Her time is well filled with her household duties, her missionary and church work, and in reviewing new books for the press. She has no specified time for writing, nor does she neglect her household or social duties for the sake of it, always having looked upon her literary work as a recreation. She leads a busy life, yet is rarely hurried; and, although she enjoys the companionship of many people noted in literature, it is powerless to weaken her attachment for friends who have no inclination in that way. All have a warm place in her heart, and a cordial welcome to her cheerful and happy home.
Mrs. Ireland, contrary to the experience of most writers, never wrote any poetry until she had attained distinction as a writer of prose.
[At the Party.]
I gave her a rose, so sweet, so fair;
She picked it to pieces while standing there.
I praised the deep blue of her starry eyes;
She turned them upon me in cold surprise.
Her white hand I kissed in a transport of love;
My kiss she effaced with her snowy glove.
I touched a soft ringlet of golden brown;
She rebuked my daring with a haughty frown.
I asked her to dance in most penitent tone;
On the arm of a rival she left me alone.
This gave me a hint; I veered from my track,
And waltzed with an heiress, to win my love back.
I carried her fan, and indulged in a sigh,
And whispered sweet nothings when my loved one was nigh.