Maurine and Other Poems | Page 4

own voice sounding,

Before his step upon the gravel bounding.
In an unstudied attitude
of grace,
He stretched his comely form; and from his face
He tossed
the dark, damp curls; and at my knees,
With his broad hat he fanned
the lazy breeze,

And turned his head, and lifted his large eyes,
Of
that strange hue we see in ocean dyes,
And call it blue sometimes and
sometimes green,
And save in poet eyes, not elsewhere seen.
"Lest I
should meet with my fair lady's scorning,
For calling quite so early in

the morning,
I've brought a passport that can never fail,"
He said,
and, laughing, laid the morning mail
Upon my lap. "I'm welcome? so
I thought!
I'll figure by the letters that I brought
How glad you are
to see me. Only one?
And that one from a lady? I'm undone!
That,
lightly skimmed, you'll think me SUCH a bore,
And wonder why I
did not bring you four.
It's ever thus: a woman cannot get
So many
letters that she will not fret
O'er one that did not come."
"I'll prove you wrong,"
I answered gaily, "here upon the spot!
This
little letter, precious if not long,
Is just the one, of all you might have
brought,
To please me. You have heard me speak, I'm sure,
Of
Helen Trevor: she writes here to say
She's coming out to see me; and
will stay
Till Autumn, maybe. She is, like her note,
Petite and
dainty, tender, loving, pure.
You'd know her by a letter that she wrote,

For a sweet tinted thing. 'Tis always so:-
Letters all blots, though
finely written, show
A slovenly person. Letters stiff and white

Bespeak a nature honest, plain, upright.
And tissuey, tinted, perfumed
notes, like this,
Tell of a creature formed to pet and kiss."
My
listener heard me with a slow, odd smile;
Stretched in abandon at my
feet, the while,
He fanned me idly with his broad-brimmed hat.

"Then all young ladies must be formed for that!"
He laughed, and
said.
"Their letters read, and look,
As like as twenty copies of one book.

They're written in a dainty, spider scrawl,
To 'darling, precious Kate,'
or 'Fan,' or 'Moll.'
The 'dearest, sweetest' friend they ever had.
They
say they 'want to see you, oh, so bad!'
Vow they'll 'forget you, never,
NEVER, oh!'
And then they tell about a splendid beau -
A lovely
hat--a charming dress, and send

A little scrap of this to every friend.

And then to close, for lack of something better,
They beg you'll
'read and burn this horrid letter.'"
He watched me, smiling. He was prone to vex
And hector me with
flings upon my sex.
He liked, he said, to have me flash and frown,


So he could tease me, and then laugh me down.
My storms of wrath
amused him very much:
He liked to see me go off at a touch;
Anger
became me--made my colour rise,
And gave an added lustre to my
eyes.
So he would talk--and so he watched me now,
To see the hot
flush mantle cheek and brow.
Instead, I answered coolly, with a smile,

Felling a seam with utmost care, meanwhile.
"The caustic tongue
of Vivian Dangerfield
Is barbed as ever, for my sex, this morn.
Still
unconvinced, no smallest point I yield.
Woman I love, and trust,
despite your scorn.
There is some truth in what you say? Well, yes!

Your statements usually hold more or less.
Some women write weak
letters--(some men do;)
Some make professions, knowing them
untrue.
And woman's friendship, in the time of need,
I own, too
often proves a broken reed.
But I believe, and ever will contend,

Woman can be a sister woman's friend,
Giving from out her large
heart's bounteous store
A living love--claiming to do no more
Than,
through and by that love, she knows she can:
And living by her
professions, LIKE A MAN.
And such a tie, true friendship's silken
tether,
Binds Helen Trevor's heart and mine together.
I love her for
her beauty, meekness, grace;
For her white lily soul and angel face.

She loves me, for my greater strength, maybe;
Loves--and would give
her heart's best blood for me.
And I, to save her from a pain, or cross,

Would suffer any sacrifice or loss.
Such can be woman's friendship
for another.
Could man give more, or ask more from a brother?"
I paused: and Vivian leaned his massive head
Against the pillar of the
portico,
Smiled his slow, sceptic smile, then laughed, and said:

"Nay, surely not--if what you say be so.
You've made a statement, but
no proof's at hand.
Wait--do not flash your eyes so! Understand
I
think you quite sincere in what you say:
You love your friend, and
she loves you, to-day;
But friendship is not friendship at the best

Till circumstances put it to the test.
Man's, less demonstrative, stands
strain and tear,
While woman's, half profession, fails to wear.
Two
women love each other passing well -
Say Helen Trevor and Maurine

La Pelle,
Just for example.
Let them daily meet
At ball and concert, in the church and street,

They kiss and coo, they visit, chat, caress;
Their love increases, rather
than grows less;
And all goes well, till 'Helen dear' discovers
That
'Maurine darling' wins too many lovers.
And then her 'precious friend,' her 'pet,' her 'sweet,'
Becomes a 'minx,'
a 'creature all