Come, Matilda number two,
_Fin de siècle _maiden you!
Wonder if you'd like to see
Her I loved in fifty-three?
Yes? All right, then go and find
Mother's picture—"Papa!"—Mind!
She and I were married. You
Were our youngest. Now you, too,
Raise the same old anthems till
All the church is hushed and still
With a single soul to hear.
Do I flatter? Ah, my dear,
Time has brought my last desire—
Tildy still is in the choir!
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~A Memory.~
We sat in the lamplight's gentle glow,
Alone on the winding stair,
And the distant strains of a waltz fell low
On the fragrance-laden air.
I caught from her lips a murmured "yes,"
And the stately palms amid
There came a blissful, sweet caress—
I shouldn't have—but I did!
I might forget that joyous night,
As the months slip swiftly by;
I might forget the gentle light
That shone in her hazel eye;
But I can't forget that whispered "yes"
That came the palms amid,
I can't forget that one caress—
I shouldn't have—but I did!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL Columbia Spectator.
~The American Girl.~
The German may sing of his rosy-cheeked lass,
The French of his brilliant-eyed pearl;
But ever the theme of my praises shall be
The laughing American girl,
Yes, the jolly American girl.
She laughs at her sorrows, she laughs at her joys,
She laughs at Dame Fortune's mad whirl;
And laughing will meet all her troubles in life,
The laughing American girl,
Yes, the joyous American girl.
You say she can't love if she laughs all the time?
A laugh at your logic she'll hurl;
She loves while she laughs and she laughs while she loves,
The laughing American girl,
Oh, the laughing American girl!