The Book of Humorous Verse Part 24

Why don't the men propose, mamma?

Why don't the men propose?

Each seems just coming to the point, And then away he goes; It is no fault of yours, mamma, _That_ everybody knows; You _fete_ the finest men in town, Yet, oh! they won't propose.

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, To make a proper match; For coronets and eldest sons, I'm ever on the watch; I've hopes when some _distingue_ beau A glance upon me throws; But though he'll dance and smile and flirt, Alas! he won't propose.

I've tried to win by languis.h.i.+ng, And dressing like a blue; I've bought big books and talked of them As if I'd read them through!

With hair cropp'd like a man I've felt The heads of all the beaux; But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, And oh! they won't propose.

I threw aside the books, and thought That ignorance was bliss; I felt convinced that men preferred A simple sort of Miss; And so I lisped out nought beyond Plain "yesses" or plain "noes,"

And wore a sweet unmeaning smile; Yet, oh! they won't propose.

Last night at Lady Ramble's rout I heard Sir Henry Gale Exclaim, "Now I _propose_ again----"

I started, turning pale; I really thought my time was come, I blushed like any rose; But oh! I found 'twas only at _Ecarte_ he'd propose.

And what is to be done, mamma?

Oh, what is to be done?

I really have no time to lose, For I am thirty-one; At b.a.l.l.s I am too often left Where spinsters sit in rows; Why don't the men propose, mamma?

Why _won't_ the men propose?

_Thomas Haynes Bayly._

A PIN

Oh, I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good, But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would.

The little chills run up and down my spine when'er we meet, Though she seems a gentle creature and she's very trim and neat.

And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin, And she p.r.i.c.ks you, and she sticks you, in a way that can't be said-- When you seek for what has hurt you, why, you cannot find the head.

But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain-- If anybody asks you why, you really can't explain.

A pin is such a tiny thing,--of that there is no doubt,-- Yet when it's sticking in your flesh, you're wretched till it's out!

She is wonderfully observing--when she meets a pretty girl She is always sure to tell her if her "bang" is out of curl.

And she is so sympathetic: to a friend, who's much admired, She is often heard remarking, "Dear, you look so worn and tired!"

And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride, And she said, "Oh, how becoming!" and then softly added, "It Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit."

Then she said, "If you had heard me yestereve, I'm sure, my friend, You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend."

And she left me with the feeling--most unpleasant, I aver-- That the whole world would despise me if it had not been for her.

Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day, And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet) With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.

She is always bright and smiling, sharp and s.h.i.+ning for a thrust-- Use does not seem to blunt her point, not does she gather rust-- Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.

_Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x._

THE WHISTLER

"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline-- "You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood; I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine!"

"And what would you do with it?--tell me," she said, While an arch smile play'd over her beautiful face.

"I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid Would fly to my side, and would there take her place."

"Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours Without any magic," the fair maiden cried; "A favour so slight one's good-nature secures;"

And she playfully seated herself by his side.

"I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm Would work so, that not even modesty's check Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm."

She smiled, and she laid her white arm round his neck.

"Yet once more I would blow, and the music divine Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss."

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee-- "What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make!

For only consider how silly 'twould be To sit there and whistle for what you might take."

_Unknown._

THE CLOUD

AN IDYLL OF THE WESTERN FRONT

I

|Scene|: _A wayside shrine in France._

|Persons|: Celeste, Pierre, a Cloud.

|Celeste| (_gazing at the solitary white Cloud_): I wonder what your thoughts are, little Cloud, Up in the sky, so lonely and so proud!

|Cloud|: Not proud, dear maiden; lonely, if you will.

Long have I watched you, sitting there so still Before that little shrine beside the way, And wondered where your thoughts might be astray; Your knitting lying idle on your knees, And worse than idle--like Penelope's, Working its own undoing!

|Celeste| (_picks up her knitting_): Who was she?

Saints! What a knot!--Who was Penelope?

What happened to _her_ knitting? Tell me, Cloud!

|Cloud|: She was a Queen; she wove her husband's shroud.

|Celeste| (_drops the knitting_).

His shroud!