In the ear of the eager Lisette,
"I'll paint you as well as I can
That wonderful thing, a Coquette.
"She wears a most beautiful face,"
("Of course!" said the pretty Lisette),
"And isn't deficient in grace,
Or else she were not a Coquette.
"And then she is daintily made"
(A smile from the dainty Lisette),
"By people expert in the trade
Of forming a proper Coquette.
"She's the winningest ways with the beaux,"
("Go on!"--said the winning Lisette),
"But there isn't a man of them knows
The mind of the fickle Coquette!
"She knows how to weep and to sigh,"
(A sigh from the tender Lisette),
"But her weeping is all in my eye,--
Not that of the cunning Coquette!
"In short, she's a creature of art,"
("Oh hush!" said the frowning Lisette),
"With merely the ghost of a heart,--
Enough for a thorough Coquette.
"And yet I could easily prove"
("Now don't!" said the angry Lisette),
"The lady is always in love,--
In love with herself,--the Coquette!
"There,--do not be angry!--you know,
My dear little cousin Lisette,
You told me a moment ago
To paint _you_--a thorough Coquette!"
A SPRING FEELING
BY BLISS CARMAN
I think it must be spring. I feel
All broken up and thawed.
I'm sick of everybody's "wheel";
I'm sick of being jawed.
I am too winter-killed to live,
Cold-sour through and through.
O Heavenly Barber, come and give
My soul a dry shampoo!
I'm sick of all these nincompoops,
Who weep through yards of verse,
And all these sonneteering dupes
Who whine and froth and curse.
I'm sick of seeing my own name
Tagged to some paltry line,
While this old _corpus_ without shame
Sits down to meat and wine.
I'm sick of all these Yellow Books,
And all these Bodley Heads;
I'm sick of all these freaks and spooks
And frights in double leads.
When good Napoleon's publisher
Was dangled from a limb,
He should have had an editor
On either side of him.
I'm sick of all this taking on
Under a foreign name;
For when you call it _decadent_,
It's rotten just the same.
I'm sick of all this puling trash
And namby-pamby rot,--
A Pegasus you have to thrash
To make him even trot!
An Age-end Art! I would not give,
For all their plotless plays,
One round Flagstaffian adjective
Or one Miltonic phrase.
I'm sick of all this poppycock
In bilious green and blue;
I'm tired to death of taking stock
Of everything that's "New."
New Art, New Movements, and New Schools,
All maimed and blind and halt!
And all the fads of the New Fools
Who can not earn their salt.
I'm sick of the New Woman, too.
Good Lord, she's worst of all.
Her rights, her sphere, her point of view,
And all that folderol!
She makes me wish I were the snake
Inside of Eden's wall,
To give the tree another shake,
And see another fall.
I'm very much of Byron's mind;
I like sufficiency;
But just the common garden kind
Is good enough for me.
I want to find a warm beech wood,
And lie down, and keep still;
And swear a little; and feel good;
Then loaf on up the hill,
And let the Spring house-clean my brain,
Where all this stuff is crammed;
And let my heart grow sweet again;
And let the Age be damned.
WASTED OPPORTUNITIES[6]
BY ROY FARRELL GREENE
The lips I might have tasted, rosy ripe as any cherry,
How they pair off by the dozens when my memory goes back
Across the current of the years aboard of Fancy's ferry,
Which shuns the shores of What-We-Have and touches What-We-Lack.
The girl I took t' singin'-school one night, who vowed she'd never
Before walked with a feller 'thout her mother bein' by,
I reckon that her temptin' mouth will haunt my dreams forever,
The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try!
I recollect another girl, as chipper as a robin,
Who rode beside me in a sleigh one night through snow an' sleet,
An' both my hands I kept in use a guidin' good ol' Dobbin--
One didn't need them any mor'n a chicken needs four feet.
Too scared was I to hold her in, or warm her cheeks with kisses,--
I know, now, she expected it, for once I heard her sigh--
To-day I'd like t' kick myself for these neglected blisses,
The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try.
I never kissed Rebecca, she was sober as a Quaker,
I never kissed Alvira, though I took her home one night,
That city cousin of the Smiths, a Miss Myrtilla Baker,
Though scores of opportunities slipped by me, left an' right.
It makes me hate myself to-day when I on Fancy's ferry
Have crossed the current of the years to olden days gone by,
T' think of all the lips I've missed, ripe-red as topmost cherry,
The lips I might have tasted if I'd had the nerve t' try.
[Footnote 6: Lippincott's Magazine.]
THE WEDDIN'
BY JENNIE BETTS HARTSWICK
Well, it's over, it's _all_ over--bein' the last to leave I know
_that_--and I declare, I'm that full of all the things we had to eat
that John and me won't want any supper for a good hour yet, so I just
ran in to tell you about it while it's on top of my mind.
It's an everlastin' shame you had to miss it! One thing, though, you'll
get a trayful of the good things sent in to you, I shouldn't wonder. I
know there's loads left, for I happened to slip out to the kitchen for a
drink of water--I was that _dry_ after all those salty nuts, and I
didn't want to trouble 'em--and I saw just _heaps_ of things standin'
round.
Most likely you'll get a good, large plate of cake, not just a pinchin'
little mite of a piece in a box. The boxes is real pretty, though, and
they did look real palatial all stacked up on a table by the front door
with a strange colored man, in white gloves like a pall-bearer, to hand
'em to you.
How did I get two of 'em? Why, it just happened that way. You see, when
I was leavin' I missed my sun-shade and I laid my box down on the
hatrack-stand while I went upstairs to look for it. I went through all
the rooms, and just when I'd about given it up, why, there it was, right
in my hand all the time! Wasn't it foolish? And when I came downstairs I
found I'd clean forgot where I'd laid that box of cake. I hunted
_everywhere_, and then I just had to tell the man how 'twas, so he
handed me another one, and I was just walkin' out the front door when,
would you believe it! if there wasn't the _other_ one, just as innocent,
on the hatrack-stand where I had laid it. So now I have three of 'em,
countin' John's.
I just can't seem to realize that Eleanor Jamison is married at last,
can you? She took her time if ever anybody did. They do say she was real
taken with that young college professor with the full beard and
spectacles that visited there last summer, and then to think that, after
all, she went and married a man with a smooth face. He wears glasses,
though; that's one point in common.
Eleanor's gone off a good deal lately, don't you think so? You hadn't
noticed it? But then you never was any great hand at noticin', I've
noticed you weren't. Why, the other day when I was there offerin' to
help 'em get ready for the weddin' I noticed that she looked real
_worn_, and there was two or three little fine lines in her
eye-corners--not real _wrinkles_, of course--but we all know that lines
is a forerunner. Her hair's beginnin' to turn, too; I noticed that
comin' out of church last Sunday. I dare say her knowing this made her
less particular than she'd once have been; and after all, marryin' any
husband is a good deal like buyin' a new black silk dress pattern--an
awful risk.
You may look at it on both sides and hold it up to the light, and pull
it to see if it'll fray and try if it'll spot, but you can't be sure
what it'll do till after you've worn it a spell.
There's one advantage to the dress pattern, though--you can make 'em
take it back if you mistrust it won't wear--if you haven't cut into it,
that is--but when you've got a husband, why, you've _got_ him, to have
and to hold, for better and worse and good and all.
Yes, I'm comin' to the weddin'--I declare, when I think how careless
Eleanor is about little things I can't help mistrusting what kind of a
housekeeper she'll turn out. Why, when John's and my invitation came it
was only printed to the church--there wasn't any reception card among
it.
Now I've supplied Eleanor's folks with butter and eggs and spring
chickens for thirty years, and I'd just have gone anyway, for I knew it
was a mistake, but John held out that 'twasn't--that they didn't mean to
have us to the house part; so to settle it I went right over and told
'em. I told Eleanor she mustn't feel put out about it--we was all
mortal--and if it hadn't been for satisfyin' John I'd never have let her
know how careless she'd been--of course I'd made allowance, a weddin'
_is_ upsettin' to the intellect--and so 'twas all right.
I had a real good view of the ceremony; but 'twasn't _their_ fault that
I had; it just happened that way.
When John and me got there I asked the young man at the door--he was a
yusher and a stranger to me--to give us a front seat, but he said that
all the front places was reserved for the relations of the bride and
groom, and then I noticed that they'd tied off the middle aisle about
seven pews back with white satin ribbons and a big bunch of pink roses.
It seemed real impolite to invite folks to a weddin' and then take the
best seats themselves.
Well, just then I happened to feel my shoelacin' gettin' loose and I
stepped to one side to fix it; and when I got up from stoopin' and my
gloves on and buttoned--I had to take 'em off to tie my shoe--and
straightened John's cravat for him, why, there was the families on both
sides just goin' in.
Of course we had to follow right along behind 'em, and when we came up
to the ribbons--would you believe it?--the big bow just untied
itself--or seemed to--I heard afterward it was done by somebody pullin'
a invisible wire--and we all walked through and took seats. I made John
go into the pew ahead of me so's I could get out without disturbin'
anybody if I should have a headache or feel faint.
When John found we was settin' with the family--he was right close up
against Eleanor's mother--he was for gettin' up and movin' back. But I
just whispered to him, "John Appleby, do sit still! I hear the bridal
party comin'!"
Of course I didn't just _hear 'em_, but I was sure they'd be along in a
minute, and I knew it wouldn't do to move our seats anyway, as if we
weren't satisfied with 'em.
The church was decorated beautiful. Eleanor's folks must have cleaned
out their green-house to put into it, besides _tons_ of greens from the
city.
Pretty near the whole of Wrenville was there, and I must say the church
was a credit to the Wrenville dressmakers.
I could pick out all their different fits without any trouble.
There was Arabella Satterlee's--she shapes her backs like the top of a
coffin, or sometimes they remind me more of a kite; and Sallie Ann
Hodd's--she makes 'em square; and old Mrs. Tucker's--you can always tell
hers by the way the armholes draw; she makes the minister's wife's. But
they'd every one of 'em done their level best and I was proud of 'em.
Well, when the organ--it had been playin' low and soft all the
time--changed off into the weddin' march and the bridesmaids, eight of
'em, marched up the aisle behind the eight yushers, I tell you, Miss
Halliday, it was a _sight_!
They was all in pink gauzy stuff--I happened to feel one of 'em as she
went by but I couldn't tell what 'twas made of; it seemed dreadful
_flimsy_--and big flat hats all made of roses on their heads, and
carryin' bunches pf long-stemmed roses so big that they had to hold 'em
in their arms like young babes.
Eleanor came behind 'em all, walkin' with her father. He always was a
small-built man, and with her long trail and her veil spreadin' out so,
why, I declare, you couldn't hardly see him.
I whispered to John that they looked more as if Eleanor was goin' to
give her pa away than him her.
Eleanor's dress was elegant, only awful _plain_. It was made in New York
at Greenleaf's. I know, because when I was upstairs lookin' for my
sunshade--I told you about that, didn't I?--I happened to get into
Eleanor's room by mistake, and there was the box it came in right on the
bed before my eyes.
Well, when they was all past, I kept lookin' round me for the groom and
wonderin' how I had come to miss him, when all at once John nudged me,
and there he was right in front of me and the minister beginnin' to
marry 'em, and where he had sprung from I can't tell you this livin'
minute!
Came in from the vestry, did he? Well, now, I never would have thought
of that!
Well, when they was most married the most ridiculous thing happened.
You see, Eleanor's father in steppin' back after givin' her away had put
his foot right down on her trail and never noticed, and when it came
time for the prayer Eleanor pulled and pulled--they was to kneel down on
two big white satin cushions in front of 'em--but her pa never
budged--just stood there with his eyes shut and his head bowed as
devout as anything--and before Eleanor could stop him, her husband--he
was most her husband, anyway--had kneeled right down on to the cushion,
with his eyes shut, too, I suppose, and the minister had to pray over
'em that way. I could see Eleanor's shoulders shakin' under her veil,
and of course it _was_ ridiculous if it hadn't been so solemn.
And then they all marched down the aisle, with the bride and groom
leadin' the procession. Eleanor's veil was put back, and I noticed that
she was half-laughin' yet, and her cheeks were real pink, and her eyes
sort of bright and moist--she looked real handsome. Good gracious, Miss
Halliday, don't ever tell me that's six o'clock! And I haven't told a
thing about the presents, and who was there, and Eleanor's clothes, and
what they had to eat--why, they didn't even use their own china-ware!
They had a colored caterer from New York, and he brought everything--all
the dishes and table-cloths and spoons and forks, besides the
refreshments. I know, because just after he came I happened to carry
over my eleven best forks--John broke the dozenth tryin' to pry the cork
out of a bottle of raspberry vinegar the year we was married--I never
take a fork to pry with--and offered to loan 'em for the weddin', but
they didn't need 'em, so I just stayed a minute or two in the butler's
pantry and then went home--but I saw the caterer unpackin'.
There! I knew I'd stay too long! There's John comin' in the gate after
me. I must go this blessed minute.
THE THOMPSON STREET POKER CLUB
SOME CURIOUS POINTS IN THE NOBLE GAME UNFOLDED
BY HENRY GUY CARLETON
When Mr. Tooter Williams entered the gilded halls of the Thompson Street
Poker Club Saturday evening it was evident that fortune had smeared him
with prosperity. He wore a straw hat with a blue ribbon, an expression
of serene content, and a glass amethyst on his third finger whose
effulgence irradiated the whole room and made the envious eyes of Mr.
Cyanide Whiffles stand out like a crab's. Besides these extraordinary
furbishments, Mr. Williams had his mustache waxed to fine points and his
back hair was precious with the luster and richness which accompany the
use of the attar of Third Avenue roses combined with the bear's grease
dispensed by basement barbers on that fashionable thoroughfare.
In sharp contrast to this scintillating entrance was the coming of the
Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith, who had been disheveled by the heat,
discolored by a dusty evangelical trip to Coney Island, and oppressed by
an attack of malaria which made his eyes bloodshot and enriched his
respiration with occasional hiccoughs and that steady aroma which is
said to dwell in Weehawken breweries.
The game began at eight o'clock, and by nine and a series of two-pair
hands and bull luck Mr. Gus Johnson was seven dollars and a nickel ahead
of the game, and the Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith, who was banking, was
nine stacks of chips and a dollar bill on the wrong side of the ledger.
Mr. Cyanide Whiffles was cheerful as a cricket over four winnings
amounting to sixty-nine cents; Professor Brick was calm, and Mr. Tooter
Williams was gorgeous and hopeful, and laying low for the first jackpot,
which now came. It was Mr. Whiffles's deal, and feeling that the eyes of
the world were upon him, he passed around the cards with a precision and
rapidity which were more to his credit than the I.O.U. from Mr. Williams
which was left over from the previous meeting.
Professor Brick had nine high and declared his inability to make an
opening.
Mr. Williams noticed a dangerous light come into the Reverend Mr.
Smith's eye and hesitated a moment, but having two black jacks and a
pair of trays, opened with the limit.
"I liffs yo' jess tree dollahs, Toot," said the Reverend Mr. Smith,
getting out the wallet and shaking out a wad.
Mr. Gus Johnson, who had a four flush and very little prudence, came in.
Mr. Whiffles sighed and fled.
Mr. Williams polished the amethyst, thoroughly examining a scratch on
one of its facets, adjusted his collar, skinned his cards, stealthily
glanced again at the expression of the Reverend Mr. Smith's eye, and
said he would "Jess--jess call."
Mr. Whiffles supplied the wants of the gentleman from the pack with the
mechanical air of a man who had lost all hope in a hereafter. Mr.
Williams wanted one card, the Reverend Mr. Smith said he'd take about
three, and Mr. Gus Johnson expressed a desire for a club, if it was not
too much trouble.
Mr. Williams caught another tray, and, being secretly pleased, led out
by betting a chip. The Reverend Mr. Smith uproariously slammed down a
stack of blue chips and raised him seven dollars.
Mr. Gus Johnson had captured the nine of hearts and so retired.
Mr. Williams had four chips and a dollar left.
"I sees dat seven," he said impressively, "an' I humps it ten mo'."
"Whar's de c'lateral?" queried the Reverend Mr. Smith calmly, but with
aggressiveness in his eye.
Mr. Williams sniffed contemptuously, drew off the ring, and deposited it
in the pot with such an air as to impress Mr. Whiffles with the idea
that the jewel must have been worth at least four million dollars. Then
Mr. Williams leaned back in his chair and smiled.
"Whad yer goin' ter do?" asked the Reverend Mr. Smith, deliberately
ignoring Mr. Williams's action.
Mr. Williams pointed to the ring and smiled.
"Liff yo' ten dollahs."
"On whad?"
"Dat ring."
"_Dat_ ring?"
"Yezzah." Mr. Williams was still cool.
"Huh!" The Reverend Mr. Smith picked the ring up, examined it
scientifically with one eye closed, dropped it several times as if to
test its soundness, and then walked across and rasped it several times
heavily on the window pane.
"Whad yo' doin' dat for?" excitedly asked Mr. Williams.
A double rasp with the ring was the Reverend Mr. Smith's only reply.
"Gimme dat jule back!" demanded Mr. Williams.
The Reverend Mr. Smith was now vigorously rubbing the setting of the
stone on the floor.
"Leggo dat sparkler," said Mr. Williams again.
The Reverend Mr. Smith carefully polished off the scratches by rubbing
the ring a while on the sole of his foot. Then he resumed his seat and
put the precious thing back into the pot. Then he looked calmly at Mr.
Williams, and leaned back in his chair as if waiting for something.
"Is yo' satisfied?" said Mr. Williams, in the tone used by men who have
sustained a deep injury.
"Dis is pokah," said the Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith.
"I rised yo' ten dollahs," said Mr. Williams, pointing to the ring.
"Did yer ever saw three balls hangin' over my do'?" asked the Reverend
Mr. Smith. "Doesn't yo' know my name hain't Oppenheimer?"
"Whad yo' mean?" asked Mr. Williams excitedly.
"Pokah am pokah, and dar's no 'casion fer triflin' wif blue glass 'n
junk in dis yar club," said the Reverend Mr. Smith.
"I liffs yo' ten dollahs," said Mr. Williams, ignoring the insult.
"Pud up de c'lateral," said the Reverend Mr. Smith. "Fo' chips is fohty,
'n a dollah's a dollah fohty, 'n dat's a dollah fohty-fo' cents."
"Whar's de fo' cents?" smiled Mr. Williams, desperately.
The Reverend Mr. Smith pointed to the ring. Mr. Williams rose
indignantly, shucked off his coat, hat, vest, suspenders and scarfpin,
heaped them on the table, and then sat down and glared at the Reverend
Mr. Smith.
Mr. Smith rolled up the coat, put on the hat, threw his own out of the
window, gave the ring to Mr. Whiffles, jammed the suspenders into his
pocket, and took in the vest, chips and money.
"Dis yar's buglry!" yelled Mr. Williams.
The Reverend Mr. Smith spread out four eights and rose impressively.
"Toot," he said, "doan trifle wif Prov'dence. Because a man wars
ten-cent grease 'n' gits his july on de Bowery, hit's no sign dat he kin
buck agin cash in a jacker 'n' git a boodle from fo' eights. Yo's now in
yo' shirt sleeves 'n' low sperrets, bud de speeyunce am wallyble. I'se
willin' ter stan' a beer an' sassenger, 'n' shake 'n' call it squar'. De
club'll now 'journ."
THE BUMBLEBEAVER[7]
BY KENYON COX
A cheerful and industrious beast,
He's always humming as he goes
To make mud-houses with his tail
Or gather honey with his nose.
Although he flits from flower to flower
He's not at all a gay deceiver.
We might take lessons by the hour
From busy, buzzy Bumblebeaver.
[Footnote 7: From "Mixed Beasts," by Kenyon Cox. Copyright 1904, by Fox,
Duffield & Co.]
AFTER THE FUNERAL
BY JAMES M. BAILEY
It was just after the funeral. The bereaved and subdued widow, enveloped
in millinery gloom, was seated in the sitting-room with a few
sympathizing friends. There was that constrained look so peculiar to the
occasion observable on every countenance. The widow sighed.
"How do you feel, my dear?" said her sister.
"Oh! I don't know," said the poor woman, with difficulty restraining her
tears. "But I hope everything passed off well."
"Indeed it did," said all the ladies.
"It was as large and respectable a funeral as I have seen this winter,"
said the sister, looking around upon the others.
"Yes, it was," said the lady from next door. "I was saying to Mrs.
Slocum, only ten minutes ago, that the attendance couldn't have been
better--the bad going considered."
"Did you see the Taylors?" asked the widow faintly, looking at her
sister. "They go so rarely to funerals that I was surprised to see them
here."
"Oh, yes! the Taylors were all here," said the sympathizing sister. "As
you say, they go but a little: they are _so_ exclusive!"
"I thought I saw the Curtises also," suggested the bereaved woman
droopingly.
"Oh, yes!" chimed in several. "They came in their own carriage, too,"
said the sister, animatedly. "And then there were the Randalls and the
Van Rensselaers. Mrs. Van Rensselaer had her cousin from the city with
her; and Mrs. Randall wore a very black heavy silk, which I am sure was
quite new. Did you see Colonel Haywood and his daughters, love?"
"I thought I saw them; but I wasn't sure. They were here, then, were
they?"
"Yes, indeed!" said they all again; and the lady who lived across the
way observed:
"The Colonel was very sociable, and inquired most kindly about you, and
the sickness of your husband."
The widow smiled faintly. She was gratified by the interest shown by the
Colonel.
The friends now rose to go, each bidding her good-by, and expressing the
hope that she would be calm. Her sister bowed them out. When she
returned, she said:
"You can see, my love, what the neighbors think of it. I wouldn't have
had anything unfortunate to happen for a good deal. But nothing did. The
arrangements couldn't have been better."
"I think some of the people in the neighborhood must have been surprised
to see so many of the uptown people here," suggested the afflicted
woman, trying to look hopeful.
"You may be quite sure of that," asserted the sister. "I could see that
plain enough by their looks."
"Well, I am glad there is no occasion for talk," said the widow,
smoothing the skirt of her dress.
And after that the boys took the chairs home, and the house was put in
order.
CASEY AT THE BAT
BY ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER
It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to six with just an inning left to play;
And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,
A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest
With that hope that springs eternal within the human breast;
For they thought if only Casey could get one whack, at that
They'd put up even money, with Casey at the bat.