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.
They never puzzle me with Greek,
Nor drive me mad with Ibsen;
Yet over forms as fair as Eve’s
They wear the gowns of Gibson.
Bliss Carman.

BETWEEN THE SHOWERS

Between the showers I went my way,
The glistening street was bright with flowers;
It seemed that March had turned to May
Between the showers.
Above the shining roofs and towers
The blue broke forth athwart the gray;
Birds carolled in their leafless bowers.
Hither and thither, swift and gay,
The people chased the changeful hours;
And you, you passed and smiled that day,
Between the showers.
Amy Levy.

GRACE’S CHOICE

When first I saw fair-featured Grace,
In dainty tailor-fashioned gown,
I fell in love with her sweet face,
And pooh-poohed at her escort, Brown.
The fellow’s rich, but such a clown!
I did not fear he’d rival me—
I, Reginald de Courcy Drowne,
With wealth and—looks and pedigree.
I set the man a red-hot pace;
It was the talk of all the town;
I knew that I was loved by Grace—
I knew it by that yokel’s frown.
My ancestors won great renown,
While Brown has no ancestral tree.
I knew I could the fellow down,
With wealth and—looks and pedigree.
She’s married now; has rare point lace,
And jewels fit to deck a crown.
The man who calls her “darling Grace,”
Is not the fellow they call Brown.
No, I’m the happiest man in town.
I knew she’d not say no to me,
One rarely sees Dame Fortune frown
On wealth and—looks and pedigree.

ENVOY

You thought that Grace would marry Brown,
As in most ballades that you see,
But she did not. For her no clown—
But wealth and—looks and pedigree.
Charles Battell Loomis.

TO VIOLET

(With a Bunch of Namesakes)

THERE is a maid—I am afraid
To give her name to you—
Who makes great pets of violets—
I wish I were one, too.
Once in her youth, this all is truth,
She took some up to smell;—
In some strange way the records say,
Into her eyes they fell——
And there they stayed—they never fade—
She looks at me—sometimes,—
And then—Oh, then I seize my pen
And fall to writing rhymes.
But, sad mischance! My consonants
Desert—four vowels, too;
A, E, O, I, take wings, that’s why
My rhymes are filled with U.
Robert Cameron Rogers.

HER BONNET

WHEN meeting-bells began to toll,
And pious folk began to pass,
She deftly tied her bonnet on,
The little, sober meeting lass,
All in her neat, white-curtained room, before her tiny looking-glass.
So nicely, round her lady-cheeks,
She smoothed her hands of glossy hair,
And innocently wondered if
Her bonnet did not make her fair—
Then sternly chid her foolish heart for harbouring such fancies there.
So square she tied the satin strings,
And set the bows beneath her chin;
Then smiled to see how sweet she looked;
Then thought her vanity a sin,
And she must put such thoughts away before the sermon should begin.
But, sitting ’neath the preachèd Word,
Demurely in her father’s pew,
She thought about her bonnet still,—
Yes, all the parson’s sermon through,—
About its pretty bows and buds which better than the text she knew.
Yet sitting there with peaceful face,
The reflex of her simple soul,
She looked to be a very saint—
And maybe was one, on the whole—
Only that her pretty bonnet kept away the aureole.
Mary E. Wilkins.

A SONG

I  will not say my true love’s eyes
Outshine the noblest star;
But in their depth of lustre lies
My peace, my truce, my war.
I will not say upon her neck
Is white to shame the snow;
For if her bosom hath a speck
I would not have it go.
My love is as a woman sweet,
And as a woman white;
Who’s more than this is more than meet
For me and my delight.
Norman R. Gale.

LES PAPILLOTTES

EULALIA sat before the glass
While Betty smoothed her hair.
The mirror told her how she was
Attractive, young and fair;
Curtius was telling her the same
In rosy note, where he confessed his flame.
She read with a satiric eye
Of passion, hope and pain;
Then, careless tossed the poor note by;
Then, took it up again,
And systematically tore,
And folded each strip carefully in four,
And handed in fine scorn each bit
Of rapture to the maid,
Who wot how to dispose of it.
The beauty, disarrayed,
Now crept in bed, blew out the light
Her locks in pink curl-papers for the night.
She slept; and with each gentle breath
The paper in her hair
Soft rustled, and, the story saith,
Repeated to the air
Whate’er stood on it fervent thing—
As if the lover’s self were whispering.
And through her dream she heard it say,
The twist o’er her left ear,—
“I vow that I must love alway
The dearest of the dear.”
And o’er her forehead spoke a twist,
“That stolen glove I’ve kissed and over-kissed.”
Said one, “Thou are the loveliest;
Thy beauty I adore.”
Another, smaller than the rest,
Sighed, “Love, love,” o’er and o’er.
And one said, “Pity my sad plight!”
So Curtius’ passion pleaded all the night.
Eulalia waking in the morn,
Large-eyed, sat up in bed,
While vows the tend’rest that be sworn
Still whispered in her head;—
A dreamy bliss her soul possessed,—
She rang for Betty; and before she dressed,
Upon a subtly perfumed sheet,
As Curtius’ own, blush-pink,
She penned with crow-quill small and neat,
And perfumed crow-black ink,
In flowing hand right tidily,
The proper, simple message, “Come at three.”
Gertrude Hall.

UPON GRACIOSA, WALKING AND TALKING

When as abroad, to greet the morn,
I mark my Graciosa walk,
In homage bends the whisp’ring corn,
Yet to confess
Its awkwardness
Must hang its head upon the stalk.
And when she talks, her lips do heal
The wounds her lightest glances give:—
In pity then be harsh, and deal
Such wounds that I
May hourly die,
And, by a word restored, live.
A. Quiller-Couch.

HER VALENTINE

WHAT, send her a valentine? Never!
I see you don’t know who “she” is.
I should ruin my chances forever;
My hopes would collapse with a fizz.
I can’t see why she scents such disaster
When I take heart to venture a word;
I’ve no dream of becoming her master,
I’ve no notion of being her lord.
All I want is to just be her lover!
She’s the most up-to-date of her sex,
And there’s such a multitude of her,
No wonder they call her complex.
She’s a bachelor, even when married,
She’s a vagabond, even when housed;
And if ever her citadel’s carried
Her suspicions must not be aroused.
She’s erratic, impulsive and human,
And she blunders,—as goddesses can;
But if she’s what they call the New Woman,
Then I’d like to be the New Man.
I’m glad she makes books and paints pictures,
And typewrites and hoes her own row,
And it’s quite beyond reach of conjectures
How much further she’s going to go.
When she scorns, in the L-road, my proffer
Of a seat and hangs on to a strap;
I admire her so much, I could offer
To let her ride up on my lap.
Let her undo the stays of the ages,
That have cramped and confined her so long!
Let her burst through the frail candy cages
That fooled her to think they were strong!
She may enter life’s wide vagabondage,
She may do without flutter or frill,
She may take off the chains of her bondage,—
And anything else that she will.
She may take me off, for example,
And she probably does when I’m gone.
I’m aware the occasion is ample;
That’s why I so often take on.
I’m so glad she can win her own dollars
And know all the freedom it brings.
I love her in shirt-waists and collars,
I love her in dress-reform things.
I love her in bicycle skirtlings—
Especially when there’s a breeze—
I love her in crinklings and quirklings
And anything else that you please.
I dote on her even in bloomers—
If Parisian enough in their style—
In fact, she may choose her costumers,
Wherever her fancy beguile.
She may box, she may shoot, she may wrestle,
She may argue, hold office or vote,
She may engineer turret or trestle,
And build a few ships that will float.
She may lecture (all lectures but curtain)
Make money, and naturally spend,
If I let her have her way, I’m certain
She’ll let me have mine in the end!
Richard Hovey.

STORY OF THE GATE

ACROSS the pathway, myrtle-fringed,
Under the maple, it was hinged—
The little wooden gate;
’Twas there within the quiet gloam,
When I had strolled with Nelly home,
I used to pause and wait.
Before I said to her good-night,
Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite
Within the garden’s pale;
And there, the gate between us two,
We’d linger as all lovers do,
And lean upon the rail.
And face to face, eyes close to eyes,
Hands meeting hands in feigned surprise,
After a stealthy quest,—
So close I’d bend, ere she’d retreat,
That I’d grow drunken from the sweet
Tuberose upon her breast.
We’d talk—in fitful style, I ween—
With many a meaning glance between
The tender words and low;
We’d whisper some dear, sweet conceit,
Some idle gossip we’d repeat,
And then I’d move to go.
“Good-night,” I’d say; “Good-night—good-by!”
“Good-night”—from her with half a sigh—
“Good-night!” “Good-night!” And then
And then I do not go, but stand,
Again lean on the railing, and—
Begin it all again.
Ah! that was many a day ago—
That pleasant summer-time—although
The gate is standing yet;
A little cranky, it may be,
A little weather-worn—like me—
Who never can forget.
The happy “End”? My cynic friend,
Pray save your sneers—there was no “end.”
Watch yonder chubby thing!
That is our youngest, hers and mine;
See how he climbs, his legs to twine
About the gate and swing.
Harrison Robertson.

TWO TRIOLETS

I
(What He Said)