FLIRTING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
At an open window wide, just across the way,
Sits a roguish little blonde nearly all the day,
Playing with a tabby cat, and gazing down below,
Flirting with conductors that are passing to and fro.
Some receive a passing nod, and some receive a smile;
But she watches Number 6 whilst going half a mile.
And the gay conductor while he’s throwing kisses there,
Doesn’t hear the signals given by an aged pair,
Though the man, as best he can, whistles loud and shrill,
And the wife, as though for life, charges down the hill.
And the blameful driver, while he gazes wistful back,
Doesn’t see the little child a creeping on the track.
Soon the jury summoned there to question how it died,
Will as their opinion give, “a case of suicide;”
And the driver and his mate acquitted from all blame,
Kisses at the blonde will throw, and she’ll return the same.