’Twas not thus Venus Victrix gained
The gift of Priam’s son.
By beauty, not by begging, was
The golden apple won.
(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, May 3, 1896.)
Celestial Sounds
With three men on the bases,
And one to tie the score,
The batter rubs sand on his hands,
The runners play off more.
He hits a home run o’er the fence,
The air is full of cheers;
The sharp crack of the ball and bat
Is music of the spheres.
(Houston Daily Post, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)
The Snow
’Tis thirty miles, you say? Ah, well,
Come, mount! I am no hot-house flower.
I love the cold and the north wind’s power;
Rioting, buffeting, rushing pellmell.
Did you think that the colonel’s daughter
Was afraid to ride in a little cold
Back to the fort? Why, Travers, you ought to
Do guard duty till you’re gray and old.
Come, mount—Ah, this is life again;
Like a mustang in a hunter’s pen,
So many months I have fretted sore
For a gallop on Firefly’s back once more.
Going to snow?—Well, what do I care?
I told you, Travers, I am not afraid.
There are few things that I would not dare;
You can go back if you’d rather have stayed.
There, now, I was but jesting.
No need for that flush resting
On your cheek at what I said.
Why did they send you to meet me—Oh,
You begged the task as a favor!
There is about your words a savor
Of something that would hardly go
Unrebuked if your colonel heard you.