IV.

AT AFTERNOON TEA.

"'In New York!' Yes, I met her this morning.

I knew her in spite of her paint; And Guelph, too, poor fellow, was with her; I felt really nervous, and faint, When he bowed to me, looking _so_ pleading-- I cut him, of course. Wouldn't you?

If I meet him alone, I'll explain it; But knowing _her_, what could I do?

Poor fellow! He looks sadly altered-- I think it a sin, and a shame, The way he was wrecked by that _creature_!

I _know_ he was never to blame.

He never suspected. He liked her-- He'd known her for most of his life-- And of course, it _was_ quite a temptation To run off with another man's wife.

At his age, you know--barely thirty-- So romantic, and makes such a noise In one's club--why, one _can't_ but excuse him, Now _can_ one, dear? Boys will be boys.

I've known him so long--why, he'd come here And talk to me just like a son.

It's my duty--I feel as a mother-- To save him; the thing can be done Very easily. First, I must show him How grossly the woman deceived And entrapped him.--It made such a scandal You know, that he _can't_ be received At all, any more, till he drops her-- He'll certainly not be so mad As to hold to her still. Oh, I know him So well--I'm quite sure he'll be glad On _any_ excuse, to oblige me In a matter so trifling indeed.

Then the way will be clear. _We'll_ receive him, And the rest will soon follow our lead.

We must keep our eyes on him more closely Hereafter; young men of his wealth And position are so sorely tempted To waste time, and fortune, and health In frivolous pleasures and pastimes, That there's but one safe-guard in life For them and their money--we've seen it-- A really nice girl for a wife.

Too bad you've no daughter! My Mamie Had influence with him for good Before this affair--when he comes here She'll meet him, I'm sure, as she should-- That is, as if nothing had happened-- And greet him with sisterly joy; Between us I know we can _save_ him.

I'll write him to-morrow, poor boy."

THE "STAY-AT-HOME'S" PLAINT.

The Spring has grown to Summer; The sun is fierce and high; The city shrinks, and withers Beneath the burning sky.

Ailantus trees are fragrant, And thicker shadows cast, Where berry-girls, with voices shrill, And watering carts go past.

In offices like ovens We sit without our coats; Our cuffs are moist and shapeless, No collars binds our throats.

We carry huge umbrellas On Broad Street and on Wall, Oh, how thermometers go up!

And, oh, how stocks _do_ fall!

The nights are full of music, Melodious Teuton troops Beguile us, calmly smoking, On balconies and stoops.

With eyes half-shut, and dreamy, We watch the fire-flies' spark, And image far-off faces, As day dies into dark.

The avenue is lonely, The houses choked with dust; The shutters, barred and bolted, The bell-k.n.o.bs all a-rust.

No blossom-like spring dresses, No faces young and fair, From "d.i.c.kel's" to "The Brunswick,"

No promenader there.

The girls we used to walk with Are far away, alas!

The feet that kissed its pavement Are deep in country gra.s.s.

Along the scented hedge-rows, Among the green old trees, Are blooming city faces 'Neath rosy-lined pongees.

They're cottaging at Newport; They're bathing at Cape May; In Saratoga's ball-rooms They dance the hours away.

Their voices through the quiet Of haunted Catskill break; Or rouse those dreamy dryads, The nymphs of Echo Lake.

The hands we've led through Germans, And squeezed, perchance, of yore, Now deftly grasp the bridle, The mallet, and the oar.

The eyes that wrought our ruin On other men look down; We're but the broken play-things They've left behind in town.

Oh, happy Gran'dame Nature, Whose wandering children come To light with happy faces The dear old mother-home, Be tender with our darlings, Each merry maiden bears Such love and longing with her-- Men's lives are wrapped in theirs.

THE "STAY-AT-HOME'S" PaeAN.

The evenings are damper and colder; The maples and sumacs are red, The wild Equinoctial is coming, The flowers in the garden are dead.

The steamers are all overflowing, The railroads are all loaded down, And the beauties we've sighed for all Summer Are hurrying back into town.

They come from the banks of the Hudson, From the sands of the Branch, and Cape May, From the parlors of bright Saratoga, From the dash of Niagara's spray.

From misty, sea-salt Narragansett, From Mahopac's magical lake.

They come on their way to new conquests, They're longing for more hearts to break.

E'en Newport is dull and deserted-- Its billowy beaches no more Made bright with sweet, ocean-kissed faces, Love's beacon lights set on the sh.o.r.e.

The rugged White Hills of New Hampshire, The last of their lovers have seen, The echoes are left to their slumbers, No dainty feet thread the ravine.

On West Point's delightful parade ground Sighs many a hapless cadet, Who's basked through the long days of Summer In the smiles of a city coquette; And now the incipient hero Beholds his enchantress depart, With the spoils of her lightly-won triumph, His b.u.t.tons, as well as his heart.

Come, dry your eyes, Grandmother Nature, They care not a whit for your woe; The city is calling her daughters-- We can't spare them longer, they know-- Our beautiful, tender-voiced darlings, With the blue of the deep Summer skies, And the glow of the bright Summer sunshine, Entrapped in their mischievous eyes.

We know their expenses are awful, That horror unspeakable fills The souls of unfortunate fathers Who foot up their dressmaker's bills.

That they'd barter their souls for French candy; That diamonds ruin their peace; That they rave over middle-aged actors, And in other respects are--well, geese.

We laugh at them, boys, but we love them, For under their nonsense we know They've hearts that are honest and loving, And souls that are whiter than snow.

So out with that bottle of Roederer!

Large gla.s.ses, boys! Up goes the cork!

All charged? To the belles of creation, The glorious girls of New York.

EIGHT HOURS.

"Sign the pet.i.tion!" "Write my name!"

"She said, ask me!"--oh, she's fooling; Where do you think a girl like me Could find the time for so much schooling?

Why, I've been here since I was eight or so-- That's ten years now--and it seems like longer; The hours are from eight till six--you see It wears one out--I once was stronger.

"A bad cough!" oh, that's nothing, sir; It comes from the dust, and bending over.

It hurts me sometimes--no, not now.

"This!" why, a flower, a bit of clover.

I picked it up as I came to work-- It grew in the gra.s.s in some one's airy, Where it stood, and nodded all alone Like a little green-cloaked, white-capped fairy.

"Fond of flowers!" I like them--yes-- Though, goodness knows, I don't see many-- I'd have to buy them--they cost so much-- And I never can spare a single penny.

"Go to the park!"--how can I, sir?

The only day that I have is Sunday; And then there's always so much to do That before I know it, almost, it's Monday.

Like it sir, like it!--why, when I think Of the woods, and the brook with the cattle drinking-- I was country-bred, sir--my heart swells so That I--there, there, what's the use of thinking!

If I could write, sir--"make a cross, And let you write my name below it"-- No, please; I'm ashamed I can't, sometimes,-- I don't want all the girls to know it.

And what's the use of it, anyway?

They'll just say shortly, with careless faces, "If you're not suited, you'd better leave"-- There's plenty of girls to fill our places.