty, And one would think her even less; While I may mention it between us— (Excuse the confidence betrayed)— Her form is plagiarized from Venus, And no acknowledgment is made. Her hair is much too fine and curly; Her lips are merely Cupid’s bow; Her teeth absurdly white and pearly; But still we all have faults, you know.

So, spite of this and spite of that, Whate’er betide, whate’er befall, These things let others cavil at; I love my sweetheart, faults and all.

From such defects this little lady Of mine is anything but free. Her lashes are “extremely shady,” Her eyes are “much too deep for me.” Two dimples have been thought too many For one small maiden to possess.

Her rivals wish she hadn’t any; But what’s a dimple more or less? Her voice attracts o’er much attention Because of its melodious ring. Her foot—but that I shall not mention— It’s such a very little thing.

Yes, spite of that and spite of this, Whate’er betide, whate’er befall, Though others may perfection miss, I love my sweetheart, faults and all. _Harry B. Smith._

A MODERN DIALOGUE

SCENE—_On Manhattan Island._ _Time—To-day._

_Hour—Ten-thirty._ _Persons of the play:_

SIBYL. _A dream of beauty, half awake, In filmy disarray—about to take Her morning tub. In speech with her the while Is _ROBERT._ He is dressed in riding style._

SIBYL—Why, Bob, it’s _you_! They got your name all wrong. I’m sorry that I made you wait so long.

BOB— Only six minutes by my watch—it’s true A minute seems a year, awaiting you! But Time is merciful and I rejoice That I am still alive to hear your voice.

SIBYL—A very pretty speech, for you, indeed. But what extenuation can you plead For waking ladies at the break of day From peaceful slumbers, sir!

BOB— Oh, come, I say! It’s half-past ten!

SIBYL— Well, it was nearly three Before I got to bed!

BOB— Good gracious me! I’m sure I’d no idea it was so late. Why, I was riding in the Park at eight And looked for you. I own I felt abused; Last night you said——

SIBYL— I beg to be excused From keeping foolish promises, when made At two A. M., by moonlight. I’m afraid My memory’s no better than a sieve. So you expected me? The Lord forgive Your trusting soul!

BOB— It is His _metier_!

SIBYL—Don’t be outrageous, or I’ll run away.

BOB— Ah, no; don’t go. I will be good, I swear! ’Twas a quotation, Heine, or Voltaire, Or some fool cynic fellow. By the way, If you have nothing on, what do you say To breakfasting with Peg and me at noon At the Casino?

SIBYL— Well, that’s rather soon; I can’t be ready for an hour or more.

BOB— Come as you are, you know that I adore Your ladyship in any sort of gown; Besides, there’s not another soul in town. Come as you are; there’ll only be we three.

SIBYL—Well, I like that! It’s fortunate for me This is a telephone, and not that new Invention one can talk and _see_ through, too! What’s that you said?

BOB— I didn’t speak at all I only _thought_.

SIBYL— Well, _don’t_! Suppose we call The breakfast half-past one instead of noon?

BOB (_joyously_)— Then you will come?

SIBYL— I swear!

BOB— Not by the moon?

SIBYL (_laughing_)— No, you may count on me. Now I must fly. One-thirty—don’t forget—Good by!

BOB— Good by! (_They ring off._)

_Oliver Herford._

THE POET’S PROPOSAL

“PHYLLIS, if I could I’d paint you As I see you sitting there, You distracting little saint, you, With your aureole of hair. If I only were an artist, And such glances could be caught, You should have the very smartest Picture frame that can be bought!

“Phyllis, since I can’t depict your Charms, or give you aught but fame, Will you be yourself the picture? Will you let me be the frame? Whose protecting clasp may bind you Always——”

“Nay,” cried Phyllis; “hold, Or you’ll force me to remind you Paintings must be framed with gold!” _Oliver Herford._

TRUTH

PERMIT me, madame, to declare That I never will compare Eyes of yours to Starlight cold, Or your locks to Sunlight’s gold, Or your lips, I’d have you know, To the crimson Jacqueminot.

Stuff like that’s all very fine When you get so much a line; Since I don’t, I scorn to tell Flattering lies. I like too well Sun and Stars and Jacqueminot To flatter them, I’d have you know. _Oliver Herford._

THE BACHELOR GIRL

HERE’S to the Bachelor Girl Who fain her charms would cloister. She is a precious pearl That will not leave the oyster. She is a proud sweet-pea That scorns to be a vine, And lean upon a tree Or round a stick entwine. “What! lean upon a stick! Oh, no! I’m not that sort— I will grow branches thick And be my own support!” Beware, O pearl of price, Lest you be cast to swine; O proud sweet-pea, think twice Ere you refuse to twine! O Bachelor Girl, we drink Confusion to your plan; Beware, lest Fate shall link You to a Spinster Man!

O change, ere ’tis too late, The Choker tall and silly, The tweeds—the hat we hate, For something soft and frilly! Take off the stockings blue, (We will avert our gaze), Then will we drink to you Long life—and happy days! _Oliver Herford._

THE SEA

SHE was rich, and of high degree; A poor and unknown artist he. “Paint me,” she said, “a view of the sea.”

So he painted the sea as it looked the day That Aphrodite arose from its spray; And it broke, as she gazed on its face the while, Into its countless-dimpled smile. “What a poky, stupid picture!” said she; “I don’t believe he can paint the sea!”

Then he painted a raging, tossing sea, Storming, with fierce and sudden shock, Wild cries, and writhing tongues of foam, A towering, mighty fastness-rock. In its sides, above those leaping crests, The thronging sea-birds built their nests. “What a disagreeable daub!” said she; “Why, it isn’t anything like the sea!”

Then he painted a stretch of hot, brown sand, With a big hotel on either hand And a handsome pavilion for the band— Not a sign of the water to be seen Except one faint little streak of green. “What a perfectly exquisite picture!” said she; “It’s the very image of the sea!” _Eva L. Ogden._

IN PHILISTIA

OF all the places on the map, Some queer and others queerer, Arcadia is dear to me, Philistia is dearer.

There dwell the few who never knew The pangs of heavenly hunger, As fresh and fair and fond and frail As when the world was younger.

If there is any sweeter sound Than bobolinks or thrushes, It is the frou-frou of their silks— The roll of their barouches.

I love them even when they’re good, As well as when they’re sinners— When they are sad and worldly wise And when they are beginners.

(I say I do; of course the fact, For better or for worse, is, My unerratic life denies My too erotic verses).

I dote upon their waywardness, Their foibles and their follies. If there’s a madder pate than Di’s, Perhaps it may be Dolly’s.

They have no “problems” to discuss, No “theories” to discover; They are not “new;” and I—I am Their very grateful lover.

I care not if their minds confuse Alastor with Aladdin; And Cimabue is far less To them than Chimmie Fadden.

They never heard of William Blake, Nor saw a Botticelli; Yet one is, “Yours till death, Louise,” And one, “Your loving Nelly.”

They never tease me for my views, Nor tax me with my grammar; Nor test me on the latest news, Until I have to stammer.

They never talk about their “moods,” They never know they have them; The world is good enough for them, And that is why I love them.