[Illustration]
It is a stifling night; I sit
With windows open wide;
And the fragrance of the rose is blown
And also the musk outside,
There's plenty of room for the moths out there
In the cool and pleasant gloom;
And yet these mad insectual beasts
Will swarm into my room.
I've thrown so many things at him,
And thrown them all so hard;
There goes the sofa-cushion; that
Missed him by half a yard.
My hot tears rain; my young heart breaks
To see him dodging thus;
It is not right for him to be
So coy--so devious.
As I sit by my duplex lamp,
And write, and write, and write;
They come and drown in the blue-black ink,
Or fry themselves in the light.
They pop, and drop, and flop, and hop,
Like catherine-wheels at play;
And die in pain down the back of my neck
In a most repulsive way.
There's a brown moth on the ceiling. He
Makes slow and bumpy rounds;
Then stops and sucks the whitewash off--
He must have eaten pounds.
He's only waiting for his chance
To take me unaware,
And then the brute will drop, and make
His death-bed in my hair.
Why do they do it? Why--ah! why?
The dews of night are damp,
But the place to dry one's self is not
The chimney of a lamp.
And sultriness engenders thirst,
But the best, the blue-black ink,
Cannot be satisfactory
Regarded as a drink.
They are so very many, and
I am so very few--
They are so hard to hit, and so
Elusive to pursue--
That in the garden I will wait
Until the dawning light,
Until the moths all go by day
Where I wish they'd go by night.
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[Illustration: SPEECHES TO BE LIVED DOWN--IF POSSIBLE!
_Sympathetic Lady Guest_. "DON'T BE UNHAPPY ABOUT THE RAIN, DEAR MRS.
BOUNDERSON--IT WILL SOON BE OVER, AND YOUR GARDEN WILL BE LOVELIER
THAN EVER!"
_Little Mrs. Goldmore Bounderson_ (_who is giving her first Garden
Party_). "YES; BUT I'M AFRAID IT WILL KEEP MY MOST DESIRABLE GUESTS
FROM COMING!"]
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