When hearts are trumps by Thomas Winthrop Hall
T >>
Thomas Winthrop Hall >> When hearts are trumps
But the editor leaned far back in his chair;
He ran his hands through his iron-gray hair,
And stole ten minutes from work to write
A valentine to his wife that night.
He thought of metre, he thought of rhyme.
'Twas a race between weary brains and time.
He tried to write as he used to when
His heart was as young as his untried pen.
He started a sonnet, but gave it up.
A rondeau failed for a rhyme to "cup."
And the old clock ticked his time away,
For the editor's mind would go astray.
He thought of the days when they were young,
And all but love to the winds was flung,
He thought of the way she used to wear
Her wayward tresses of golden hair.
He thought of the way she used to blush.
He thought of the way he used to gush.
And a smile and a tear went creeping down
The face that so long had known a frown.
And this is what the editor wrote:
No poem--merely a little note,
Simple and manly, but tender, too;
Three little words--they were, "I love you."
Acting.
Ah, my arms hold you fast! How can they be so bold
When my hands offer nothing of silver or gold?
Can it be that I see a new light in your eye?
Can it be that I heard then a womanly sigh?
Ah, I feel such delight, and such joy, such surprise,
That I hardly dare lift my own sight to your eyes
Ah, my arms hold you fast, and my lips touch your cheek,
And I'm crying, "Love, answer me; speak to me--speak!"
And the answer you give to my longing distress
Is that word, with a blush and a kiss, that word "Yes."
Ah, my arms hold you fast, and I burn with a fire
That nothing but long-waiting love can inspire.
Yet I know you mean nothing--mean nothing, because
It's mere acting. Ah me, I can hear the applause.
An Apache Love-Song.[1]
A-atana she was here.
A-atana I was dear.
She will never come again.
Chill my heart, O wind and rain.
A-atana she was here.
Hark, the wind asks "Hi-you?"
And I answer "A-coo,
Ustey with your bitter cold;
U-ga-sha, my love of old."
Still the wind asks "Hi-you?"
"Hi-you?" I know not where.
A-oo, I hardly care.
Take it to the land of snow;
Take it where the stars all go.
"Hi-you?" I do not care.
It-sau-i did it all--
It-sau-i, proud and tall.
Tell her I have gone to fight.
Ask her if her heart is light.
It-sau-i did it all.
[Footnote 1: _A-atana_, yesterday. _Hi-you_, where. _A-coo_, here.
_U's-tey_, come, or bring. _U'-ga-sha_, go, or take. _A-oo_, yes. I have
no authority for the spelling of these words. I rendered them
phonetically from the pronunciation of a young Apache whom I hired to
teach me the language. Many Apache words have no perceptible accent. A,
here, has the sound of a in father.]
The Old-fashioned Girl.
There's an old-fashioned girl in an old fashioned street,
Dressed in old-fashioned clothes from her head to her feet;
And she spends all her time in the old-fashioned way
Of caring for poor people's children all day.
She never has been to cotillon or ball,
And she knows not the styles of the Spring or the Fall;
Two hundred a year will suffice for her needs,
And an old-fashioned Bible is all that she reads.
And she has an old-fashioned heart that is true
To a fellow who died in an old coat of blue,
With its buttons all brass,--who is waiting above
For the woman who loved him with old-fashioned love.
A Retrospect.
I was poor as a beggar,--she knew it,--
But proud as a king through it all;
Though it cost me two dollars to do it,
I took little Meg to the ball.
Mere calico served her for satin;
My broadcloth was made of blue jeans.
Without crest or a motto in Latin,
Meg's style was as grand as a queen's.
And we were in dreamland all through it,
And I do not regret it at all;
Though it cost me two dollars to do it,
I took little Meg to the ball.
Hard Hit.
I guess that I'm done for, old chappie!
Done, whether she loves me or not,--
But don't look so deuced unhappy,--
Y'know it was I fired the shot.
Thanks, awfully. Give me the whiskey,--
There's a horrible pain in my head;
It's queer that my nerves should be frisky
When my heart is as heavy as lead.
I'm worthless; I own it! She told me,
That night at the Country Club ball,--
Don't try, dear old fellow, to hold me,--
Ah, Nellie!--it's over!--don't call!
She told me my life had been wasted,
That my money had ruined my mind,
That I'd not left a pleasure untasted,--
Had been a disgrace to mankind!
And now she's to marry another,--
A poor man, but honest and strong,
Who had never a passion to smother,
And never a chance to do wrong.
He loves her. They'll all think it funny
I don't curse him and kill him, old fel;
But she loves him. I've left him my money,--
For I love her--God bless her! Farewell!
Rejected.
Aw, yes, bah Jove. I thought you'd answer "No."
But still a fellah 's got to awsk, you see.
And then there was the chance you might outgrow
That way you had of making fun of me.
Three years in Europe sometimes make a change
In girls like you, who've always been adored;
And when you laughed, I thought it rawther strange.
Aw, I beg pawdon; p'haps you feel, aw--bored.
You don't? You think it fun--a fellah's pains
At words like yours? You don't know how they smart.
I know you think I haven't any brains;
But still, Miss Nellie, I've a--I've a heart.
Jokers
Her Yachting Cap.
Oh, the little yachting cap
That is lying in her lap
Has a sort of fascination for poor me.
It is made of something white,
And she wears it day and night,
Through the weeks she spends each summer by the sea.
She can make of it a fan,
And, when necessary, can
Hide her face behind it, if she chance to blush.
It has carried caramels,
Chocolate drops, and pretty shells,
And I've even seen her use it as a brush.
But still it has one fault
In my eyes. I'd better halt,
Had I not, and ponder well what I shall say?
She is darting warning glances.
Well, under certain circumstances,
The visor's always getting in my way.
Theft.
The moonlight steals around the pine;
Star-eyes steal radiance from thine.
Low music steals upon the ear;
Can there be theft when thou art near?
I steel my heart for fear of this,--
I steel my heart and steal a kiss.
I'd steal the sacramental wine
If it were sweet as kiss of thine!
Before her Mirror.
I pause before her mirror and reflect
(That's what the mirror does, I take it, too);
Reflect how little it has known neglect,
And think, "O mirror, would that I were you."
She has no secrets that you do not know,
You and yon crescent box of poudre de rose.
And even these long curling irons can show
Much evidence of use, yet naught disclose.
Here, when she smiles, _you_ know it is her teeth
She's putting to the test ere she depart
For the gay revel on the lawn beneath,
Or moonlight ramble that may break a heart.
Here she may blush, until she, red as wine,
Knows that her triumphs have not ceased to be.
Here, when she frowns, and looks still more divine,
You know, wise mirror, that she thinks of me.
At Old Point Comfort.
You don't think of dresses, or ducats, or dukes;
You don't care for chaperone's rigid rebukes;
It's just simply grand,
To lie there on the sand,
Down at the beach,--
If a man's within reach.
Some like the moonlight and some like the sun,
Some flirt in earnest and some flirt in fun;
It's worth all the rash,
Reckless spending of cash,
All the dresses you spoil,
All the tempers you roil,
Down at the beach,--
If a man's within reach.
It's better than sleigh-rides, cotillons, or teas,
It makes the dull Patriarch's knickerbocked knees
Shake in the dance,
And then one has a chance,
If one's pretty and smart,
With a tongue not too tart,
Of presenting papaw
With a new son-in-law,
Down at the beach,--
If a man's within reach.
A Drop Too Much.
I praised her hair, I praised her lips,
She looked up with surprise;
I bowed to kiss her finger-tips,
And then she dropped her eyes.
I said love ruled the world; that I
Adored her; called her "Nan."
She merely looked a little shy,
And then she dropped her fan.
I took the hint, and at her feet
I knelt--yes, quite absurd;
But oh, my fond heart wildly beat
To hear her drop a word.
I told her all: my talents few,
My direful lack of pelf.
(We all have erred.) She said "Adieu,"
And then dropped me myself.
Ingratitude.
Last night young Cupid lost his way,
And came to me to find it.
He'd been a truant all the day,
But didn't seem to mind it.
I put him in a hansom then
For home, and feed the cabby;
But my reward was what most men
Would call extremely shabby.
He got his bow and arrows out,
And pierced my heart, nor tarried,
But drove away ere I could shout,
"Great Heavens, Cupe, I'm married!"
A Few Resolutions.
(_With Reservations_)
He shall never know that I love him--
Until he asks if I do.
And I'll feel very much above him--
When he stoops to tie my shoe.
And I shall never kiss him--
Until he kisses me.
And I shall never miss him--
Till he sails over the sea.
And I shall never wed him,
Nor call myself his bride--
Till Cupid and I have led him
Right up to the minister's side.
A Dilemma.
A letter for me,
From the girl that I love!
Just penned by her hand
And caressed by her glove.
A jewel--a gem--ah!
A letter from Emma.
A letter for me,
Oh, what joy, what surprise!
Just kissed by her lips--
At least, blest by her eyes.
'T is opened--ahem, ah!
A letter from Emma.
A letter for me,
From my sweet little bird.
Eight pages, by Jove!
And I can't read a word.
A precious dilemma,
This letter from Emma!
A Choice not Necessary.
Here is a rose,
Here is a kiss;
Which do you choose?
One rhymes with prose;
One rhymes with bliss.
Ah, you amuse.
You hesitate,
You blush, you sigh.
What! are you loath?
'Tis getting late;
Be quick--
Fool, take them both!
That Boston Girl.
Her voice is sweet,
Her style is neat;
She'd move the world with but a pen.
Her mind is clear;
Her sight, though near,
Is long enough to capture men.
What matters it her learning, then?
The Hero.
He looked so handsome, proud, and brave,
As he stood there, straight and tall,
With his steadfast eyes, so gray, so grave,
The beau of the Hunt Club ball.
Ah me, full many a white breast sighed
For the favor of his hand,--
For the love of a heart so true, so tried,
For life, you understand.
He looked a hero; he was more,
A martyr, too, perchance;
For he went to the oldest girl on the floor,
And led her out to dance.
The Sweet Summer Girl.
She has hair that is fluffy, straight, banged, or half curled;
Has a parasol, oft by her deft fingers twirled.
She has eyes either brown or black, gray or true blue;
Has a neat fitting glove and a still neater shoe.
She has cheeks that make bitter the envious rose;
She has trunks upon trunks of the costliest clothes;
She has jewels that shine as the stars do at night;
And she dances as Ariel dances--or might.
She knows nothing much, but she's great on the smile;
Her profession is love, and she flirts 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 Aprille foole."
A Rhyming Reverie.
It was a dainty lady's glove;
A souvenir to rhyme with love.
It was the memory of a kiss,
So called to make it rhyme with bliss.
There was a month at Mt. Desert,
Synonymous and rhymes with flirt.
A pretty girl and lots of style,
Which rhymes with happy for a while.
There came a rival old and bold,
To make him rhyme with gold and sold.
A broken heart there had to be.
Alas, the rhyme just fitted me.
A Sure Winner.
Oh, treat me not with cold disdain,
My pretty maids of fashion;
Look upon the hearts you've slain,
And listen to my passion.
Though I am not so peerly proud
As men of higher station,
So handsome that the madding crowd
Collects in admiration;
And have, perhaps, too great a store
Of sandy hair and freckles,
I've mortgages and bonds galore,
And muchly many shekels.
You yet may journey league or mile
To wed, as you're aware.
Come, cease your longing for mere style,
And take A. MILLIONNAIRE.
Tantalization.
She stands beneath the mistletoe
As though she did not know it.
She looks quite unconcerned, you know,
And pretty, yes,--but, blow it,
I have to turn and walk away;
I'll have revenge anon.
She knows quite well, alack the day,
That my wife is looking on.
His Usual Fate.
All one season
Lost to reason,
Breathing sea air
By the beach, where
Young hearts mingle,
Love was playful
All the day full.
We were single.
Now with mournful
Looks and scornful
Turns he too us;
He is through us,
Worried, harried.
Love is sighing;
Love is dying.
We are married.
On Two Letters from Her.
I wrote her a letter. It took her quite two
To answer it after she'd read it.
My letter contained what perhaps even you
Have written,--at least, you have said it.
My letter contained the old tale of a heart
That longed to be linked to another;
And I told her to think on each separate part,
And ask the advice of her mother.
She apparently did, for the very next mail
Brought me a message of woe.
It took her two letters; they made me turn pale;
For they were the letters "N" "O".
A Serenade--en Deux Langues.
Sous le maple, mort de night,
Avec le lune beams shining through,
Ecoutez-moi, mon hapless plight.
Je vous aime--qui lovez-vous?
Je plink les strings de mon guitar.
Il fait bien froid; J'am nervous, too.
Dites-moi, dites-moi ce que vous are?
Je vous aime; qui lovez-vous?
Tu es si belle, je veux vous wed.
Mon pere est riche--comme riche est you?
Bonne nuit, adieu; J'ai cold in head.
Je vous aime--qui lovez-vous.
When a Girl says "No."
When a girl says "Yes,"
There's a quick caress,
A kiss, a sigh,
A melting eye.
There's a vision of things
That hard cash brings,--
A winter at Nice
With a servant apiece,
A long yachting cruise,
Name in "personal news,"
Plenty of wine,
Two hours to dine;
But it's different quite when a girl says "No."
When a girl says "No,"
It's so different, oh!
No kiss, ten sighs,
Two tear-dimmed eyes.
There's a vision of things
That poverty brings,--
A winter complete
On Uneasy Street,
A temptation to rob,
A twelve-dollar job,
A boarding-house meal,
And you pray a new deal;
For it's different quite when a girl says "No."
Uncertainty.
Jenny has a laughing eye,
Yet she is most wondrous shy.
But why?
Jenny says she hates the men;
Still she'll marry. Artful Jen!
But when?
I've a rival who is rich;
With one of us sweet Jen will hitch.
But which?
Her Peculiarities.
_The Question of the Learned Man_.
How doth the little blushing maid
Employ each shining hour?
Doth she, in sober thought arrayed,
Learn knowledge that is power?
Say, doth she mend her father's socks,
And cook his evening meal?
And doth she make her own sweet frocks
With adolescent zeal?
_The Reply of the Observant Youth_.
Not much; not much. She knows it all;
She doth not need to learn.
She thinks of naught but rout or ball,
And which youth will be her'n.
She hustles for a diamond ring;
She cares not for her dad.
She does not make him anything,--
Except, she makes him mad.
Tying the Strings of her Shoe.
Tying the strings of her shoe,
With only the moon to see me.
Could I be quick? Could you?
That is the time to woo
What would any one do?
I tied no knot that would free me,
Tying the strings of her shoe,
With only the moon to see me.
When You are Rejected.
Don't say
"Good day,"
Then grab the door and slam it.
Be quite
Polite;
Go out, and then say, "---- it."
A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book,
A cosy nook,
A fire,--at least its embers;
A dog, a glass;--
'T is thus we pass
Such hours as one remembers.
Who'd wish to wed?
Poor Cupid's dead
These thousand years, I wager.
The modern maid
Is but a jade,
Not worth the time to cage her.
In silken gown
To "take" the town
Her first and last ambition.
What good is she
To you or me
Who have but a "position"?
So let us drink
To her,--but think
Of him who has to keep her;
And _sans_ a wife
Let's spend our life
In bachelordom,--it's cheaper.
My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite,
My little sweet,
Why do you cry?
Why this small tear,
So pure and clear,
In each blue eye?
'My cigarette--
I'm smoking yet?'
(I'll be discreet.)
I toss it, see,
Away from me
Into the street.
You see I do
All things for you.
Come, let us sup.
(But oh, what joy
To be that boy
Who picked it up.)
Discovered.
AN EPISODE ON BEACON HILL.
You are frowning;
I don't wonder.
Reading Browning;
Hard as thunder!
Oh, excuse me;
You adore it?
You amuse me;
I abhor it.
Let me see it.
Who has taught you?
Now to me it--
Ah, I've caught you.
It _must_ be hard so
(Hence the frown?)
To read the bard so--
Upside down.
The Ice in the Punch.
The wail of the 'cello is soft, sweet, and low;
There are strains of romance in the thrumming banjo.
The violin's note--feel it float in your ear;
And the harp makes one fancy that angels are near.
The voice of a young girl can reach to the heart;
The song of the baritone--well, it is art.
The flute and the lute in gavotte--the guitar
In soft serenade--how entrancing they are!
But to all the mad millions
Who dance at cotillons
There's naught like the clink and the clank and the crunch
Of the ice in the punch.