GIRLHOOD.

Thus I left those hallowed halls,

Its blackboards and its pictured walls,

With maps and charts of every size,

To torture brain and tease the eyes;

And fondly fancied I was through;

I knew twice now what others knew,

And all I had to do was show

My talents off, and catch a beau.

What consternation then was mine,

When aunt’s original design

Was carried out, to have me teach—

I’d almost rather beg or preach;

But as it was her great desire,

And as I had no wealthy sire,

My talents must my banker be—

So I took a class in A, B, C.

Again I must divide my time,

between a share of prose and rhyme;

I taught all day which was my prose—

The rhyme in evening, was my beau.

My daily duties never flagged,

But evening callers often lagged;

I’d wonder too how they could know

My many charms and tarry so!

How often evenings I have sat,

Impromptu welcomes all so pat;

I’d tell the girl to say “I’m home,”

Alas the callers never come!

And I would sit and read a book,

I’d read before, and never look

Disconcerted or annoyed,

Till evening hopes were all destroyed.

Then, disappointed, I’d retire,

And try to think of something higher,

But bitter pangs would rend my heart,

And dreams and nightmares make me start.

Sometimes a beau would happen in,

And make me most commit a sin,

By seeming very much surprised,

When really I had half surmised

That he was coming for a week—

But this was just a girlish freak.

They really ought to like to come,

I made them feel so much at home;

They seemed so happy while they stayed,

And left reluctantly, they said;

And I would often think it true,

And show my sorrow—wouldn’t you?

But, ah, alas! I soon began

To see the sad deceit of man;

I’d sit and watch and wait in vain,

My nose against the window-pane,

Or listen with an anxious spell,

To hear the ringing of the bell,

And bless the beggar that would dare,

To waken hope and bring despair!

Thus matters stood at seventeen—

An age that’s always noted been

For sunny happiness and joys—

And so would mine, but for the boys;

The very ones that suited me,

My aunty never seemed to see

With loving eyes as I desired,

And those she liked I ne’er admired;

And when we did on one agree

He hardly ever fancied me!

The scrapes and troubles I have had,

Enough to make a martyr sad;

These sorrows didn’t happen once,

But worried me for weeks and months.

At last becoming better known,

New suitors I began to own,

And having more, had bitter choice

And had occasion to rejoice

That I was blest with lots of beaus,

But none seemed anxious to propose.

They’d come and go with thoughtless air,

And I, pretending not to care,

Would bid them welcome and adieu,

As sweet and kind as if I knew

Their very heart-throb was for me—

Their lives one line of constancy!

How many sorry sighs I’ve had

About a wayward truant lad,

How oft “unwisely but too well,”

Would love assert its magic spell,

And hold my heart so tight and strong—

I’m glad it never lasted long!

I’ve thought at times I couldn’t live,

Unless Augustus would forgive

The little pique I showed last night,

Done really more in love than spite.

I’ve gone to bed and tried to weep

Myself into a troubled sleep;

But oft the sorrow I’d forget,

Before I found my eyes were wet!

Or Morpheus would my senses blind,

And leave love’s trials all behind.

How kind in Nature to prepare

A heart elastic, that can bear

The miseries and weighty woes

That must attend the age of beaus.

For, with so many different kind,

You couldn’t well make up your mind,

Especially when you didn’t know

Which was destined for your beau.

To wait and wait, and then to find

The wrong one is the one inclined

To breathe his hopes into your ears,

A nuisance is that seldom cheers.

Just after such a blow as this,

I thought I saw much future bliss,

In a student of the “nobby” kind,

So rich and handsome and refined.

But, oh, dear me! my brief delight

Was shattered by his getting tight,

And a love of fully thirty days

Was checked by aunt in many ways.

I thought at last it might be best

To let my student lover rest.

My next, an artist proud and poor,

By chance then living in next door,

Was always at my beck and call,

Which aunty didn’t like at all—

She said he was a fop and dandy.

To me he was so nice and handy,

And then so pleasant and polite,

We had engagements every night;

Till all at once my artist beau

Was told by aunt ’twas best to go—

The love that lasted three long months

Was crushed and killed by her at once.

And then I had an interval

Of several weeks in which to fill

The place of lovers I had lost—

But no one knew the pain it cost,

And nothing but a handsome clerk

I chanced to meet while at his work,

Could make amends for all my woes;

But he, alas! did not propose.

I think he would, but times were hard,

Which often happy hopes retard.

I, knowing this, would not allow

Him any chance to make a vow,

For poverty, though not a crime,

Has always been a dread of mine.

His handsome eyes and wavy hair,

Were great temptations I declare;

And then his love was firm and true

But he hadn’t cash enough for two.

So we sighed in silence o’er our fate,

And wisely thought it best to wait—

The other callers too seemed slow,

I’ve often wondered why ’twas so.

I had no wealth, or charms to praise;

But, then, I had such “winning ways,”

That ought to take, and may-be will—

At least I won’t give up until

I hear from some more hopeful source,

All true love has a crooked course.

I know the chap I’d like to catch—

I think ’twould be a splendid match—

I wonder what he thinks of me?

I’ll wait a while and we will see;

He has a tender sort of way

When he wishes me to sing or play;

And, when the hour comes to leave,

He often looks disposed to grieve.

He’s handsome, too, but awful shy,

Has such a melting, mellow eye,

It makes me reconciled to wait

If just to see, at any rate,

If time won’t ripen his desire,

And sparks of love for me inspire;

And while I wait he’ll never know

I ever wished to have a beau.

Here twice this week, I do declare,

And took me out once to the fair;

I really think he’s coming round,

So I’ll keep cool and hold my ground;

Should he propose, I’ll show surprise,

And stammer, No, with drooping eyes:

That’s the way they do in books,

Nor show their haste by eager looks;

I hope he won’t discover mine,

Nor take in earnest my decline,

It really wasn’t final, nay,

It only meant a slight delay

In making up my maiden mind,

And, in repeating he will find

That after the surprise was o’er,

I’d “love and honor and adore.”

But blessed luck, and happy fate,

That didn’t give me long to wait.

One quiet eve, in early fall,

He came, and made a lovely call;

No other beaus that night appeared,

As both of us at first had feared;

And aunty being out of town,

We didn’t dread her maiden frown.

So being favored thus by fate,

His smothered love he did relate.

Our happiness and new-made bliss

Was sanctioned by the sealing kiss.

I quite forgot the sighs and looks

So recommended in the books,

And answered, Yes, without delay

Or looking once another way.

He found I wasn’t hard to woo,

My answer came so frank and true;

For when you’re suited, what’s the sense

Of being kept in such suspense,

Till silly rules of etiquette

Love’s happy longings all upset?

That evening Cupid’s capers thrived,

Till all at once my aunt arrived;

I fear we guilty look and feel,

Our awkward actions can’t conceal

How matters stand, but I will try

By tact detection to defy.

We treat each other calmly cool,

Talk carelessly of church and school,

Or any subject but the one

That we have just agreed upon.

To please my aunty’s prudish ear,

We shunned the theme to us so dear,

Till passing hours in hasty flight,

Suggest to us a sad good-night.

Now he is gone—how queer I feel!

I wish I only dared reveal

My pent up joy unto my aunt;

I want to, but I really can’t.

She always seemed to like this beau

As well as any that I know,

But then she never thought that he

Would ever care a fig for me;

And now I fear that when she finds

He really loves and has designs,

She might at once discover flaws

To cause her to object or pause,

And then what misery would be mine

No heart could know or tongue define.

The fearful Rubicon is past;

I’ve told her all—her sanction asked,

And she consents—most strange to tell,

I find my suitor suits her well;

But wonders what he e’er could see

In such a wayward girl as me.

Indeed, I’ve often wondered too,

Though other people never knew,

But what I thought I was a prize;

Nor did my suitor e’er surmise—

He thought me all that he desired;

That trait in him I so admired!

For total blindness in a beau

Is one the best gifts that I know;

So, feeling so secure in this,

We might have lived a life of bliss,

But for a couple other beau,

Who thought at once that they’d propose;

They never dreamed of it before,

Nor would till they had been four score.

If I had still kept “fancy free,”

They never would have fancied me.

“It seldom rains but what it pours”—

Too many beaus are often bores.

I cutely kept my matters mum,

But found it truly troublesome;

I told them I was nothing loth

To love, indeed to marry, both—

For still on mischief I was bent,

And seldom said a word I meant;

Must ever have my share of fun

At sad expense of “number one.”

I really felt, I blush to tell,

That I was getting quite a “belle,”

And could afford to put on airs,

When offers tackled me in pairs!

And then, too, I had been so fast

In saying yes, that I would blast

Those tender hopes I lately made—

Two lovers cast one in the shade.

I timed my hours to see them all,

Preventing, thus, a lover’s squall,

And thought my wits were working fine,

When, all at once, that aunt of mine

Commenced, she said, “to smell a rat,”

And then we had a lively spat.

I hardly need to tell the rest—

For aunty always came out best—

And I was then obliged to be

Content with one, instead of three,

And though I loved the first one well,

I missed the two, I blush to tell.

If aunty hadn’t been so queer,

I’d had three lovers all the year,

But now I stuck to number one,

And left the other two undone.

And neither of them seemed to die,

I can not tell the reason why;

They nearly always do in books,

Or turn out bad, which I think looks