Dear Priscilla, quaint and very
Like a modern Puritan,
Is a modest, literary,
Merry young American:
Horace she has read, and Bion
Is her favorite in Greek;
Shakspeare is a mighty lion
In whose den she dares but peek;
Him she leaves to some sage Daniel,
Since of lions she's afraid--
She prefers a playful spaniel,
Such as Herrick or as Praed;
And it's not a bit satiric
To confess her fancy goes
From the epic to a lyric
On a rose.
Wise Priscilla, dilettante,
With a sentimental mind,
Doesn't deign to dip in Dante,
And to Milton isn't kind;
L'Allegro, Il Penseroso
Have some merits she will grant,
All the rest is only so-so--
Enter Paradise she can't!
She might make a charming angel
(And she will if she is good),
But it's doubtful if the change'll
Make the Epic understood:
Honeysuckling, like a bee she
Goes and pillages his sweets,
And it's plain enough to see she
Worships Keats.
Gay Priscilla--just the person
For the Locker whom she loves;
What a captivating verse on
Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves
He could write in catching measure,
Setting all the heart astir!
And to Aldrich what a pleasure
It would be to sing of her--
He, whose perfect songs have won her
Lips to quote them day by day.
She repeats the rhymes of Bunner
In a fascinating way,
And you'll often find her lost in--
She has reveries at times--
Some delightful one of Austin
Dobson's rhymes.
O Priscilla, sweet Priscilla,
Writing of you makes me think,
As I burn my brown Manila
And immortalize my ink,
How well satisfied these poets
Ought to be with what they do
When, especially, they know it's
Read by such a girl as you:
I who sing of you would marry
Just the kind of girl you are--
One who doesn't care to carry
Her poetic taste too far--
One whose fancy is a bright one,
Who is fond of poems fine,
And appreciates a light one
Such as mine.
* * * * *
As the car reached Westville, an old man with a long white beard
rose feebly from a corner seat and tottered toward the door. He was,
however, stopped by the conductor, who said:
"Your fare, please."
"I paid my fare."
"When? I don't remember it."
"Why, I paid you when I got on the car."
"Where did you get on?"
"At Fair Haven."
"That won't do! When I left Fair Haven there was only a little boy on
the car."
"Yes," answered the old man, "I know it. I was that little boy."