I am the unfortunate Chaperon;
I never can call a minute my own:
For the girls treat with mirthful derision
The precision of my kind supervision.
Oh, terribly hard is my luckless lot!
I’m forced to hurry from spot to spot,
And then all the thanks that I get for my trouble
Is that I’m completely ignored.
“Why, that’s fine!” cried Marjorie; “but how can you sing it? Helen’s has a tune to it, ‘Talking in My Sleep,’ you know.”
“Are we really going to sing this thing?” said Marguerite, looking awe-struck.