Chapter 3
You see I do All things for you. Come, let us sup. (But oh, what joy To be that boy Who picked it up.)
Discovered.
AN EPISODE ON BEACON HILL.
You are frowning; I don't wonder. Reading Browning; Hard as thunder!
Oh, excuse me; You adore it? You amuse me; I abhor it.
Let me see it. Who has taught you? Now to me it-- Ah, I've caught you.
It _must_ be hard so (Hence the frown?) To read the bard so-- Upside down.
The Ice in the Punch.
The wail of the 'cello is soft, sweet, and low; There are strains of romance in the thrumming banjo. The violin's note--feel it float in your ear; And the harp makes one fancy that angels are near.
The voice of a young girl can reach to the heart; The song of the baritone--well, it is art. The flute and the lute in gavotte--the guitar In soft serenade--how entrancing they are! But to all the mad millions Who dance at cotillons There's naught like the clink and the clank and the crunch Of the ice in the punch.
So here's to the recipe, ancient in Spain, And here's to the basket of cobwebbed champagne. Again to the genius who grows the sharp spice, But ten times to King Winter who furnishes ice; For to all the mad millions Who dance at cotillons There's naught like the clink and the clank and the crunch Of the ice in the punch.
The Tale of a Broken Heart.
She was a Beautiful, Dutiful, Grand, And rollicking queen of Bohemia, With a cheek that was Rosier, Cosier, And As soft as a lily, and creamier.
She was always com- pelling me, Selling me, I Was her slave, but she treated me shamefully. She went on the Stage, was a Rage, as a-- Why-- As a page, and they spoke of her blamefully. And then in the Papers her Capers were Writ.
I love her no longer,--I swear it; But I oft spend a Dollar and Holler and Sit Through her antics. Oh, how can I bear it?
Where did you get it?
Pray, ladies, ye of wondrous clothes, That draw admiring "ahs!" and "ohs!" And "By Joves!" as men chat, Permit me,--love the right bestows,-- Where did you get that hat?
The very hat, sweet maids, I mean, So often now on Broadway seen, That is so very flat; Black as a rule, but sometimes green. Where did you get that hat?
In shape an oyster-dish,--the crown,-- A ribbon bristles up and down, Quite striking--yes, all that; The sweetest, neatest thing in town! Where _did_ you get that hat?
No
"No!" The word Fell upon my ears Like the knell of a funeral bell. I had fondly expected A whispered "yes" that Would steal into my soul Like the song of an angel From some distant Aidenn. I arose and brushed off The knees of my trousers. "Farewell," I said; "you have ruined my life." "Nonsense," she replied in the cold, cutting voice Of a woman who has been used to $100 bills And a coupé;
"There have been thirty-seven before you, and they Are all married and happy now. You see I know all about young men." "I do not think a young, timid girl Should 'No' so much," I answered. And going out (Carefully escorted by the butler, for there was A better overcoat than mine in the hall), I left her alone and unloved,--with no one to care for her Save a couple of dozen servants And a doting father and mother.
A Midsummer Night's Tempest.
AN EPILOGUE TO HAMLET, PERFORMED BY AMATEURS.
SCENE: _Elsinore--a platform before the castle (on an improvised stage). Inky darkness. Shade of Hamlet (solus)_.
_Shade of Hamlet_: Oh, did you see him, did you see the knave, The spindle-shanked, low-browed, and cock-eyed Clerk to an attorney, play at Hamlet, Dream-souled Hamlet, wearing an eyeglass? Oh, it was horrible.
(_Enter Shade of Laertes_.)
_Shade of Laertes_: What's the matter with Hamlet?
_S. of H._: He's not all right. No, by the fame of Shakespeare, he's all wrong. A certain convocation of talented amateurs Are e'en at him. Your amateur is your only emperor for talent; There's not a genius in the universe Who will essay as much.
_S. of L._: Or, who will imitate nature so abominably. Your head is level, Ham., and I--even I, Laertes, suffered at the hands of one Whose fiery hair, parted in the middle Like a cranberry pie, caused me to believe That some of nature's journeymen had made a man, And not made him well, he imitated nature So abominably.
_S. of H._: Ha' the fair Ophelia!
_(Enter Shade of Ophelia_.)
_S. of O._: Yes, my lord, thine own Ophelia, Come back to earth with heaviness o' grief Thy madness ne'er begot, for I have seen The efforts of a lisping, smirking maid, As graceful as a bean-pole, and as lean. Attempt to paint the sorrow of my heart. Oh, I would get me to a nunnery.
_S of H._: Let me Ophelyour pulse. Mad--quite mad; and all because A creature whom these mortals call a Miss, Quite properly, as her efforts are amiss, Would fain portray thee. Soft you, now! O fair Ophelia. Nymph in thine orisons Be all her sins remembered. Why let the stricken deer go weep, The untrained amateur play? All those that watch must surely weep. So wise men stay away.
(_Flickering blue lights and curtain_.)
The Abused Gallant.
Two lovely maidens (woe is me!) Play tennis with my heart; And each is wondrous fair to see, And each is wondrous smart.
In learning, money, beauty, birth, None can surpass them--none. But each receives my "court" with mirth, And tells the other one.
My "court"! The term is fitly used-- A tennis court, you see. And I know well I am abused, By the "racket" they give me.
Maud strikes my heart a brutal blow, And Mabel cries out, "Fault!" And back and forth I undergo A feminine assault.
Maud asks my age. Alas! I hear Sweet Mabel say, "The goose Is very nearly forty, dear." Maud answers, "Oh, 'the deuce'!"
And so my poor heart with their wit Is volleyed oft and oft, Till Mabel cries, while holding it, "This heart is far too soft."
And firing it into the net, She says, with girlish vim, "Although he isn't in our 'set,' We're making 'game' of him."
And making game they are, I swear By all the saints above, With all the terms of tennis there Save but the sweetest, "love."
After the Ball.
A last word in the vestibule, A touch of taper fingers, A scent of roses, sweet and cool, When she has gone still lingers.
He pauses at the carriage door To sigh a bit and ponder He thinks the matter o'er and o'er, And all his senses wander.
With mantle thrown aside in haste, Her heart a bit uncertain, And neither time nor love to waste, She watches through the curtain.
And she has played him well, he knows Nor has he dared to stop her. She wonders when he will propose; He wonders how he'll drop her.
Vanity Fair.
Oh, whence, oh, where Is Vanity Fair? I want to be seen with the somebodies there. I've money and beauty and college-bred brains; Though my 'scutcheon's not spotless, who'll mind a few stains? To caper I wish in the chorus of style, And wed an aristocrat after a while So please tell me truly, and please tell me fair, Just how many miles it's from Madison Square.
It's here, it's there, Is Vanity Fair. It's not like a labyrinth, not like a lair. It's North and it's South, and it's East and it's West; You can see it, oh, anywhere, quite at its best. Dame Fashion is queen, Ready Money is king, You can join it, provided you don't know a thing. It's miles over here, and it's miles over there; And it's not seven inches from Madison Square.
For the Long Voyage.
"Were I a captain bold," I said, And gently clasped her hand, "Wouldst sail with me, by fancy led, To every foreign strand?
"Wouldst help me furl my silver sail, And be my trusty crew? Wouldst stand by in the midnight gale, My pilot tried and true?"
"Well, no," she answered, blushing red, "Such heavy work I hate. But,"--listen what the maiden said,-- "I would be your first mate."
This is the end.
The printing was done by John Wilson & Son, Cambridge for Fredrick A. Stokes Company New York MDCCCICVIII
End of Project Gutenberg's When hearts are trumps, by Thomas Winthrop Hall