By Jane Gaites.
Tonight when you shall gather me in your strong loving arms and marvel
at the radiance of my eyes, the golden glamour of my hair, the velvety
softness of my pink cheeks, while you tell me you love me, I shall smile.
And you will be content thinking that I smile because of love for you.
You will wonder at my naivete, at my simplicity, and innocence. You do
not know of my rows and rows of expensive jars that make me beautiful.
You do not guess that untold experience has made me “simple.”
And when you draw me even closer to you and kiss me again, more
passionately, while you smile at my sweet demureness and simplicity, I
too will smile, because with all your vast knowledge of women—dear boy,
you are so simple!
* * * * *
_“This falls just a little below my expectations,” said the blushing
young thing to her dressmaker as she surveyed herself in the mirror. As
to what the blushing young thing meant by expectations, you can use your
own judgment._
* * * * *
No, gentle reader, the bull durham outfit is not responsible for the
practice: “Roll Your Own.”
* * * * *
“The man I marry must have common sense,” she said. But the party broke
up when I remarked, “He won’t have.”
* * * * *
Oh Sprinkle Me With Dew!
“I thank you for the Flowers you sent,”
She said.
I’m sorry for the words I spoke
Last Night.
Your sending me those flowers made all
Things right.
Will you forgive me? He forgave her.
And as they kissed again beneath
The bowers,
He wondered who the deuce sent her
Those flowers.
* * * * *