_by Paul West_.
Her locks were the glow
Of a dollar or so,
Her height it was few if not less;
Her eyes were as gray
As the end of the play,
And she wore, so they told me, a dress.
So I said, as I came,
“If you’ll whisper your name
I’ll reply, though I’m tempted to laugh.”
But she said, “Let me see—
More and F equals three,
Which, when added, is him and a half.”
“Are you certain?” I cried,
As I breasted the tide.
“If I do,” she insisted, “say no.”
Whereupon with a frown
I invited them down,
For it never grows well in the snow.
There were more, I’ve no doubt,
But I never found out,
For the cook sent the grocer away;
But I cannot forget
That she wrote, “Do not fret,”
Though her uncle advised me to pay.
So I sit all alone,
Writing things on a stone
With a pen dipped in beeswax and lard;
Which I know I shall be
When she comes back to me,
Though at present it’s dreadfully hard.
[Illustration: _Drawn by F. B. Masters._]