THE PRIZE
WITH ivy wreathed, a hundred lights
Shone out; the Convent play was finished;
The waning term this night of nights
To a few golden hours diminished.
Again the curtain rose. Outshone
The childish frocks and childish tresses
Of the late cast that had put on
Demureness and its party dresses.
Rustled a-row upon the stage
Big girls and little, ranged in sizes,
All waiting for the Personage
To make the speech and give the prizes.
And there, all rosy from her rôle,
Betsey with sturdy valiance bore her,
Nor did she recognize a soul
But braved the buzzing room before her
With such resolve that guest on guest,
And many a smiling nun behind them,
Met her eyes obviously addressed
To proving that she did not mind them.
(So might a kitchen kitten see—
Whose thoughts round housemaids' heels are centred—
The awful drawing-room's company
He inadvertently has entered.)
Swift from her side the girlish crowd,
With lovely smiles and limber graces,
Went singly, took their prizes, bowed,
Returning quietly to their places.
Then "Betsey Jane!" and all the rout,
Sweet postulant and nun pedantic,
Beheld that little craft put out
Upon the polished floor's Atlantic.
The Personage bestowed her prize,
And Betsey, lowly as the others,
Bowed o'er her sandals, raised her eyes
Alight with pride—and met her mother's!
She thrust between the honoured row
Before her in her glad elation;
Her school-mates gasped to see her go;
The nuns divined her destination;
The guests made way. Clap following clap
Acclaimed Convention's overleaping,
As Betsey gained her mother's lap
And gave the prize into her keeping.