When hearts are trumps | Page 8

all the while;
She's accustomed to sitting on
rocks in the glen;
She is also accustomed to sitting on men.
Her Fan.
A dainty thing of silk and lace,
Of feathers, and of paint,
Held often
to her laughing face
When I assume the saint.
Too dainty far to mix with these
Old pipes, cigars, and books
Of
bachelordom,--rare life of ease,--
Rare friends, rare wines, rare cooks.

'Twill smell of stale tobacco smoke
Ere many days I fear,
And hear
full many a rattling joke,
And feel, perhaps, a tear.
Why is it here? Alas for me!
I broke it at a ball.
"Apologize--repair
it" See?
Five dollars gone,--that's all.
Certainty.
Phyllis, love may be for you,
But it is not for me;
For fortune comes
between us two,
And says it must not be.
Another fellow's fortune, too;
A million, as I know.
You ask me
how I found it out?
Your mater told me so.
Caught.
When Phyllis turned her eyes on me
I blushed and hesitated;
For
though on terms familiar, we
Were not at all related.
I felt her mild, reproachful glance,
And knew her words would rankle.

To tell the truth, I had, by chance,
Been looking at her ankle.
An Important Distinction.
She said, without a single sigh,
And hardly hesitation,
That she
would be my sister, aye,
Or any fond relation.
I answered cunningly, "Ah me,
I've sisters by the dozen;
Please
make it in the next degree,
For one may wed a cousin."
Two Kinds.
Oh, her eyes, her beautiful eyes!
How they melt when she sobs or she
sighs!
How they droop
When she blushes!
How they flash

When she crushes
The love she's compelled to disguise!

Oh, her i's, her beautiful i's!
Who can tell them apart though he tries

From her m's
Or her e's,
N's, or u's
As you please
In her
letters? I offer a prize.
What it Is.
Just a little melancholy,
Just a tear or two,
Just a word that's
naughty,
Just a spiteful "pooh!"
Just an extra cocktail,
Just a flower-bill due,
Just another ring to
take
Unto my friend, the Jew.
That is what it is to be
Rejected,
Miss, by you.
In her Pew.
She looked up from her pew
(Why she did, Heaven knows);
But I
smiled; wouldn't you?
'T was the right thing to do;
And, pshaw,
nobody knew.
Then I tried hard to pose,
But a look of hers froze
All my blood.
And I woo
Her in future, old chappie, when not in her pew.
The Suspicious Lover to the Star.
O silver star,
That seeth far,
Tell my poor heart what she is doing;

And ease my pain,
Who would again
Be at her side, and still be
wooing.
Does she regret
The token set
By me upon her slender finger?
Or
in the dance
Do her eyes glance
At it sometimes,--and sometimes
linger?
Be, silver star,
Particular,
And do not be afraid of hurting.
I know
her well,
And truth to tell,
I fear my lady love is flirting.
A Slight Surprise.

Come, lovely Laura! strike the lyre,
And I will sing a song to thee

That will thy maiden heart inspire
With love, and love alone for me.
Why hesitate? Come, strike the lyre!
Down where the chord is minor
D.
Of wooing thee I'll never tire.
Good gracious! Why do you strike
me?
Past vs. Present.
Through all the days I courted her
My memory fondly floats,
When
love and I exhorted her
To read, re-read my notes.
But now I love her ten times more,
And my soul fairly gloats
To
think that my hard times are o'er,--
For now she pays my notes.
The Usual Way.
Three young maidens sat in a row,
With three grim dragons behind
'em;
And each of these maidens had a young beau,
And they all of
'em made 'em mind 'em.
These three maidens are married now;
In three brown-stone fronts
you'll find 'em.
But ever since the very first row
They can none of
'em make 'em mind 'em.
A Difference in Style.
Sweet Phyllis sat upon a stile,
With love and me beside her,
Her red
lips in a pouting smile.
A pout? Her eyes belied her.
My thoughts were merry as the day,--
And though the joke was
shocking,--
I shouted quick, and turned away:
"A spider's on your
stocking!"
The fun, of course, I did not see,
But heard an exclamation
That
sounded much like "Gracious me!"
And guessed the consternation.

Then Phyllis sat upon the style
Of men who would deride her;
But
she no longer sits the while
With love and me beside her.
Afraid.
Down the broad stairs,
Stranger to cares,
My love comes tripping
and smiling and free;
The snows on her breast
Are a blush
unconfessed.
I wonder what fate has in waiting for me?
My heart seems to throb
Like a broken-paced cob;
I fear I'm a
coward in love, as they say.
She's commencing to laugh;
How the
fellows will chaff.
By Jove, I'm not going to ask her to-day.
Ye Retort Exasperating.
"Sweete maide," ye lovesicke youthe remarked,
"Thou'rt fickle as my
star!
By far ye worste I ever sparked,
You are! You really are!
Albeit yt my brains are nil,
I'm gallante as can be;
I'lle be to you
whate'er you wille,
If you'lle be more to me."
"Faire youthe," ye maide replied, "I do
Not barter, as a rule,
But
I'lle be sister untoe you,--
Be you my