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An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.
"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?"
"Wal... no... I come dasignin"
"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."
To say why gals acts so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.
Says he, "I'd better call ag'in"; Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; Thet last word p.r.i.c.ked him like a pin, An'... Wal, he up an' kissed her.
When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes.
For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary.
The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood And gin 'em both her blessin'.
Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
L'EAU DORMANTE
Curled up and sitting on her feet, Within the window's deep embrasure, Is Lydia; and across the street, A lad, with eyes of roguish azure, Watches her buried in her book.
In vain he tries to win a look, And from the trellis over there Blows sundry kisses through the air, Which miss the mark, and fall unseen, Uncared for. Lydia is thirteen.
My lad, if you, without abuse, Will take advice from one who's wiser, And put his wisdom to more use Than ever yet did your adviser; If you will let, as none will do, Another's heartbreak serve for two, You'll have a care, some four years hence, How you lounge there by yonder fence And blow those kisses through that screen-- For Lydia will be seventeen.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]
A PRIMROSE DAME
She has a primrose at her breast, I almost wish I were a Tory.
I like the Radicals the best; She has a primrose at her breast; Now is it chance she so is dressed, Or must I tell a story?
She has a primrose at her breast, I almost wish I were a Tory.
Gleeson White [1851-1898]
IF
Oh, if the world were mine, Love, I'd give the world for thee!
Alas! there is no sign, Love, Of that contingency.
Were I a king,--which isn't To be considered now,-- A diadem had glistened Upon that lovely brow.
Had fame with laurels crowned me,-- She hasn't, up to date,-- Nor time nor change had found me To love and thee ingrate.
If Death threw down his gage, Love, Though life is dear to me, I'd die, e'en of old age, Love, To win a smile from thee.
But being poor, we part, dear, And love, sweet love, must die; Thou wilt not break thy heart, dear, No more, I think, shall I!
James Jeffrey Roche [1847-1908]
DON'T
Your eyes were made for laughter: Sorrow befits them not; Would you be blithe hereafter, Avoid the lover's lot.
The rose and lily blended Possess your cheeks so fair; Care never was intended To leave his furrows there.
Your heart was not created To fret itself away, By being unduly mated To common human clay.
But hearts were made for loving-- Confound philosophy!
Forget what I've been proving, Sweet Phyllis, and love me!
James Jeffrey Roche [1847-1908]
AN IRISH LOVE-SONG
In the years about twenty (When kisses are plenty) The love of an Irish la.s.s fell to my fate-- So winsome and sightly, So saucy and sprightly, The priest was a prophet that christened her Kate.
Soft gray of the dawning, Bright blue of the morning, The sweet of her eye there was nothing to mate; A nose like a fairy's, A cheek like a cherry's, And a smile--well, her smile was like--nothing but Kate.
To see her was pa.s.sion, To love her, the fas.h.i.+on; What wonder my heart was unwilling to wait!
And, daring to love her, I soon did discover A Katherine masking in mischievous Kate.
No Katy unruly But Katherine, truly-- Fond, serious, patient, and even sedate; With a glow in her gladness That banishes sadness-- Yet stay! Should I credit the suns.h.i.+ne to Kate?
Love cannot outlive it, Wealth cannot o'ergive it-- The saucy surrender she made at the gate.
O Time, be but human, Spare the girl in the woman!
You gave me my Katherine--leave me my Kate!
Robert Underwood Johnson [1853-
