HOW SHE FELT
IN HER
FIRST CORSET
AND OTHER POEMS.——
BY MATT. W. ALDERSON.
——

Let all thy actions have a motive true;

Inwardly feel and love whate'er you do;

Naught but wrong acts e'er cause the blush of shame,

And, right yourself, then scorn another's blame.

BUTTE, MONTANA:
PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR.
1887.

Copyright, 1887.
By Matt. W. Alderson.

BUTTE, MONTANA:
PRESS OF THE MINER PUBLISHING CO.
SECOND THOUSAND.

HOW SHE FELT IN HER FIRST CORSET.

It occurred at Belgrade, where the genial Tom Quaw,

Gave a party, the first that the town ever saw;

The youth and the beauty, the tillers of soil,

Attended that night, seeking surcease from toil.

There were farmers whose hair had a tinge of the gray;

There were maidens than whom none were ever more gay;

There were youths who could ride anything that wears hair,

And matrons whose faces showed lines of dull care.

Of the ladies who on this occasion took part,

Some were dressed in the nobbiest style of the art;

And the others, unmindful of fashion's decrees,

Were attired to have much more comfort and ease.

There was one blushing damsel, just budding sixteen,

Whose waist by a corset ne'er encircled had been,

But whose mother insisted that on such a night

One should find a place there, and the lacing be tight.

So the girl was rigged out as the mother desired,

But of dancing 'twas noticed the damsel soon tired.

"What's the matter?" was asked by some one at her side.

"I feel just like bucking," the maiden replied.

A LOVER'S VALENTINE.

Sweetheart of mine,

A valentine,

In duty bound, I send thee,

And wish that joy,

Free from alloy,

May evermore attend thee.

Near, or apart,

Still may thy heart

To mine in friendship nestle;

For strong and free,

In love for thee,

'Gainst countless foes I'd wrestle.

Since I am thine,

Pray do be mine,

My heart prompts me to ask thee;

Thy charming face,

And matchless grace,

I own have quite possessed me.

TO THOSE WHO HOLD THE GUIDING REINS.

I have observed a steed, proud-spirited,

Lashed by a cruel driver till the sweat

Stood out in beaded drops upon his side;

And, oftimes, tears have welled up in my eyes

As in my mind I've pictured human hearts

Lashed thus by cruel words and goaded on.

Then when, at other times, the same proud steed

Has passed along the street with arched neck,

With every motion breathing force and vim,

I've noticed kindness held the guiding reins

And kept in check the zealous prancer's power.

My mind has pictured then, with kindlier glow,

A heart ambitious, far too keen to go,

Kept by sweet loving words in proper bounds;

And deepest gratitude, at such a time,

Wells up for those who hold the guiding reins.

HIS FACE IS HIS FORTUNE.

"His face is his fortune;"

Yes, seldom we see

One for "tick" importune,

As boldly as he.

Like one who has riches

Acquired by gift,

He laughs at the stitches

Of gainer by thrift,

For face is his treasure,

And why keep in bank?

One cannot find pleasure

With pocket-book lank.

So credit he uses

Where'er it will pass,

And always abuses

The laboring class.

But "cheek" is like iron

That's coated with tin,

It has a nice face on,

But one rather thin.

A LOVE LETTER AND ITS ANSWER.

A MONTANIAN TO HIS SWEETHEART.

Darling, I love thee! Other words might tell

A trifle of how dear thou art to me,

But these tell all. Of thee I might have said,

And said in truth, at that, that all thy ways,

Thine every motion, look and glance, as well,

Did charm the inmost recess of my soul:

In words of praise, and those in justice due,

I might the beauties of thy mind portray;

For they outrival charms that in thy face

I see, as elsewhere I have failed to find:

Thy modesty, thy grace, thy love of all

That tends to elevate, to purify,

And make a fellow mortal happier,

I might have dwelt on to a length that thou,

And thou alone, deserves from one whose pen

Is feeble in thy praise as is mine own.

Still, had I done so, and withheld the words,

"I love thee!" I had never told thee half.

I love thee, darling! Ah! indeed, I do!

Beyond the shadow of a doubt, I love,

And such a one as any prince or king

Might gladly love and proudly call his own.

But, come to think, this love is all I have:

No titled rank is mine—no Astor's wealth;

And one you know, can't live on love alone;

Ah, no! But better starve for lack of bread

Than want of love; for when we starve for bread,

And hunger knaws with all its well-known force,

A day and all desire for food grows weak,

And in its stead one craves but rest and sleep:

These come, and few the days ere dreamless sleep

Supplies the place of all desires and pains.

But, starve for love, and when doth come relief?

The weary soul still lives, or drags along—

As pris'ner doomed for life goes to his work;

Ambitionless it moves, its purpose dead,

Yet ling'ring like 'twere powerless to go;

Struggling 'twixt hope and fear, as thro' the bars

A gleam of sunshine flitters now and then,

Glad'ning the while it shines, to leave more dark

The gloomy dungeon of an unloved life;

Moving, as moves the lifeless rock or ore

When those with life exert o'er it their power;

Living! Ah, yes! But devil never cursed

His vilest victim with a death so dread;

Standing, as stands an engine on the track,

Perfectly built in all its mighty parts,

Its boiler and its furnace amply fed,

Yet powerless. But, let the flame of love

Touch but one splinter of the waiting pyre,

And all is changed. In gladsome bounds the blaze

Leaps on and on, till burning with one flame,

The fire warms the slumb'ring soul to life;

Warms till, as love directs, its living proves—

When under wisdom's hands—man's highest bliss.

Yes, when love fills the heart, behold how strong,

How powerful one stands! His muscles ache

With pure strength, and long for that on which

Their latent power to show; and not alone

In idle longings doth a lover stand,

But works alike with both his head and hands

To gain desired ends. Doth one lack means?

Then love supplies a purpose and desire,

And rests not still till they are at command.

Doth one feel weak? Then love doth make him strong.

Is one a slave to appetite or care?

Then love doth free him from the galling chains.

Doth one lack knowledge or attainments rare?

Then love spurs on till all of these are gained.

Yes love, and that alone, is all I have;

But, darling, having that, I offer thee

More than all else another man can give,

Who hath abundance, and is rich in all

Save love, and that for thee, and thee alone.

This is my plea. I stand and wait my fate.

If thou dost love me, darling, tell me so;

If not—but that can never be, I know.

THE ANSWER SHE GAVE HIM.

Your note to me, of recent date,

Where you are so importunate,

Has been received, and I have read,

With greatest care, what you have said.

I am quite pleased that you can see

So much to praise in one like me,

And only wish that I could say

Nice things in such a pretty way.

But, tell me! do you really think

That love is better than "the chink?"

Why, money rules the world to-day,

With strong and unresistless sway!

'Tis little schoolboys talk of love.

But as they older grow, improve;

While girls, though they be very young,

Know better but may hold their tongue.

If you have money, then you can

Go where you will, and be a man;

But if you're poor—a genius, too—

Your family can be but blue,

While oft you'll wish for food to eat,

And for firm friends your heart to greet.

You own you're poor, yet ask of me

To share a poor man's misery!

Why men would be real scarce indeed,

Ere I should think to feel the need

Of one who nothing has but love!

Poor men abound where'er we rove,

And I can get one any day:

(When rich, pray call around this way).

Suppose we loved, and married were,

And fortune gave to us an heir,

Pray who would nurse and care for it?

Who train its mind? who mould its wit?

Who'd wash the dishes, cook the food,

Do out-door chores, and cut the wood?

What buggy rides would I receive?

How many friends would to me cleave?

And then there's concerts to attend,

And other places, that transcend

The theaters and balls that now

We with unstinted praise endow.

Oh, no! don't ask of me to wed

A loving fellow, though his head

Be better filled with brains than those

Who dress themselves in finer clothes:

I want a man who's rich in stocks—

(D'ye think I'd ever darn old socks?)

You talk of love and lovers bold,

As though I'd care if icy cold

Were heart of him to whom with pride

My loving heart I'd fondly tied.

I would be rich and nothing care,

For I'd have lover's everywhere;

And when of one I tired grew,

I'd take my pick and love anew.

Now don't be angry with me, pray,

For what I've written you to-day;

You were to me so frank and true

I could not well be less to you;

So I have said what all must feel,

Though some, I know, the facts conceal.

Then do not seek just now to wed,

But wait until you're rich, instead.

THE BABY'S CLOTHES.

Let poets praise, as in days gone by,

The wealth of a loving maiden's sigh;

The bliss ecstatic of every bride,

And honeymoon pleasures that ne'er subside;

I sing of a happier time than those,

The time when making the baby's clothes.

A girlish heart may o'erflow with joy

When with the one she would call "her boy,"

And a doting wife may fail to cloy

A heart kept free from every alloy;

But joys surpassing the sweetest of those

Come when preparing the baby's clothes.

A SISTER'S LOVE.

They say that the angels look down from above

And watch us wherever we stray;

That they are the beings that guide us in love

And bring us the joys of the day.

I am glad it is so, and thank them to-night

For the wealth of a sister's love,

For of all the pleasures they bring to as here

That's nearest the joys above.

I've felt so real often as in my arms

I've clasped her form and kissed her;

But the girl that I kissed was not my own,

She was another fellow's sister.

A SCHOOL-MA'AM'S STORY.

I was a teacher then, as now,

And made a little spending money.

By training big and little sprouts,

In a mining town called Pony.

One night the biggest boy I had,

For having cracked a rigid rule,

Was bade to stay and con his books

Some fifteen minutes after school.

I for a moment turned my back—

On other duties then intent—

The fellow slyly raised a sash

And through the opening quickly went.

Next eve, as extra punishment,

I gave him minutes forty-five;

And, lest he play the prank again,

I kept my every sense alive.

The task performed, he left the room;—

The sun was shining then, no more,—