There she sat--so near me, yet remoter Than a star--a blue-eyed, bashful imp: On her lap she held a happy bloater, 'Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp.

And I loved her, and our troth we plighted On the morrow by the shingly sh.o.r.e: In a fortnight to be disunited By a bitter fate forevermore.

O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed!

To be young once more, and bite my thumb At the world and all its cares with you, I'd Give no inconsiderable sum.

Hand in hand we tramp'd the golden seaweed, Soon as o'er the gray cliff peep'd the dawn: Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we'd Crunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:--

Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper, That sweet mite with whom I loved to play?

Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper, That bright being who was always gay?

Yes--she has at least a dozen wee things!

Yes--I see her darning corduroys, Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-things, For a howling herd of hungry boys,

In a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil!

But at intervals she thinks, I know, Of those days which we, afar from turmoil, Spent together forty years ago.

O my earliest love, still unforgotten, With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue!

Never, somehow, could I seem to cotton To another as I did to you!

_Charles Stuart Calverley._

WHAT IS A WOMAN LIKE?

A woman is like to--but stay-- What a woman is like, who can say?

There is no living with or without one.

Love bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye, Buzz, buzz, always buzzing about one.

When she's tender and kind She is like to my mind, (And f.a.n.n.y was so, I remember).

She's like to--Oh, dear!

She's as good, very near, As a ripe, melting peach in September.

If she laugh, and she chat, Play, joke, and all that, And with smiles and good humor she meet me, She's like a rich dish Of venison or fish, That cries from the table, Come eat me!

But she'll plague you and vex you, Distract and perplex you; False-hearted and ranging, Unsettled and changing, What then do you think, she is like?

Like sand? Like a rock?

Like a wheel? Like a clock?

Ay, a clock that is always at strike.

Her head's like the island folks tell on, Which nothing but monkeys can dwell on; Her heart's like a lemon--so nice She carves for each lover a slice; In truth she's to me, Like the wind, like the sea, Whose raging will hearken to no man; Like a mill, like a pill, Like a flail, like a whale, Like an a.s.s, like a gla.s.s Whose image is constant to no man; Like a shower, like a flower, Like a fly, like a pie, Like a pea, like a flea, Like a thief, like--in brief, She's like nothing on earth--but a woman!

_Unknown._

MIS' SMITH

All day she hurried to get through, The same as lots of wimmin do; Sometimes at night her husban' said, "Ma, ain't you goin' to come to bed?"

And then she'd kinder give a hitch, And pause half way between a st.i.tch, And sorter sigh, and say that she Was ready as she'd ever be, She reckoned.

And so the years went one by one, An' somehow she was never done; An' when the angel said, as how "Mis' Smith, it's time you rested now,"

She sorter raised her eyes to look A second, as a st.i.tch she took; "All right, I'm comin' now," says she, "I'm ready as I'll ever be, I reckon."

_Albert Bigelow Paine._

TRIOLET

"I love you, my lord!"

Was all that she said-- What a dissonant chord, "I love you, my lord!"

Ah! how I abhorred That sarcastic maid!-- "_I_ love you? My _Lord_!"

Was all that she said.

_Paul T. Gilbert._

BESSIE BROWN, M.D.

'Twas April when she came to town; The birds had come; the bees were swarming.

Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown; I saw at once that she was charming.

She took a cottage tinted green, Where dewy roses loved to mingle; And on the door, next day, was seen A dainty little shingle.

Her hair was like an amber wreath; Her hat was darker, to enhance it.

The violet eyes that glowed beneath Were brighter than her keenest lancet, The beauties of her glove and gown The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter.

Ere she had been a day in town The town was in a flutter.

The gallants viewed her feet and hands, And swore they never saw such wee things; The gossips met in purring bands, And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-things.

The former drank the Doctor's health With clinking cups, the gay carousers; The latter watched her door by stealth, Just like so many mousers.

But Doctor Bessie went her way, Unmindful of the spiteful cronies, And drove her buggy every day Behind a dashing pair of ponies.

Her flower-like face so bright she bore I hoped that time might never wilt her.

The way she tripped across the floor Was better than a philter.

Her patients thronged the village street; Her snowy slate was always quite full.

Some said her bitters tasted sweet, And some p.r.o.nounced her pills delightful.

'Twas strange--I knew not what it meant-- She seemed a nymph from Eldorado; Where'er she came, where'er she went, Grief lost its gloomy shadow.

Like all the rest I, too, grew ill; My aching heart there was no quelling.

I tremble at my doctor's bill-- And lo! the items still are swelling.