LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 ^^ 
 
POEMS AND SKETCHES 
 
 BY 
 
 CLARENCE EASTMAN STONE 
 
 J3 
 
 N^-" 201883 3) 
 
 DROOKLVN 
 
 JAMES J. o'connp:ll 
 
PRKFACE. 
 
 TX presenting this little book to the Public, 1 cannot 
 -■- but feel that I am courting a sharper criticism 
 than the several productions received when they 
 appeared fugitively in various periodicals. That many 
 of them have been widely copied, and often without 
 any reference to the name of their author, leads me to 
 think that they are not entirely devoid of merit, and 
 encourages me to put them in such shape as shall 
 insure their preservation by such as may deem them 
 worthy of more than a passing glance. 
 
 They were all written at night, after the turmoil of 
 business was hushed for the day ; and if the reader 
 experiences one quarter the sense of relaxation and 
 pleasure in perusing, that I did in penning them, I 
 shall be perfectly satisfied, and count my labor not 
 entirely lost. 
 
 Boston, September, i88j. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 FOR A WOMAN'S FOLLY . . . . i 
 
 THE MINSTREL'S CURSE . . . lo 
 
 FAME, WEALTH AND HONOR . . , i6 
 
 THE LIFE-BOAT . . . . . 17 
 
 IN THE HAMMOCK 19 
 
 MIDNIGHT ...... 21 
 
 BLESSED MISFORTUNE . , . .22 
 
 LOVE AND PASSION .... 23 
 
 BE NOT IDLE . . . . .25 
 
 A FALSE HOPE . . . . . 26 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 27 
 
 NATURE'S NOBLEMAN .... 29 
 
 "ONLY A HEART" . , . . .30 
 
 TRUE FRIENDSHIP . . . . 31 
 
 HYPOCRISY . . • . . . .32 
 
 DREAMING .- 33 
 
 CHARITY ....•• 34 
 
 THE LEDGER OF LIFE . . . . 35 
 
 LIST NOT TO EVIL . . . . .36 
 
 LOVE IN A LANE 2>7 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO A DEMON . . .39 
 
 A SOLILOQUY ..... 40 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 THE WITTY THIEF 41 
 
 LINES FOR AN ALBUM .... 42 
 
 "THE ERL-KING" . . . . -43 
 
 TO MY "T. D." 45 
 
 MODERN LOVE . . . . .46 
 
 AN EPIGRAM 48 
 
 S()N(;S OF LOVE . . . . .49 
 
 SKETCHES. 
 
 LOVE AND MUSIC 57 
 
 "WANTED — A BOY" . . . .62 
 
 THE ELOPEMENT 70 
 
 ANCIENT ARMS AND ARMOR . . .83 
 
 A MALE FLIRT 89 
 
 TOO MUCH FOR HIM . . . .94 
 
 " A SCRAP OF PAPER " .... 99 
 
 SUNSET ON THE LAKE . . . .104 
 
 THE BOOKS WE READ .... 107 
 
 HIS VALENTINE . . . . .109 
 
 A RUSTIC NYMPH 114 
 
 AGAINST HIS WILL . . . . .120 
 
POEMS 
 
FOR A WOMAN'S FOLLV. 
 
 A STORY TOI.I) A REPORTER. 
 
 4 4 ^np^ IS only a simple story — 
 J- He's but a child, you see 
 Too young to seek for glory — 
 The tool of villainy I " 
 
 Thus spake the kind })hysician, 
 As from the cot we turned ; 
 
 In answer to my question, 
 This history I learned : 
 
 A maiden sits at midnight — 
 
 A letter in her hand, 
 Which reading makes her tremble. 
 
 Like earth-quake shaken land ! 
 
 To-morrow she'll be wedded 
 To the lover of her choice : 
 
 But now she's pale and weeping, 
 When she would fain rejoice. 
 
 From her discarded lover 
 The letter which she holds, 
 
 And in it threats of vengeance 
 Are all her eve beholds. 
 
POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ' Coquette ! my life you've blighted ! 
 
 So writes the wretched man ; 
 ' My hand, my love you've slighted, 
 
 And forgive I never can ! 
 
 Then follow threats of vengeance 
 To her and hers for aye — 
 
 What wonder that she shudders, 
 When dawns her wedding day ! 
 
 iMght years had she been wedded, 
 Without a child to bless 
 
 Her union with her lover, 
 Who loved her none the less. 
 
 But one day came a stranger — 
 A dainty, dimpled boy ; 
 
 And Heaven received the blessing 
 Of two hearts full of joy. 
 
 How happy was the mother, 
 Her babe pressed to her breast ! 
 
 Forgotten was the letter 
 
 Which caused her such unrest. 
 
 Alone within her chamber 
 The mother sits one night ; 
 
 While on its pillow dreaming. 
 The child has visions bright. 
 
FOR A WOMAN S FOLLY. 
 
 She gazes on its features — 
 The father's smile is there — 
 
 And, as she looks, determines 
 Light burdens he shall bear. 
 
 She thinks of her fond husband, 
 Now absent from her side, 
 
 At work upon his paper — 
 Her torment, yet her pride ! 
 
 She counts the weary moments, 
 
 That slowly pass away, 
 Till drowsiness o'ercomes her, 
 
 And sleep assumes its sway. 
 
 T is past the hour of midnight, 
 And with her glances mild, 
 
 The moon peeps in the window. 
 At the mother and her child. 
 
 But now across the casement 
 
 A flitting shadow goes ! 
 Oh ! husband, at thy labor, 
 
 Think'st thou of midnight foes ? 
 
 Still slumber child and mother, 
 
 Of danger unaware, 
 As, creeping through the window, 
 
 A robber ;iiasked is there I 
 
pop:ms and sketches. 
 
 Inside Uie room he pauses, 
 
 And glares with bloodshot eyes 
 
 On the unconscious sleepers — 
 His undisputed prize ! 
 
 With stealthy tread advancing, 
 Beside the child he stands ; 
 
 And, drawing out a paper, 
 He holds it in his hands. 
 
 By the pale moonlight reading, 
 
 Fiercer becomes his face, 
 And with a curse unuttered, 
 
 He glances round the place. 
 
 The sleeping child then seizing, 
 He chokes its smothered cries — 
 
 He leaves behind the paper. 
 And from the chamber flies. 
 
 The mother soon awakens — 
 
 Her child ! Oh, where is he ? — 
 
 The paper tells the story — 
 She scans it eagerly. 
 
 " Coquette ! my life you've blighted ! 
 
 So wrote the ruined man ; 
 " My hand, my love vou've slighted, 
 
 And forgive I never can I '" 
 
FUR A WO.^IAN S FOLLY. 
 
 The nighl is wild and stormy, 
 The wind is bitter cold ; 
 
 The new year comes in anger 
 With tears departs the old. 
 
 The bells ring out the old year — 
 The bells ring in the new : 
 
 But through the wintry tempest 
 Their notes of joy are few. 
 
 ^Nlore solemn grows their cadence — 
 " Old year,"" they seem to say, 
 
 " Thy course was tilled with sorrow. 
 Then wh}- should we be gay .-' " 
 
 To a father and a mother, 
 
 Of child and hope bereft, 
 Thus sound the bells of midnight — 
 
 For them no joy is left ! 
 
 Through storm and darkness plodding. 
 Two figures make their way, 
 
 On towards the home of sorrow, 
 Just ere the break of day. 
 
 The one a man, whose muffler 
 Conceals from view his face ; 
 
 A child, beside him running, 
 Can scarcely keep his place. 
 
POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 They reach the house and tarry — 
 Then gruffly speaks the man : 
 
 " Hear, and obey my orders 
 As quickly as you can ; 
 
 " When you are in the window. 
 
 Unlock the entry door ; 
 Then take this piece of paper. 
 
 And drop it on the floor ; 
 
 "While I secure the plunder, 
 You see that you escape ; 
 
 Then meet me at the ' Starling,' — 
 And do the job in shape ! " 
 
 " Oh ! sir, I hate to do it '" — 
 So speaks the trembling child, 
 
 As, kneeling on the pavement. 
 He pleads in accents wild ; 
 
 " "Tis wrong to steal and plunder — 
 
 ]\Iy mother told me so. 
 Oh ! make me not a robber, 
 
 If you to Heaven would go ! "' 
 
 " A curse upon your folly. 
 And on your mother too ! 
 
 She drove me to destruction — 
 ril pierce her heart through you ! 
 
FOR A WO.MAN S FOLLY. 
 
 The trembling buy he seizes. 
 And hfts the Httle form 
 
 To where a slender window- 
 Is open to the storm. 
 
 " If you fail me, I will kill you ! '" 
 
 He hisses in his ear ; 
 Then thrusts him through the opcnini 
 
 Now nearly dead with fear ! 
 
 The hall is dimly lighted, 
 And still as death the place ; 
 
 The boy advances slowly, 
 
 With pale and tear-stained face. 
 
 At length the doorway reaching, 
 He stops and looks around, 
 
 Attempting to discover 
 
 What rescue can be found. 
 
 A moment's hesitation — 
 
 The door-bell meets his eye — 
 
 He'll rouse the sleeping household. 
 And on their help rely I 
 
 He pulls the bell-wire quickly — 
 A second time and third — 
 
 (Jutside, as well as indoors. 
 The clamor can be heard ! 
 
POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 But ere the startled household 
 Can reach the fatal spot, 
 
 The harassed child has fallen. 
 By the heartless ruffian shot ! 
 
 The riddled door thrown open, 
 A man the father spies, 
 
 Just from the doorway running, 
 And in pursuit he flies. 
 
 Now gaining is the burglar — 
 The father stops and fires 
 
 His pistol at the villain, 
 
 Who falls and soon expires ! 
 
 Within the house the mother 
 Has recognized her child, 
 
 And on its bleeding features 
 She looks with glances wild. 
 
 Her husband now reenters 
 To further horrors find ; 
 
 For, by her child she's kneeling. 
 Deprived of speech and mind ! 
 
 And in her hand a letter 
 
 She holds with nervous grasp ; 
 
 She struggles "gainst his efforts 
 Her fingers to unclasp. 
 
FOR A WOMAN S FOLLY. 
 
 ■' Coquette ! my life you've blighted 
 So reads the stricken man ; 
 
 " My hand, my love you've slighted, 
 And for":ive I never can ! "' 
 
 'O' 
 
 May 27, i88^ 
 
THE MDoTREL S CURSR 
 
 L 
 
 iod. 
 
 a 
 
 Fyc 
 
 
THE MINSTRELS CURSE. 
 
 The elder, un a charger, 
 
 A harp bore in his hand ; 
 With springing step the younger 
 
 Walked o'er the fertile land. 
 
 Then to him spake the elder : 
 
 " Now be prepared, my son : 
 Recall our warmest verses — 
 
 Strike up the fullest tone ; 
 Draw all our powers together — 
 
 Of joy and sorrow sing ; 
 Remember well our purpose — 
 
 To move the haughty king I '" 
 
 Now stand the noble singers 
 
 Within the hall of state, 
 And on the throne are seated 
 
 The monarch and his mate. 
 The king is coldly brilHant, 
 
 Like flaming northern light ; 
 The queen is sweet and loving, 
 
 As beams the full moon bright. 
 
 The old man sweeps the harpstrings 
 He sweeps them with such skill, 
 
 That richer, ever richer, 
 The tones the castle fill : 
 
POKxMS AND SKKTCHES. 
 
 Now heard in liquid cadence, 
 
 The yoLUh's voice, clear and strong 
 
 The Hither chanting softly, 
 Like hidden spirits' song. 
 
 They sing of joy and sorrow. 
 
 I'hc ha})py home above, 
 Of freedom, loyalty and truth, 
 
 Of peace, and holy love ; 
 lliey sing of every passion, 
 
 Which moves the hearts of men ; 
 They sing of all things noble 
 
 Of which we have a ken. 
 
 The courtiers, in a circle. 
 
 Forget each idle jest ; 
 The monarch's sternest warrior 
 
 Feels pity in his breast ; 
 And, overcome with feeling, 
 
 The queen now leaves her seat. 
 She casts the rose, worn on her breast, 
 
 Down at the singer's feet. 
 
 "Ye have my court enchanted ! 
 
 Bewitch \e now my wife .'' " 
 The king is mad with passion, 
 
 His voice with anger rife ! — 
 
THE MINSTRELS CL'RSE. 
 
 He draws his sword, which gleaming 
 Strikes deep the young man's breast, 
 
 From which high leaps a blood-stream, 
 Instead of music blessed ! 
 
 And as by tempest shattered 
 
 Is all the noble band, 
 The gifted youth has breathed his last, 
 
 Soothed by the father's hand ; 
 The father wTapped him in his cloak. 
 
 And bore him from the room ; 
 He bound him to the gallant steed, 
 
 And left the place of gloom. 
 
 But by the outer archway, 
 
 There paused the minstrel old ; 
 Then seizing on his wondrous harp, 
 
 iNIore precious far than gold. 
 He dashed it down, in anguish wild, 
 
 Upon a jagged stone. 
 And lifting up his trembling hands. 
 
 He cried in awful tone : 
 
 " Woe ! woe ! ye mighty castle — 
 Ne'er more may harp nor song 
 
 lie heard within your portals, 
 Through all the ages long ! 
 
14 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 No ! sighs alone, and groaning, 
 And tread of trembling feet, 
 
 Till, left to rack and ruin. 
 My vengeance is complete ! 
 
 "Woe ! woe ! ye blooming gardens, 
 
 So fresh and fair to view, 
 The features of this awful death 
 
 Are what I show to you ! 
 For this ye shall be withered, 
 
 Thy springs no more shall flow ; 
 Ye shall be, in future years, 
 
 A place for weeds to grow ! 
 
 ' ' Woe ! woe ! thou bloody monarch ! 
 
 Of rriinstrelsy the bane ! 
 In vain be all thy strivings 
 
 For honor or for fame ! 
 Thy name shall be forgotten — 
 
 By darkness covered o'er — 
 Like a last expiring sigh, 
 
 Be uttered nevermore ! " 
 
 The minstrel old has spoken — 
 To heaven the curse is borne ; 
 
 The solid walls are levelled, 
 The halls of splendor shorn ; 
 
THE MINSTRELS CURSE. I 5 
 
 A single lofty column 
 
 Tells of departed might, 
 And that, already shattered, 
 
 ]\Iay crumble in a night. 
 
 Around, instead of gardens, 
 
 A barren heath erl and ; 
 No tree affords its shelter, 
 
 No spring breaks through the sand. 
 The name of this proud monarch 
 
 Lives not in song nor verse — 
 Deserted and forgotten — 
 
 That is the Minstrels Curse ! 
 
 May 27, 1877. 
 
1 6 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 FAME, WEALTH AND HONOR. 
 
 THREE youths, just starting out in life, 
 Together came to where three ways 
 Branched off; each chose one and went on 
 Alone, and traveled many days. 
 
 Fame led the first — o er rugged paths, 
 Through forests dark, up endless slopes ; 
 
 Until, at length, the wretched slave 
 Won fame, but lost all nobler hopes. 
 
 The second, dazed by riches' glare. 
 Pushed on, nor heeded human pain ; 
 
 Successful in his search for wealth, 
 A miser, lived his life in vain. 
 
 The third took Honor for his guide, 
 And lived to win an honest name ; 
 
 Beloved by all, and much esteemed. 
 
 He found, at last, both wealth and fame. 
 
 Xov. 25, iSy8. 
 
THE LIFE-BOAT. 
 
 C 
 
 THE LIFE-BOAT 
 
 OME, walk with me by the ocean side, 
 And list awhile to the murmuring tide 
 
 The heart-beats of the throbbing sea 
 Speak many a tale to you and me. 
 
 Silence now ! The ripples tell 
 
 Of coral cave and mermaid's dell ; 
 
 Of wondrous groves, whose aqueous trees 
 
 Are never stirred by passing breeze ; 
 
 Of treasures hid from mortal eye, 
 To rescue which 'twere vain to try. 
 Beneath the waves no footsteps stray ; 
 No hand shall bear the prize away. 
 
 But, hark ! a harsher sound is heard ! 
 A gun — a second — and a third. 
 In quick succession ; — now a wail 
 Is borne upon the rising gale ! 
 
 And o'er the waves, uprising fast, 
 And lashed to fury by the blast, 
 Behold a ship ! With furious speed 
 It dashes on like frightened steed I 
 
POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 On towards the shore, along whose edge 
 The billows break upon each ledge ; 
 They seem to beckon with their spray, 
 As if impatient for their prey. 
 
 But see ! swift gliding from the shore, 
 Each brave tar bending to the oar, 
 The life-boat, and th' imperilled crew 
 Behold it, and their hope renew. 
 
 On, on they speed — they breast each wave ; 
 They falter not — there's life to save ! 
 They reach the ship — now down the side 
 In safety all the sailors glide. 
 
 They leave the ship, and towards the shore 
 Their bow is turned ; and now once more, 
 With steady strokes the waves they cleave, 
 And to her fate the vessel leave. 
 
 All honor to the noble crew ! 
 All honor to the life-boat true ! 
 They reach the shore, and with a cheer 
 The watchers greet them at the pier ! 
 
 How like the ocean is our life — 
 Now filled with peace, now rent with strife ; 
 But though the storms be fierce and long. 
 We're safe in Honors life-boat strong ! 
 March ji, iSyg. 
 
IN THE HAMMOCK. 1 9 
 
 IN THE HAMMOCK. 
 
 A SUMMER REVERIE. 
 
 IN the hammock, gently swinging, 
 Sit we both, my love and 1, 
 And I listen to her singing — 
 Singing as the moments fly. 
 
 Swings the hammock, sings the maiden 
 Songs of love melodious swell ; 
 
 Slowly sinks the god of day, then 
 Softly sounds the evening bell. 
 
 And the maiden ceases singing — 
 
 Closer to her side I steal. 
 While the hammock stops its swinging, 
 
 As I then my love reveal. 
 
 Now the summer moon, arising, 
 
 Shows the blush that burns her cheel> 
 
 Lighting up the lips enticing, 
 Where I for an answer seek. 
 
20 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 " Do you love me ? " ask I trembling — 
 Waiting for the answer true ; 
 
 Darling maid ! She scorns dissembling, 
 Gently whispers : "I love you ! " 
 
 In the hammock, gently swinging, 
 
 With my pipe alone I lie ; 
 But no maid to me is singing, 
 
 No one answers to my sigh — 
 
 Only once I sigh at thinking 
 
 How a maid was false as fair — 
 
 In the arms of sleep then sinking, 
 I forget the whole affair ! 
 
 July 6, 1^79- 
 
MIDMGHT. 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 ^^ I ^ IS now •' the witching hour of night 
 
 -■- I hear the solemn midnight bell ; 
 It warns me of times restless flight. 
 Alike through gloomy scenes or bright — 
 "Tis of another dav the knell. 
 
 Youth's precious moments quickly fly : 
 Unnumbered is each fleeting day, 
 
 Until, awakening with a sigh, 
 
 As early friends about us die. 
 
 We find that youth has passed away. 
 
 And now, engrossed with weightier cares. 
 
 We rate each day by what is done ; 
 And though each day its warning bears. 
 Yet old age strikes us unawares, 
 And oft before the victory *s won. 
 
 Then let us heed the warning bell. 
 
 And though we may not pleasure shun, 
 Let moderation with it dwell, 
 And when we work, our work do well. 
 For soon our labor here is done. 
 Orh I J. 1878. 
 
POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 BLESSED MISFORTUNE. 
 
 ^6 T TAIL ! Fortune, smile thy sweetest smile ; 
 -■- -*- Pour wealth into my lap - — and health 
 And happiness are mine, and friends — 
 For all will join the train of wealth. '' 
 
 So spake one, inexperienced, young. 
 And full of life, and hope and strength. 
 
 And Fortune smiled, and then he thought 
 True happiness he'd found at length. 
 
 For friends were many, gay, and merry — 
 They ate and drank at his expense ; 
 
 And did not hesitate to borrow, 
 Professing friendship most intense. 
 
 One day Misfortune joined his friends — 
 How quickly all the rest then scattered ! 
 
 Forsaken then and shorn of wealth, 
 
 He found his health and credit shattered. 
 
 One friend remained to cheer his sorrow. 
 And lead his thoughts to higher thing's ; 
 
 And now he lives to bless Misfortune, 
 That gave false friends and riches wings. 
 
LOVE AM) PASSION. 23 
 
 LOVE AND PASSION. 
 
 I HARDLY dared to tell my love, 
 It burned so fierce within my breast : 
 "T was like a vision from above, 
 
 With \vhich the chosen ones are blest. 
 
 As burns the fire, whose envious flame 
 Consumes the wealth of toilsome years, 
 
 :My love burned in my breast the same. 
 And fed on hope and jealous fears. 
 
 As bursts the torrent from the bond 
 Which Winter's icy shackle binds, 
 
 When ardent Spring, \vith glances fond, 
 Frees every captive that she finds, 
 
 And rushing on, through glen and vale. 
 With devastation marks its way — 
 
 While death and sorrow form its trail. 
 And life and beauty are its prey — 
 
 So passion fierce rushed from my soul 
 Which Love from a| athy had freed. 
 
 And of my peace of mind the whole 
 Was lost, and all was dark indeed ! 
 
24 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 But as the torrent passes on. 
 
 And is diffused o'er meadows gray. 
 Its fury calms itself, and soon 
 
 Its course is marked with verdure crav. 
 
 &' 
 
 Less fierce became my passion, too, 
 Deeper my love, but full of joy ; 
 
 And, feeling that my love is true, 
 Rapture I find without alloy. 
 
 J/av 21, 1 88 1. 
 
HE NOT IDLE. 
 
 25 
 
 BE NOT IDLE. 
 
 BE not an idler on this earth. 
 There's work for all to do ; 
 A man is judged by what hes worth. 
 You'll find ere life is through. 
 
 However humble he may be, 
 
 A man can always rise ; 
 Eor knowledge, like the air, is free, 
 
 And he can learn who tries. 
 
 ' ' Knowledge is power, " the proverb says. 
 
 By work alone t is won ; 
 Then squander not the precious days. 
 
 And idle habits shun. 
 
 Sept. /J, 18-/ 8. 
 
26 
 
 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 A FALSE HOPE. 
 
 ^^ TT'ILL up the bowl, we'll drown our grief, 
 
 -*- We'll banish'care'and sorrow ; 
 We'll drink, and merry be to-night, 
 And think not of the morrow ! "' 
 
 And flushed with wine, his trembling hand 
 The brimming glass holds high ; 
 
 He drains the cup - — but e'en its power 
 Cannot prevent a sigh. 
 
 Delusive hope ! Grief is not dead — 
 
 'T is only stupefied, 
 Once more himself, he'll wake to find 
 
 His sorrows multiplied. 
 
 May 8. 1878. 
 
IX ME.MOKIA-M. 
 
 IX .MEMORIAL. 
 
 POOR little Gyp 1 Thou art no more. 
 Thy simple life has reached its cIolc 
 l-miss thy welcome at the door, 
 
 Thy bark no^more thy pleasure shows. 
 
 Friend of my youth — thy love was })ure 
 And unalloyed by worldly greed ; 
 
 No matter whether rich or poor, 
 Thou wert to me a friend indeed. 
 
 How many times we've roamed the hills. 
 Or wandered by the ocean's wave ; 
 
 Unmindful of life's petty ills, 
 
 We shared the joy which freedom gave. 
 
 When I would turn my mind to thought, 
 Thou didst not bore with idle talk : 
 
 But when thine ear the signal caught. 
 Ready thou for romp or walk. 
 
 Only a little dog wert thou, 
 
 Yet knowing in thine humble way; 
 Naught but a collar's left me now 
 
 To tell that thou hast had thv dav* 
 
28 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 A lesson all may learn from thee 
 Of faithfulness and friendship true ; 
 
 Much pleasure hast thou given me — 
 Rest now in peace — thy life is through. 
 
 June 27, 1880, 
 
NATLKKS NOIU.E.MAX. 2i) 
 
 H 
 
 XA'll'RKS X()BLK:MAX. 
 
 K boasts no '" higli ancestral name, "" 
 
 Xo blue blood courses throu.2:h his veins 
 
 'O' 
 
 But in his heart the .ufenial flame 
 
 Of honesty its warmth maintains. 
 
 Mis hands are hard with honest toil, 
 His daily bread by work he wins ; 
 
 He does not fear his hand^i to soil, 
 Unless it be with fraud or sins. 
 
 Though rough hits voice, ami not attuned 
 In lad}"s bower to murmur low, 
 
 Xo word of his the loved ones wound, 
 Xor o'er their lives a shadow throw. 
 
 All honor to this noble man — 
 
 That is the title his b\- right 
 Of Xature, whose unerring plan 
 
 Brings such a man to human sight. 
 
 Ju/v 4, 1880. 
 
30 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 "ONLY A HEART. • 
 
 ( A Reply to a Poem entitled ' Nothing Lost But A Heart.' ) 
 
 t^ "XTOTHING lost but a heart," it is said - 
 
 -^ ^ Ah ! httle they know the pain, 
 Who can lay aside love like a garment, 
 And easily love again. 
 
 For the heart that loves sincerely 
 
 Is bound to tlie heart it adored, 
 And the parting is not merely 
 
 The pain which a blow might afford. 
 
 From the pain of the blow we recover, 
 Nature soon heals up the wound ; 
 
 When the heart strings we ruthlessly sever, 
 To mend them no art can be found. 
 
 "Nothing lost but a heart '" — yet 'tis mournful 
 To think of one heart being lost ; 
 
 True hearts are rare — most are scornful, 
 As we all some time find to our cost ! 
 
 J/av 12, 1880. 
 
TKLK KKIENDSHIl'. 3 I 
 
 TRUE FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 WHEN Fortune cheers us with her smile. 
 How mail}- friends we number here ; 
 How eagerly they try each wile 
 To make their care for us appear. 
 
 But when ^lisfortune comes to grieve, 
 And knit a frown on Fortune's brow, 
 
 How quickly then the false friends leave 
 And soon to other idols bow. 
 
 'Tis then our true friends we shall know, 
 Their kindness then is freely given ; 
 
 Then first we learn that here below 
 Enough remains to make a heaven. 
 
 Xov. 20. 1^77- 
 
^2 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 HYPOCRISY. 
 
 IHxATE the man whose oily tongue 
 With loathsome flattery teems ; 
 \Vho to my face is full of praise, 
 And very friendly seems ; 
 
 But who, as soon as I am gone, 
 
 Assumes another air, 
 And makes remarks, which to my face 
 
 To say he would not dare. 
 
 Such hypocrites as this, alas, 
 
 Too frequently abound : 
 But honest friends are very rare, 
 
 And should be prized when found. 
 
 Or/. 31, 1877. 
 
i)Ki;AMi.\(i. ^^ 
 
 DRKAMIXC;. 
 
 WHKRK roams the sduI when, wrapped in sleep, 
 Strange fancies come and go? 
 On heights subHme, in caverns deep, 
 Does 't wander tu and fro ? 
 
 Uncanny forms, as weh as tliose 
 
 In beauty's likeness wrought, 
 Appearing when the eyelids close — 
 
 Canst tell me — are they naught ? 
 
 Or do they come from other climes, 
 
 Of other souls the shade ? 
 And do our souls, at certain times. 
 
 Some other's dreams invade ? 
 
 Apr// I J. 1878. 
 
34 
 
 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 ALTHOUGH at home it may begin. 
 It should not there remain ; 
 But in the world should help allay 
 The sorrow, want and pain. 
 
 The open purse alone proves not 
 
 The charitable mind ; 
 But "t is the sympathetic heart, 
 
 Forgiving, patient, kind ; 
 
 The cheering word, the helping hand, 
 The tongue of scandal free — 
 
 These are the features in a man, 
 Which show true charity. 
 
 Dec. 5, 1877. 
 
THE led(;ek of life. 35 
 
 THE LEDGER (JE LIEE. 
 
 Wl'YH each is kept a strict account. 
 And even- act recorded ; 
 Eor evil charged we must atone, 
 The good will be rewarded. 
 
 Then let each one in his account, 
 Take pains to have the credit. 
 
 Which shows the good that he has done, 
 Be greater than the debit. 
 
36 POEMS AM) SKETCHES. 
 
 LIST NOT TO EVIL. 
 
 LIS'l' not lo every bitter tongue, 
 Which always tells of woe, 
 And greets you with some scandal new. 
 Wherever }ou may go. 
 
 But rather lend your ear to him. 
 
 Who has some good to tell ; 
 Who "d rather help a man to rise, 
 
 Than speak of how he fell. 
 
 Sept. 24, 1877. 
 
l.OVK IN A I.ANK. 37 
 
 LOVK IN A LANK. 
 
 HI-; wandered down a eounliy lane. 
 One afternoon in June : 
 The feathered choir of Natures lane 
 Were joined in merr}- tune. 
 
 ( )n either side a meadow broad 
 
 In emerald beauty lay : 
 While mild-eyed cattle, on the sward. 
 
 Were grazing far away. 
 
 But suddenly a form he spied. 
 
 A maiden walking, too : 
 Widi new-born zeal he quickly hied 
 
 To get a closer view. 
 
 She wandered on ; with native grace 
 Her every movement fraught ; 
 
 A ])erfect form — '' Tm sure her face 
 Must be divine," he thought. 
 
 He reached her side — his fondest dream 
 
 Of beauty there was found ! 
 A i)erfect Venus she did seem. 
 
 With ::^oldcn ringlets crowned. 
 
^S pop:ms and sketches. 
 
 Advancinii: wiih his sweelest smile. 
 And hat in hand, he said : 
 
 " I've wanted wife fur quite a while 
 Pray tell me — are \ou wed ? " 
 
 The answer came, in accents low. 
 
 Her manner sweet and coy : 
 She did not answer " yes " or " No, 
 
 But simply : " JV/ia/ d'ye soyp '" 
 
 Fc'Ik 12. 1878. 
 
APOSTKoriiK TO A DKMON. 39 
 
 APOSU'ROPHK TO A DKMOX. 
 
 T 
 
 AF'IKK BY RON. 
 
 HERE is a demon in this land of uurs. 
 
 There are Hash papers sold in man}- a slore. 
 There is a worm that gnaws the fairest flowers 
 And scatters seeds of crime from shore to shore ; 
 It helps make virtue less and evil more ; 
 It pre\s on }-ouths and bens, from whom it steals 
 The all they may have or have had before 
 Of honor and of virtue, and appeals 
 To evil passions, and their moral ruin seals. 
 
 Be gone, thou black and monstrous flend — away ! 
 Ten thousand voices warn thee, not in vain ; 
 Man marks thine aim to ruin and thy way 
 Of making vice heroic, and t is plain 
 That thou must quickly go, nor shall remain 
 A shadow of thy ravage — save alone 
 The soulless men who used by thee to gain. 
 Thou 'It sink into the depths without a groan. 
 Without a grave, unknelled, uncoftined and unknown! 
 
 Orl. I J, 1878. 
 
40 POEMS AND SKETCHI<:S. 
 
 H 
 
 A SOLILOQUY. 
 
 A LA hamlp:t. 
 
 KLL, or no Hell, thai is the question : — 
 Whether 't is the fate of man to suffer 
 
 'Lhe slings and arrows of outrageous nature 
 
 Here on earth ; or when they die, to feel 
 
 The tortures of an endless hell ? To rave, to groan, 
 
 Forever ; or, for each act, each evil deed. 
 
 Each failing, e'en the thousand follies light 
 
 lliat flesh is })rone to — here to suffer 
 
 And atone for? 
 
 April lo. 1878. 
 
rnK wi'irv rnij;r. 41 
 
 THK WrnV IHIEF. 
 
 IX C"aml)rid^i,^e town, in days ufolcK 
 There lived a man, as we are told. 
 Who boots and shoes did make and sell. 
 And used to deal in rhymes as well. 
 
 ]^ut trade grew dull — no cash receiving, 
 At last this cobbler took to thieving ; 
 Ikit one day caught, they put our friend 
 Into the stocks, his ways to mend. 
 
 And round about the students staring. 
 Laugh to see him take his airing ; 
 And then demand of him a ditty — 
 To sing them something quaint and witty, 
 
 Hardly daring to refuse them, 
 Xor to openly abuse them, 
 A{)i)earing there in such a })light — 
 This doggerel he does recite : 
 
 "Sure Cambridge is a famous town, 
 
 Renijwned for wit and knowledge ; 
 T is there they put the rogues in stocks, 
 And send \.\\q/oo/s to college I "' 
 July 18. 1S78. 
 
42 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 LAST night I had an awful dream ; 
 My frame with terror shook ; 
 A demon stood beside my bed. 
 He pointed to a book. 
 
 I gazed upon the open page, 
 
 And fearful was the sight — 
 *T was blank ; and then 1 knew that I 
 
 Some poetry must write. 
 
 1 racked my brain, I tore my hair — 
 My thoughts they would not come ; 
 
 I could not think of anything 
 To write in that album. 
 
 " Then you are mine," the demon cried, 
 
 And seized me in his rage. 
 But I awoke ; and now I see 
 
 That I have tilled this i)age. 
 
THK KKL-KINli. 43 
 
 THK ERL-KIX(i. 
 
 AFTER (JOETHK SOME WAYS. 
 
 (The iollowing note accompanied the original publication of this parody ; — 
 " Messrs. Thomas & Talbot, Dear Sirs : — In No. 40 of " The Union " you 
 published Mr. William L. Whiting's version of Goethe's celebrated poem, 
 ' Wer reitet so spat durch Nacht und Wind ? ' The enclosed is my version, 
 and I think it partakes more of the German spirit than the very excellent one 
 of Mr. Whiting Hoping that you will give it due consideration, I remain, 
 very respectfully yours, C. E. S." 
 
 WHO rides su laie, through wind and night 
 It is a man, and he is tight ; 
 He holds his bo\' fast by the arm. 
 He rubs his ears to keep them warm. 
 
 '• Mv son. my son, why d(jst thou fear .^ " 
 " Father, '" said he. " I've spilt the beer — 
 llie beer so fresh with lleecy foam — " 
 " My son, just let me get you home I " 
 
 " Thou bully boy, come go with me, 
 We will have a right jolly spree ; 
 Much beer is in m)- cellars deep ; 
 ?*!}• mother dost most soundly sleep." 
 
44 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 " r'cUhcr, fcUhcr, and dun'l }«»u hear 
 What I^ii-kinjj: sa_\s about his beer?" 
 " ])e still, my son, that trick has n't taken - 
 Another word, and you "11 i^et shaken ! "" 
 
 "Come, Johnny, don't you want to ,l,^o, 
 Antl see what I have got to show ? 
 '\]y daughters three are always tight, 
 'Iliey '11 sing to thee with all their might." 
 
 "Father, father, and don't }ou see 
 Krl-king's daughters .'' — they wink at me ! 
 " My son, well now, i see it, lad, 
 FoH are as tight as your old dad ! " 
 
 " I like you, and 1 like my beer, 
 So come along and share my cheer ? " 
 " Father, fiither, I have a pain ! 
 ()uickly get me out of the rain ! 
 
 His dad was scared, and rode so fast, 
 That through the woods he quickly passed 
 He reached his home at early dawn, 
 Out from his arms the boy had gone ! 
 
 Sf/)/. JO, 1 8 "J J. 
 
TO MV •• T. I). 
 
 TO MY "T. D." 
 
 LET others sing Manillas praise, 
 Havana or Key West, 
 Or e'en the dainty cigarette — 
 I choose ' ' T. D. ' — the best. 
 
 Thou art a friend thats ever true, 
 Nor dost one's purse deplete ; 
 
 Thou "rt always ready, too, to help 
 Make happiness complete. 
 
 When evening shades are gathering 'round, 
 
 And gentle zephyrs play, 
 I seek my hammock and '' T. D. ", 
 
 And puff dull care away. 
 
 Sep. J, is'rz. 
 
4 6 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 r^rODERN LOVE. 
 
 BEEORE me hung a pair of scales, 
 Of cardboard, silk and thread, 
 And none who sees them ever fails 
 
 To learn, if he has read 
 The words there worked in letters bright. 
 
 The lesson it would teach ; 
 Eor, if they be but read aright, 
 A sermon they would preach. 
 
 " Modern love," the one side says, 
 
 The other says ' ' Beware ! " 
 A bleeding heart in one dish lays. 
 
 Gold does the other bear. 
 The coin weighs down the bleeding heart. 
 
 To show that ' ' modern love "" 
 Of avarice is but a part. 
 
 And comes not from above. 
 
 That gold is much more prized, it shows, 
 
 By men and women too. 
 Than honesty, and all that goes 
 
 To make a lover true. 
 
.^lODEKN LOVE. 4 7 
 
 They do not know the worth of hearts, 
 
 Nor feel affection "s ties, 
 And to the joy which love imparts, 
 
 Can never hope to rise. 
 
 But true love lives in spite of greed, 
 
 And " modern love's " a cheat ; 
 The human heart still feels the need 
 
 Of something pure and sweet — 
 Of something more than wealth can buy, 
 
 Or rank or power procure — 
 It needs the rapture from on high. 
 
 Which true love will secure. 
 
 Jan. 7, 1882. 
 
48 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 AN EPIGRAM. 
 
 ^^ AX 7^^ ^^ ^ feather,'" the poet has said — 
 
 » ^ If so, then the stupid can win it ; 
 But he who the most wears outside the head, 
 Will always the least have within it. 
 
 For feathers and flounces, though oft worn by wits, 
 Are more often by half-wits displayed. 
 
 Let any one wear it, on whom the coat fits, 
 I'hough none will accept, I'm afraid. 
 
 Jan. 1 6, iSyg. 
 
SONGS OF LOVE. 49 
 
 SONGS OF LOVE. 
 
 YOr AND 1. 
 
 DOST remember the night. 
 When down by the sea. 
 With Luna's pale hght 
 
 FalHng soft upon thee, 
 1 knelt at thy feet, 
 
 Thy warm hand in mine, 
 And felt that each beat 
 
 Of my heart was with thine ; 
 My story was told, 
 
 My love was confessed : 
 I rose to enfold 
 
 Thv form to mv breast. 
 
 Another you've wed. 
 But I'll wager a \', 
 
 Naught to him you have said 
 Of that night by the sea ! 
 
 Dec. 7. 1877. 
 
50 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 FOUR MA CHERE. 
 
 Oh ! tell me, fair moon, with thy face serene. 
 As thou beamest mild on each peaceful scene. 
 
 Dost see ma chere, 
 
 That maiden fair, 
 Of my soul the joy, of my heart the queen ? 
 
 Is she gazing now, with her dark-gray eye. 
 Into thy face in the cloudless sky*? 
 
 Does she think of me. 
 
 As she looks on thee. 
 And breathe for her absent love a sigh ? 
 Sep/. 2, /c?7c?. 
 
 STARLIGHT. 
 
 Clear is the night. In the blue, cloudless sky 
 Thousands of stars meet my uplifted eye ; 
 
 But f^ir brighter to me 
 
 Is the light which I see 
 In thine eye, than all stars can supply. 
 
 Their glances are cold, though ever so bright 
 They sparkle and gleam on the bosom of night ; 
 
 But the glance of thine eye, 
 
 Although timid and shy. 
 Makes joy in my heart, for 't is full of Love's light. 
 
 Mardi 12. iS^g. 
 
SON(;S OK LOVE. 
 
 FAR AWAV. 
 
 The wind blows cold from the northern skies. 
 And its voice is full of moans and sighs ; 
 And t(,) mine ear it seems to say, 
 I'he light of my life is far away. 
 
 Far away is my love to-night — 
 
 Far away from mv longing sight ; 
 
 But she is ever, far or near, 
 
 '^ 'J'hough lost to sight, to memory dear I "" 
 
 I close mine eyes and in fancy see 
 The face that I know will smile on me. 
 When the morrow comes and the wind is stilled, 
 And my heart with perfect joy is filled. 
 
 Then blow, ye winds, and sigh and moan, 
 And make the most of your dismal groan ; 
 For to-morrow Fll be with my love once more. 
 And we "11 tell the old, old story o'er. 
 
 Jan. 7. 188 1. 
 
 LOVE S ANSWER. 
 
 You ask me why I love thee — 
 What charm enslaves my heart, 
 
 And what it is about thee. 
 That guided Cupid's dart. 
 
52 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Go ask the drop, that rises 
 
 From oceans boundless breast. 
 What master force entices 
 
 It from its place of rest ; 
 
 Go ask the trees in May-time, 
 What charms their buds unfold ; 
 
 Or clouds, at close of day-time, 
 
 What makes them gleam like gold. 
 
 The Sun their love engrosses — 
 
 Thou art the Sun to me : 
 I love, as love the roses. 
 
 Because my Sun loves me ! 
 
 March i8, 1883. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 The end has come ! Good-bye, sweet dreams ! 
 
 Widely apart our paths must be. 
 I must not tremble, nor weep, nor start, 
 I must hide this torturing pain at my heart. 
 
 And utter my farewell carelessly. 
 
 Good-bye, dear eyes, that have haunted me so - 
 
 Fond lips with kisses no more for me ! 
 I '11 dream of thee'though ; and in fancy oft, 
 I shall feel the pressure of fingers soft, 
 And the bliss of a kiss from thee ! 
 
S()N(;S OF I.ONK. 5j 
 
 Farewell I farewell 1 may llie fuUirc be 
 
 Replete with hap|)incs.s for tliee : 
 ]\Iay you find a heart that will love as true, 
 As the heart that no more may beat for vou. 
 
 Except it in secret be. 
 
 Xo7'. 2S. 1S74. 
 
 THINE EYES. 
 
 1 gaze into thine eyes and seem to see 
 
 The soul, that through them seeks the light of day 
 
 And as their lovelit glances rest on me, 
 I feel the mystic presence of its ray. 
 
 In those gray orbs my image I can see ; 
 
 But does it leave its impress on my soul ? 
 My soul is filled with images of thee. 
 
 And so of thine I fain would fill the whole I 
 
 April 20, 1882. 
 
SKETCHES 
 
LOVE AND 31LSIC. 
 
 :>/ 
 
 r.OVK AND MTSIC. 
 
 " Music! Oh, how faint, how weak. 
 
 Language fades before thy spell ! 
 Why should feeling ever speak, 
 When thou canst breathe her soul so well .' ' 
 
 " I ^HERE is something about music which raises 
 -*- the true lover of it far above earthly things, and 
 gives him a veritable glimpse of heaven, yet how few 
 there are who can really appreciate it and give them- 
 selves up entirely to its mysterious charm ! 
 
 But it is apt to unfit a man for the practical duties 
 of life. Not long since I heard a smart and prosperous 
 business man say, after listening to an opera, " It 
 wouldn't annoy me a particle to hear junv that I was 
 unexpecledly bankrupt, for I am perfectly happy ! "' 
 Such was the all-absorbing influence of music. 
 
 The following incident in the life of a friend of 
 mine, who is passionately fond of music, was related 
 to me by himself; and, as he has granted me permiss- 
 ion, I will tell it as nearly in his own words as I can : 
 
 After I graduated from college, I made a tour of 
 Europe, partly for my health, and partly for informa- 
 tion. Wearied with the sight-seeing and travel. I 
 found myself at K.. a c[uainl old town in Ital}-, and 
 
5^ I'OKMS AM) SKKTCHES. 
 
 llieic determined Lo \rdss a couple of munUis in quiet 
 and study. 
 
 I rented a room and lived the life of a recluse, 
 making but few acquaintances^among the town-folks. 
 I never went out till dusk, and then I used to take a 
 ramble through the town and out on to the champaign. 
 
 One evening, as I sauntered along past an old 
 cathedral, which I had never had the curiosity to 
 enter, 1 heard the sound of an organ within. I sto])- 
 l)ed and listened ; the performer was playing a 
 voluntar}- I had heard a- hundred times, but with a 
 p>ower and expression that filled me with delight. 
 
 I stood enraptured until the last notes died away. 
 I waited over an hour in the vain hope of hearing 
 more ; but the organist had evidently retired, so I 
 returned home. 
 
 The next evening 1 sought the cathedral at an 
 earlier hour than on the i)revious da\-, I was reward- 
 ed by hearing some of the works of the masters 
 interpreted in a manner which brought out beauties 
 and meanings hitherto undreamed of by me. 
 
 I wondered who the performer could be, and 
 watched the door till a late hour to catch a glimpse ui' 
 him or her coming out. But it did not open, and I 
 retired unsatisfied. The following day I hunted up 
 the sexton ; he was an old man, simple and frank. 
 
 I talked with him a while concerning the cathedral, 
 and finally asked who played the organ in the evening. 
 
 " It is an English girl, Miss l^ertha Courtland, who 
 is spending the winter here." 
 
i.ovK AM) .-Mrsic. 59 
 
 ■■ May J .^-o inside and lislcn ? ' J asked. 
 
 ■"If you'll ni>L Id her know }ou're there. Shell 
 nul ])lay if she thinks there's an\- one i)resenl. Sjie 
 comes at .seven ; if vou're here at half past, I'll let 
 you in. " 
 
 How slowly the afternoon wore away I The minutes 
 seemed hours until seven o'clock came, when I started 
 for the cathedral. The sexton admitted me, admon- 
 ishing me again not to betray my presence. 
 
 The place was dark, except at one corner, where 
 some candles were kept alwa\s burning before an altar, 
 and at the organ, where a single lamj) cast its rays on 
 the music rack. 
 
 .Seated at the key-board was a girlish form. She 
 was turning over some music. I took a seat in a 
 dark corner and ])repared to listen. She played a 
 short voluntary, and then the magnificent strains of 
 (iloria in Excclsis burst fortii. 
 
 1 sat like one in a trance ; 1 was intoxicated with 
 delight : I closed my eyes, and it seemed as if a choir 
 of angels was joining in the sublime song I 
 
 The Gloria linished, the fair organist broke into a 
 wild melody, full of passion and fire ; then changing, 
 as a boat gliding from where the bosom of the ocean 
 ripples and sparkles beneath the noon-da}- sun, into 
 the dark shadow of some high cliff, where the waves 
 dash with a sullen roar on the jagged rocks, the 
 melody glided into a mournful key. 
 
 There were sighs and groans of anguish, and even 
 the wail of the dying I 
 
^)0 I'OK.MS AM) SKF.'JCHKS. 
 
 The tears rolled down m}- cheeks and 1 fell as if I 
 had lost some dear friend. 
 
 Suddenly the music ceased. I raised my eyes and 
 beheld the organist with her head bowed on the keys. 
 How I longed to speak to her and share the grief 
 which 1 knew was racking her ! 
 
 She remained motionless so long that 1 feared she 
 was ill. Cautiously I approached the organ, till I 
 could see her face by the light of the lamp. 
 
 It was beautiful — nay, more than that, angelic, 
 l>ut pale as death — she had fainted. 
 
 I hastened to her side. A glass of water stood on 
 a table near b}-, and I seized it and began bathing her 
 temples. 
 
 Presently the color returned to her cheeks, and she 
 opened her eyes. She did not seem surprised at 
 seeing me, l)ut murmured : 
 "Frank ! •• 
 
 I knew not what to sry. 
 
 " No, you are not Frank," she added ; " but you 
 look like him, so you must be kind, noble, and 
 generous I '" 
 
 I told her who 1 was and how 1 came to be there. 
 1 also offered to escort her home. 
 
 " You are very kind,"" she said ; "'it is only a few 
 steps though, for I am staying with the sextons wife."" 
 The rest of my story is soon told. Our first inter- 
 view was followed by others ; she related to me the 
 simple story, of her life ; she had come to K. with her 
 brother, Frank, an invalid and her onlv relative. 
 
LOVE AM) MUSIC. ^I 
 
 But Death had taken him from her, and she was alone 
 in the world when I found her. 
 
 Every evening she played for me ; and, in the 
 solemn stillness of the old cathedral, I told her the 
 old, old story. 
 
 My love was reciprocated, and we were soon wedded 
 in the shadow of the organ that echoed so faithfully 
 the feelings of her heart. 
 
 My happiness is complete, and to-morrow evening, 
 if agreeable to you, I will present you to the sweetest 
 and best little woman that ever blessed man's lot ! 
 
 April 12. 1878. 
 
^2 P0E3IS AXJ) SKETCHES. 
 
 '^ WANTED — A BOY." 
 
 J ARISTOTLE SMITH is a disciple of his im- 
 • mortal namesake — in other words, he is a 
 doc'tor, a duly educated, confirmed, recognized, and 
 pradicing M. D, He lives at the South End, and 
 his splendid residence forms a unit in a block of 
 houses, which is an ornament to one of our most 
 aristocratic avenues. His pradice is extensive, and 
 keeps him busy pretty much the whole of the time, 
 day and night. 
 
 In addition to a young medical student, who assists 
 him in the office, and visits his poor patients, he 
 employs a boy of about twelve years of age, whose 
 duty it is to keep the otBce clean, take care of the fires 
 in the house, run errands, and do other chores. 
 
 The position is an important but not a particularly 
 desirable one, though the incumbent of the office draws 
 the munificent salary of one dollar a week and his 
 board, and exists in the hope of receiving, from time 
 to time, presents of sundry articles of cast-of clothing, 
 and once in a while an extra twenty-five cents for run- 
 ning on an errand or holding a horse for one of the 
 doctor's {)atients. The position was, and still is filled 
 
" WAXTKD A J5()V. '" 63 
 
 by a bright and witty Irish hid, named Jimmy Nolan, 
 whose mother was a poor washerwoman. 
 
 Now, I am going to tell you how^ Jimmy came near 
 losing his place, and by a piece of strategy worthy of 
 a mightier mind, still retains it. The doctor is always 
 very particular to have somebody ready to take his 
 horse to the stable when he returns from visiting his 
 patients, and Jimmy is expected to be ready, when it 
 is time for the doctor to return, to jump into the 
 carriage and drive to the stable. 
 
 On one of the coldest days during the visit of the 
 "cold wave, ■■ in January last, the doctor returned 
 somewhat earlier than usual, half-frozen with the cold, 
 and in rather a bad temper. He drove up to the door 
 of his house and waited for Jimmy to appear. He 
 waited for half an hour, so it appeared to him, though 
 in reality it was only two minutes. Then he jumped 
 out, made fast the horse to the hitching-post, and 
 rushed into the office in a towering rage. 
 
 A sight met his gaze that still more incensed him 
 and fairly made him boil with wrath. By the side of 
 the comfortable grate fire, in the doctors "Sleepy 
 Hollow '"' armchair, sat the faithless chore-boy, fast 
 locked in the arms of Somnus, while his ears were 
 greeted with an unmistakable snore from the throat of 
 the sleeping youth. 
 
 His anger was so great that he was unable to articu- 
 late a word, but seizing the poker, which stood by the 
 fire, he played a tattoo with it upon the shins of his 
 imsuspeding and unconscious victim. Jimmy, not 
 
64 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 being able to appreciate such forcible fondling, set up 
 a shriek and leaped to his feet, alighting full and 
 squarely on the doctor's favorite corn. 
 
 At this the worthy but irate M. D. found voice, and, 
 while hopping about the room on one foot, in perfect 
 agony, he apostrophized the terror-stricken youth 
 something after this fashion : 
 
 "You young imp of Satan — you blockhead — 
 you dolt — you — you — '" 
 
 But the pain overcame him, and sinking into the 
 armchair lately occupied by Jimmy, he began pulling 
 off his boot, while the flush on his face and the 
 twitching of his mouth told of mingled anger and pain. 
 Jimmy stood where he had landed, his knees 
 shaking, and his face expressing the greatest fear and 
 consternation. 
 
 The boot at length came off, and the doctor felt 
 somewhat relieved. Then, turning his gaze on the 
 trembling culprit, he gently murmured : 
 
 " Clear out of this, you rascal, and take care of the 
 horse, and don't stand there grinning like a born idiot. 
 Do you hear ? " he continued, making a pass towards 
 the poker again. 
 
 Jimmy did hear, and waited not for a second deal 
 at " poker,"" but " saw the dodor's blind and straddled 
 it" out of the office, leaving the wrathful M. D. mut- 
 tering passages of scripture to himself. ( It sounded 
 like scripture to any one at a distance, though I can"t 
 say positively that it was «// scripture. ) 
 
 When Jimmy returned, after half an hour, the 
 
•' WAXTKl) — A BOY." 65 
 
 doctor had recovered from the effects of passion and 
 his smashed corn, and was seated before the fire, 
 smoking his pipe and toasting his shins. 
 
 But this outward calm boded no good to the 
 unfortunate offender. No sooner had Jimmy entered 
 the office, than he was told not to take off his coat, 
 and ordered to carry a note to the office of one 
 of the evening papers. He departed on his errand, 
 but his mind was filled with misgivings. He mis- 
 trusted that the note he was carrying was nothing 
 more nor less than an advertisement for a boy to fill 
 his place in the office of Doctor J. Aristotle Smith. 
 
 This suspicion grew into a conviction, and the 
 conviction became so strong in Jimmy's mind, that 
 ere he reached the newspaper office he determined to 
 make sure of it. and gliding into a friendly alley-way, 
 he proceeded, I am sorry to say, to peruse the note 
 which was intrusted to his care. His worst fears were 
 realized. The note read as follows : 
 
 " Wanted. — A boy to do chores in a doctors office; 
 must be neat and wide-aivake, and of good character. 
 
 No others need apply at 10,375 C Ave., before 9 
 
 o'clock. " 
 
 Jimmv Nolan, however, was not one of the despair- 
 ing kind, and he calmly proceeded to his destination, 
 left the notice, and started to return to No. 10,375. 
 
 But on his way back he passed through the quarters 
 where his mother lived and where he had spent his 
 bovish days, and interviewed sundry of his acquaint- 
 
^)6 pop:ms and SKETCfip:.s. 
 
 ances among the unwashed youth of that neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 Nothing more was said by the dodor that night, 
 and Jimmy did the chores as usual and went to bed. 
 7'he next morning, ere the rising sun glistened on the 
 gilded dome of the State-House, there was a loud and 
 
 impatient ring at the doorbell of No. 10,375 C 
 
 Ave. 
 
 Jimmy, as was his custom, answered the bell, and 
 found a boy of about twelve, arrayed in well-worn 
 raiment, and slapping his hands to keep them warm. 
 He nodded to Jimmy, who whispered a few words to 
 the caller, and went up stairs to speak to the dodor. 
 
 " What do you w^ant .? "' came in smothered tones 
 from the dodor, after Jimmy had knocked at the door 
 several times. 
 
 "There's a boy to see you at the door,"" replied 
 Jimmy, 
 
 " What does he want.' '" 
 
 " He wouldn't tell me ; said he wanted to see you 
 particularly. "" 
 
 " Well, tell him 1 will be down in a minute." 
 
 Jimmy retired, and pretty soon the dodor entered 
 his office, expecting to see a messenger from some one 
 of his patients, requiring his immediate presence. 
 
 Not at all ! The boy was seated with his hat on, 
 in the easy-chair front of the fire, and at the doctor's 
 entrance he jumped up and commenced : 
 
 " Please, sir, I came to work for you. " 
 
 " What do you mean.'" asked the doctor in surprise. 
 
WAN IKl) 
 
 A HOY." 67 
 
 •' Why, didn't vou adverlisc for a boy to do chores?" 
 The doctor was indignant. The idea of calling 
 him out of bed at that unseasonable hour to engage a 
 boy to do chores ! It was outrageous ! He knew 
 not how to express his sense of indignation. He 
 pointed to the door and yelled, " Clear out ! ' 
 
 The boy didn't wait for a second invitation, but 
 
 cleared out, leaving the outside door open behind him. 
 
 The doctor slammed the door to, and stamped off 
 
 up stairs to bed again, giving vent to his emotions m 
 
 expressions more powerful than elegant. 
 
 Scarcely had he got into a comfortable doze again, 
 than there was another long and loud clanging of the 
 doorbell. 
 
 By this time the hired girl was up and she answered 
 the summons. Another boy wanted to see the doctor. 
 The girl went up and spoke to him. 
 
 "]\Ir. Smith, there's a boy at the dure wants ter see 
 yer. '" 
 
 " What does he want ? " gasped the doctor. 
 " Shure an' he says somethin" 'bout a "vertisement 
 in the paper, "" replied Norah. 
 
 "Tell him to call at half past eight." 
 The girl departed and the doctor turned over for 
 another nap. Scarcely two minutes elapsed before 
 the girl returned and said the boy wouldn't go. 
 
 Before the doctor could reply, the bell rang again, 
 and the girl went to answer it. Twas still another 
 boy 1 I'he girl informed the doctor, and he told her 
 to have them wait in the office. 
 
68 
 
 POEMS AM) SKETCHES. 
 
 He then tried to get to sleep again, but 'twas no 
 use ; the doorbell kept up a continual clatter, and 
 after it had rung sLxtee^i times, the doctor sprang out 
 of bed, said something that sounded like a morning 
 prayer, and rushed down to the office, taking two 
 steps at a jump. 
 
 On opening the office door, he was startled by a 
 spectacle which made him even more angry than he 
 had been when he discovered Jimmy asleep. The 
 room was full of boys of all ages, from eight to 
 eighteen, in every stage of raggedness and dirt, and 
 all with their hats on, while several were smoking clay 
 pipes, and one was standing before the grate chewing 
 tobacco and squirting the juice in the direction of the 
 fire. 
 
 The doctor was nonplussed ■ — dumbfounded — 
 thunderstruck. He leaned against the door for sup- 
 port, and gasped : 
 
 " What does this mean .^ "" 
 
 Then arose such a babel of voices as nearly deafen- 
 ed the hearer. Each of the eighteen or twenty boys 
 present began talking at the top of his voice, striving 
 to make himself heard above the general din. The 
 doctor tried to stop them, but "twas of no avail. The 
 only words distinguished were : 
 
 ' ' Advertisement "■ — ^" Chore-boy '" — ' ' Nine o'clock. " 
 
 I'he doctor was trembling with passion, and shout- 
 ed at the top of his voice : 
 
 ''Clear out, every one of you !" 
 
 No attention was paid to his words, and the 
 
" WANTED A BOY." 69 
 
 confusion only increased instead of diminishing. 
 
 Rendered desperate, the doctor rushed out upon 
 the street bareheaded, crying : 
 
 "I'll call the police, and see if they won"t make 
 you clear out ! " 
 
 He ran down the street and soon encountered one 
 of the guardians of the peace, with whom he returned 
 to the house. 
 
 The doctor burst into the office, expecting to 
 encounter the mob he had left in possession ; but the 
 sole occupant of the room was Jimmy Nolan, who, 
 with a demure look on his face, was washing a huge 
 stain of tobacco juice from the grate. 
 
 The doctor dismissed the policeman, and after 
 directing Jimmy to tell all the applicants that he had 
 got a chore-boy, went up stairs to finish out his nap. 
 
 Jimmy is still at work for Doctor Smith, who has 
 no suspicion of the former's stratagem regarding the 
 advertisement headed : 
 
 ' ' Wanted — A Boy. '" 
 
 April 2g, 1876. 
 
JO POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 THE ELOPEMENT. 
 
 THE old gentleman had been constantly growing 
 more excited during the interview. His rubi- 
 cund face grew redder still, and the veins stood out 
 like whip-cords on his forehead. The young man, 
 who had been excitedly pacing the room as he talked, 
 stopped in front of him, and bringing his clenched 
 fist down upon the table with a force that made the 
 pens dance in the rack, exclaimed : 
 
 " These are not idle boastings, Mr. Hardcash ; I 
 can prove all that I assert. I can show you — " 
 
 "Silence!" roared the exasperated father. "I 
 don't want to see ; leave me, and never darken my 
 doors again ! " 
 
 "But, my dear sir, let me tell you — "' 
 
 " Will you leave .f* I won't listen to you. Here, 
 John ! " 
 
 The servant entered the room in answer to the call. 
 
 " Just let me explain — " 
 
 " Silence ! John, show Mr. Talbot out. Don't 
 ever let me see you again, young man ; ^nd if you as 
 much as look at my daughter again, Ell prosecute you. 
 Don't speak to me ; leave ! " 
 
THE ELOPKMENT, 7 I 
 
 The servant was h«jkling ihc door oi)cn for him to 
 jjass out. 
 
 " I am sorry — ' 
 
 " Silence ! " 
 
 Tom Talbot passed out, and the servant closed the 
 door after him. He jammed his* hat upon his head, 
 and strode down the path to the gate. 
 
 His hand was on the latch ; he took one look back 
 in hopes of catching a glimpse of his Helen. 
 
 There she was at the window, and she made a sign 
 for him to wait ; so he strolled out at the gate, and 
 down the street. 
 
 She soon overtook him, and they walked along 
 together. 
 
 "What did father say, dear Tom ? " , she inquired, 
 anxiously, 
 
 "He kicked me out of the house,"" said Tom, 
 savagely. 
 
 " You don't mean to say he used violence towards 
 you, Tom ? " 
 
 "Well, no; I was speaking metaphorically. He 
 told John to 'show me out,' which is the same 
 theoretically as kicking me out," 
 
 "Never mind your metaphorically and theoretically 
 — what did he say ? " 
 
 " He said ' silence !' that's all he would say, except 
 to tell me never again to darken his door. He 
 wouldn't talk himself, nor let me talk."' 
 
 " Then I suppose we must part/" said Helen, with 
 a sob. 
 
12 POEMS AM) SKETCHES. 
 
 "Not if my names Tom Talbot!" returned the 
 owner of that cognomen, with vehemence. ' ' Do you 
 think I am a baby, to be bulHed by an old curmud — 
 Beg pardon — an old gentleman, I should say. No, 
 not if you will stand by me.'" 
 
 "I will, I will, dear Tom!" 
 
 "And you won't marry that young popinjay, 
 Frederick Fitz-Noodle } " 
 
 ' ' No, never, " 
 
 '' Not even if he will take up your father's note 
 when it comes due } " 
 
 ' ' No, no. " 
 
 "And your father insists on your having him ? " 
 
 "No."' 
 
 " And you'll be true to me, poor as I am, and 
 much as your father dislikes me.^ " 
 
 "Yes, dearest Tom, yes." 
 
 ' ' Then we'll elope ! " 
 
 " What ! elope ? O Tom, I can't ! " 
 
 "Yes, you can ; I'll arrange it all. Just do as I 
 tell you, and it will be all right. We'll elope, and 
 when we get through our w^edding-trip, we'll come 
 back and live with the old cur — gentleman." 
 
 " But, Tom, I don't understand — " 
 " " Never mind if you don't. I don't want you to 
 understand. You have confidence in me ? " 
 
 ' ' Yes, dear Tom, I trust all to you. " 
 
 " Then follow my directions, I will send you a 
 note to-morrow ; you drop it on the stairs unopened. 
 To-morrow night go to bed earlv — tell vour father 
 
THE EL0PEMP:NT. ']'i^ 
 
 you are sleepy. Don't undress, but wait till you hear 
 your father leave the house and drive off in a carriage. 
 Then put on your outside things, and meet me at the 
 side door. I have arranged it all with your servant- 
 girl, Betty. Do you understand } " 
 
 "Yes. But, Tom, father never goes out in the 
 evening.'" 
 
 " I'll arrange that. Just do your part according to 
 directions, and leave the rest to me. And now I 
 must leave you, as I have a lot to do. Au ?-evoir, my 
 love, till to-morrow night.'' 
 
 They had reached a secluded street. Tom pressed 
 his lips to hers a moment, and then was off. She 
 watched him out of sight, and then returned home. 
 
 After Tom's expulsion from the house, j\Ir. Hardcash 
 sat for some time, gasping like a fish out of water. 
 He was very choleric, and also very short-winded. 
 Finally, however, he recovered his temper and his 
 breath, and called for John. 
 
 That worthy answered the call promptly. 
 
 "John," said his master, " don't you ever let that 
 young scapegrace into the house again.'' 
 
 "No, sir.'' 
 
 " And, John, 1 want you to see that I have all the 
 letters that come to the house before anybody else sees 
 them." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "And, John, I want }ou to keep your eyes open, 
 and if you discover anything of a suspicious characl:er, 
 let me know of it." 
 
74 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 " ' Yes, sir. "' 
 
 "That will do, John. You may go."" 
 
 That night was a sleepless one for Mr. Hardcash. 
 He was on the verge of financial ruin. He had a 
 note to pay the next day of ten thousand dollars, and 
 no funds with which to meet it. He was considered 
 to be wealthy, but his property was mortgaged heavily 
 to make good a number of extensive losses. 
 
 His only hope was in Frederick Fitz-Noodle, a 
 wealthy young man, who promised to pay the note in 
 case Helen would consent to be his wife. 
 
 Morning drawned at last on Mr. Hardcash's weary 
 eyes, and breakfast was scarcely over when Mr. Fred- 
 erick Fitz-Noodle was announced. 
 
 He was shown into the library, where Mr. Hardcash 
 was seated. 
 
 "Good-morning, my dear Mr. Fitz-Noodle. Pray 
 be seated. I suppose you came to obtain my daugh- 
 ter's answer to the proposal with which you honored 
 her.?"' 
 
 " Yes," drawled Mr. Fitz-Noodle, "that's what I 
 came for. But where is the charming young lady } " 
 
 " I have sent for her ; she'll be here in a moment."' 
 
 " Exaclly. Well, ah ! you think she will have me.?" 
 
 " No doubt about it." • 
 
 "Then the -money's yours, my dear fellah. I have 
 the check made out, and will sign it when she accepts 
 it, you know, ah ! "' 
 
 "Well, I hear her coming, and I have no doubt 
 her answer will be satisfiictorv. '" 
 
THE elopemp:nt, 
 
 75 
 
 " Good- morning, my dear Miss Hardcash, or 
 Helen, as I hope I may be allowed to call you," said 
 Mr. Fitz-Noodle, making a low bow to the ladv as 
 she entered the room. 
 
 " Don't flatter yourself, ]\Ir. Fitz-Xoodle. I shan't 
 give you the right to call me anything but Miss Hard- 
 cash." 
 
 " What ! " shrieked her father. 
 
 " What ! " gasped the astonished suitor. 
 
 "Just what I say," she replied. " I don't mean to 
 marry you, Mr. Fitz-Noodle, so you might as well 
 take your departure with your check unsigned. I am 
 not a slave, to be bought and sold with your money."' 
 
 " But, my daughter," expostulated her father. 
 
 "No buts about it,"' she returned, decidedly. 
 "Come ruin, come anything, I shall not sell myself 
 for money." 
 
 Her father urged, entreated, and threatened her, 
 but with no effect ; she couldn't be moved. At len2:th 
 he flew into a passion, nothing unusual with him, 
 and sent her from the room. 
 
 Mr. Fitz-Noodle took up his hat to leave. 
 
 " Can't you lend me the money if she don't have 
 you .'* She may change her mind. " 
 
 "No, I can't, really. Business is business, you 
 know, ah ! " 
 
 " And you won't take my note for the amount ^ " 
 
 "No, I can't, you know, ah I" 
 
 " Well, go to grass with your money ! " cried the 
 choleric old gentleman, losing all his hope and his 
 
.70 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 temper at the same time. The young man made a 
 hasty exit, followed by a decided oath from Mr. 
 Hardcash. 
 
 " I never saw anything work so badly,"' fumed the 
 disappointed man. "Just as I thought I had every- 
 thing arranged to save myself, Helen, the ungrateful 
 hussy, must needs upset everything by her obstinacy."" 
 
 His soliloquy was interrupted by the' entrance of 
 John, whose face wore an expression of profound 
 satisfadion, and who carried in his hand a letter. 
 
 "What is that.^"" asked Mr. Hardcash, as he took 
 the letter. 
 
 "Something I picked up on the stairs; it is 
 direded to Miss Hardcash." 
 
 " She hasn't read it, I see," remarked the father as 
 he broke the seal. 
 
 The contents fairly made him boil over with rage. 
 It ran as follows : 
 
 ' ' Dearest Helen : — I have arranged all. We 
 will elope to-night. At nine o'clock I will be at the 
 side door with a pair of horses and a close carriage. 
 I have a minister engaged, and ere morning we will 
 be far out of reach of your old tyrant of a father, and you 
 shall be the dear little wife of your devoted Tom." 
 
 " 'Old tyrant of a father," indeed!" said Mr. 
 Hardcash. "A nice little plot, but 'there's many a 
 slip "twixt the cup and the lip,' my fine fellow, and I 
 shall be ready for you. My daughter shall be locked 
 in her room, and we"ll see if she will be your ' dear 
 little wife." "" 
 
THE ELOPEMENT. 77 
 
 He folded the letter up and put it in his pocket. 
 Then he set about making arrangements to frustrate 
 the elopement. 
 
 Night came at last. Helen complained of a head- 
 ache, and retired early. Her father saw that she was 
 locked into the room, and the key safe in his pocket. 
 
 Then he chuckled to himself, and laid in wait for 
 poor Tom. 
 
 Nine o'clock came, and still the old gentleman sat 
 and watched the side door. 
 
 Ten minutes later John came running to his master 
 in breathless haste. 
 
 " Please, sir, they've gone ! " he gasped. " I saw^ 
 Miss Helen go out at the front door just now, and the 
 young man met her, and they jumped into a carriage, 
 and drove down street." 
 
 " Dolt ! " yelled the father, " why didn't you stop 
 them ? " 
 
 " I couldn't. ^liss Helen was outside the door 
 before I noticed her." 
 
 " Put the horse in the carriage, quick ! I must 
 overtake them." 
 
 John flew to obey the order, and Mr. Hardcash, in 
 desperate haste, put on his overcoat and hat, and 
 rushed out to help harness. A drizzling rain was 
 falling, and the night was unusually dark. 
 
 It took but a minute to harness, and .Mr. Hardcash 
 started off at a fast rate in the direction John told him 
 the runaways had taken. 
 
 The road led to the next town, which was six miles 
 
78 
 
 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 distant, and to which the couple were evidently 
 fleeing. 
 
 The father calculated to overtake them before they 
 reached the town, and if he failed in that, to arrive 
 on the scene in time to stop their little arrangement. 
 
 So he urged on his horse, and the rain beat in his 
 face, and the mud flew, and the darkness shrouded 
 the earth from view, but his mind was bent on over- 
 taking the fugitives, and he paid no heed to his 
 disagreeable surroundings. 
 
 He had traveled about five miles without seeing or 
 hearing anything, when suddenly his horse brought 
 up with a jerk. Evidently something was ahead. 
 He peered into the gloom, and made out the outlines 
 of a covered carriage. It was surely the one he was 
 pursuing. 
 
 "Stop ! "' he shouted. 
 
 They only increased their speed. He whipped up 
 his horse, and kept closed to them. 
 
 "Stop ! ■" he called again. " Give up my daugh- 
 ter I ■■ 
 
 " Not much, old man ! "' came from the forward 
 carriage, in a masculine voice. 
 
 " 111 prosecute you, you thief! " yelled Mr. Hard- 
 cash. 
 
 There was no reply to this threat ; the father tried 
 to drive up side of the other carriage, but the darkness 
 and the fleetness of the other horse prevented him. 
 
 And so they kept on, and before long they entered 
 the town. 
 
THE ELOPEMENT. 79 
 
 The fust carriage drew up before ihe hotel, and ]\Ir. 
 Hardcash stopped Hkewisc. 
 
 He sprang to the ground, and rushed to the other 
 carriage. A man was just helping a female out. 
 The light shone brightly on her face. It was Betty ! 
 
 He looked at the man. It was one of his own 
 men. He was astonished — thunderstruck ! 
 
 "What are you doing here ? Where is my daugh- 
 ter ? " he asked. 
 
 " I left her in her chamber,"' said Betty with a grin. 
 
 Mr. Hardcash was unable to speak. His anger was 
 so great that he gasped for breath. 
 
 Betty slipped into the house, and her escort 
 remained to see what his employer would do. 
 
 After a short pause, during which he stood like one 
 just aw^akened from a dream, Mr. Hardcash got into 
 his carriage again, and turned his horse's head home- 
 ward. 
 
 He drove at a more moderate pace than he had 
 maintained when he passed over the road before. 
 
 At the house once more, he threw the reins to John, 
 who was awaiting his arrival, and started into the 
 house. 
 
 He had scarcely got inside the door when a pair of 
 soft arms were thrown about his neck, and a pair of 
 warm lips pressed to his. 
 
 " Forgive me, dear father, " pleaded his daughter, 
 "for deceiving you ; but I did as Tom told me, and 
 now I'm his wife, and here's your note paid." 
 
 " W^hat do you mean ^ " he sputtered. 
 
8o 
 
 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 " lorn paid it. But come in, and get off your wet 
 clothes, and we will tell you all about it." 
 
 Completely dazed, and clutching the note in his 
 hand, he allowed himself to be led into the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 Tom met them at the door, his face wreathed in 
 smiles. He took his father-in-law's coat and hat, 
 while Helen conducted him to his easy-chair in front 
 of the open fire. 
 
 His thoughts were so absorbed in the possession of 
 his note, that he didn"t appear to notice who was in 
 the room. 
 
 "There, father, " said Helen, taking a low seat at 
 his feet ; "now dear Tom will tell you all about it." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Tom, stepping up, "I'll explain 
 all. You see I have paid your note. I am well off. 
 My uncle, who was a wealthy merchant, left me his 
 entire fortune at his death, two years ago. 
 
 "I lived in the city, then, and of course when I 
 came into possession of this property, I was courted 
 by everybody, but particularly by mammas and papas 
 with marriageable daughters. They fairly disgusted 
 me with their attentions ; and though I had a great 
 desire to be married and settle down, I had a horror 
 of being married for my money. 
 
 "Finally, I determined to seek a place where I was 
 unknown, and, while pretending to be poor, see if I 
 could find a wife who would love me for myself alone. 
 
 " I came here, as you know, a year ago, and went 
 to work for 'Squire Tracey. I met your daughter, 
 
THE KLUI'KMENT. Ol 
 
 and fell in love with her. You frowned on my suit, 
 and I determined to win her as a poor man. I have 
 done so. She loves me, as every wife should love her 
 husband — better than parents, better than riches, 
 better than power, better than everything except her 
 Maker. 
 
 "When I learned of your embarrassment, I tried to 
 help you, but you refused to listen to me, and drove 
 me from your house. As a last resort, I planned this 
 elopement, I wrote the letter which came into your 
 hands, and Helen dropped it on the stairs unopened 
 purposely. I procured the assistance of Betty to play 
 the eloping young lady, and your man to elope with 
 her. 
 
 "As I expected, you started after them. As soon 
 as you had gone, Helen left her room, to which she 
 had an extra key, and met me at the door, where I 
 had a carriage ready to take us to the parson's, to 
 whom I had confided my plot, and who was ready to 
 marry us On our arrival. 
 
 "To-day I took up your note, and deposited an 
 amount equal to it in the bank to your credit. 
 
 " And now what do you say .f* Shall we seek a 
 new home, or will you accept me as your son-in-law, 
 and let us remain here to keep you company ? " 
 
 The father could say but one thing. Relieved of 
 his pecuniary trouble, which had benumbed his better 
 nature, his paternal feelings once more awoke to 
 action, and, with tears in his eyes, he stretched out 
 his hands over the heads of Tom and Helen, who 
 
82 
 
 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 were now kneeling at his feet, and murmured in 
 trembling tones : 
 
 "Bless you, my children, bless you ! and may you 
 always be as happy as I am at the present moment." 
 
 Od. /, 1877. 
 
ANCIENT ARMS AND AKMOK. S^ 
 
 AXCIEXT ARMS AND ARMOR. 
 
 NATURE has given to man but one weapon — in 
 a limited sense of the word — the arm. Of 
 its efficiency no more striking demonstration can be 
 given than the skill and force with which an experi- 
 enced boxer will use it. 
 
 When Adam lost his position as gardener in Eden, 
 and was obliged to earn his living outside as best he 
 could, the only weapon we know of his possessing 
 was his arm ; and he and his children must have 
 become quite expert in the use of their fists. These 
 would answer when the enemy was within reach ; but 
 often they wished to attack something at a distance, 
 and then these primitive people were undoubtedly 
 accustomed to throw stones. 
 
 But it did not take many centuries to discover that 
 stones could be thrown farther and with more accurate 
 aim by the aid of an additional appliance, and the 
 result of this discovery was the invention of the sling, 
 the first artificial weapon used by man. This simple 
 contrivance answered their purpose very well until 
 some antediluvian Krupp invented the bow and arrow. 
 
84 
 
 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 which became a standard weapon, though the sHng 
 was not discarded. 
 
 The shng consisted of a strap, in which the stone 
 was set, and two strings. This the sHnger slung 
 around, and letting go of one of the strings, the stone 
 was freed. By pradice the slingers acquired a very 
 accurate aim. 
 
 The bow and arrow were at iirst made entirely of 
 wood, except the string, which was of cowhide, flax, 
 or hemp ; but later, bows were made of steel, horn, 
 and other elastic substances. The Persians and 
 Indians used bows of reed, the Lycian bows were 
 made of the cornel-tree, and those of the Ethiopians 
 of the palm - tree. Homer describes the bow of 
 Pandarus, as from the horn of the mountain goat, 
 sixteen cubits long and tipped with gold, the string 
 being of oxhide. 
 
 The points of the arrow were often hardened in the 
 fire, and after a while they pointed them with sharp 
 stones, horn, or metal, and also made barbed points. 
 Many savage tribes used arrows dipped in poison, but 
 they were generally small and blown through tubes. 
 
 The long bow was the favorite weapon in England 
 in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. It was of 
 ash, yew, etc., the same height as the archer, while 
 the arrows were half the length of the bow. The 
 crossbow was an improvement on the ordinary bow, 
 and as it could be drawn tighter, would send the 
 shafts farther. 
 
 With the improvement in offensive weapons, people 
 
AXCIKNT ARMS AM) AKMOK. 85 
 
 began to study how they ct)uld ])rotect themselves 
 against assault. The first armors in use were made 
 from the skins of beasts, either rough or dressed. The 
 Sarmatians made armors of scales from horses' hoofs, 
 stitched with oxen's sinews. Then brass was used 
 for armors, and finally steel. Some of them were of 
 exquisite workmanship, many of the shields being 
 decorated with the highest art, as described by Homer. 
 
 As the ancients thus adopted the weapons of defense 
 furnished by nature to the beasts, they also imitated 
 their weapons of offense. The most notable instances 
 of this are to be found in the aries, or battering-ram, 
 and an instrument called the cat. 
 
 The former was a beam of wood, eighty to one 
 hundred and twenty feet long, sometimes resting on 
 wheels, and roofed over to protect the men who work- 
 ed it. On the end was the figure of a ram's head, 
 cast in bronze. This was used extensively by the 
 Romans for battering down walls. It is said that no 
 wall could withstand repeated assaults of a ram, 
 impelled as it often was, by a hundred men. 
 
 The latter was a machine with long claws of iron, 
 shaped like those of a cat. The men on a wall would 
 let this down among the besiegers, the claws would 
 clutch hold of a victim, and then they would haul 
 him in, as a cat will a mouse. 
 
 A description of the equipment of Goliath, when he 
 went forth to meet David, will give a good idea of 
 the weapons most in use among the ancients. A 
 helmet of brass, coat of mail, greaves, small and large 
 
S6 
 
 pop:ms and sketches. 
 
 shield, spear, and sword, made up the panoply of 
 this mighty warrior. His cuirass was composed of 
 scales of brass, and the weight of his coat of mail was 
 one hundred and eighty-nine pounds troy. His feet 
 were covered with shining plates of brass, and he had 
 greaves of brass upon his legs. On his back was 
 slung his small brazen shield, and accompanying him 
 was an armor-bearer, carrying his large shield. He 
 bore in his hand a spear, the staff of which was "like 
 a weavers beam," and the head of iron weighed 
 twenty-two pounds troy, llie material of his sword 
 is uncertain, but it was of excellent workmanship, as 
 it is said "there were none like it." It was not 
 probably remarkable for its size, for David afterwards 
 wielded it to cut off the giant's head. 
 
 The Romans, being devoted to war, made great 
 advances in the construction of weapons. Having 
 learned the art of working metals, they employed them 
 extensively in making arms. The sword was then, as 
 before and since, a favorite weapon. 
 
 The first sw-ords were of wood, which was super- 
 seded by metals. The varieties of the sword are 
 exceedingly numerous. The most famous blades are 
 the Toledo, and those made by the Ferrara family, of 
 Milan. Under the emperor of Rome, no one was 
 allowed to wear a sword except soldiers, hence the 
 custom of presenting the sword, on investing with a 
 military dignity. Trajan, when he made Sura Licinius 
 commander of his guards, put a naked sword 
 into his hands, with the words: "Take th^s and 
 
AXCIKNT ARMS AM) .\KM()K. 87 
 
 use it R)r mc if I rule well, against nie if I rule ill." 
 
 Other weapons used by the ancients were the lance, 
 javelin, battle-axe, martel (which was of iron or steel, 
 with one end a pick and the other a hammer, axe- 
 blade, half-moon, mace head, etc., used at the time 
 of Charlemagne), slub, net (used by the Sagartians, 
 who accompanied Xerxes against Greece, and who 
 would catch an enemy in the meshes and then slay 
 him), dagger, dart, knife, trident, halberd, etc. 
 
 x\mong the weapons of a curious or extraordinary 
 nature, may be mentioned the boomerang, used by 
 the natives of Australia. It is a large club, flat on 
 one side and convex on the other, which, when thrown 
 with the flat side down, spins about and returns to 
 the thrower, or turns to the left or right, according as 
 it is thrown. 
 
 The balister, a machine used by the Romans for 
 hurling rocks, by means of a rope of tightly twisted 
 hemp, hair, etc., is said to have been capable of pro- 
 pelling a rock weighing three hundred and sixty 
 pounds ; there were several modifications of this 
 engine, and one in particular is deserving of notice, 
 the catapult, which would throw an arrow^half a mile. 
 Some authorities transj)ose these names, Webster 
 among others, and call the machine for throwing stones 
 the catapult, and the one for arrows, the balister. 
 
 Chariots were used extensively, some being furnish- 
 ed with long knives, like scythes, on the sides, to 
 mow down the enemy. 
 
 Greek fire, which was used with o^reat effect bv the 
 
88 
 
 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Saracens in the sieges of Constantinople, a.d. 668 to 
 675, and 716 to 718, was a most formidable weapon. 
 It was composed of bitumen, sulphur, and pitch, and 
 "burnt like a meteor." It was projected on arrows 
 wrapped with flax, saturated with it ; it was also 
 vomited forth through long copper tubes from hideous 
 figures in the prows of fire-boats on to the decks of 
 the enemy. 
 
 One commander dropped a lot of live snakes onto 
 the deck of his opponent, and in the consternation 
 which ensued, made his attack and won the victory. 
 
 The invention of gunpowder, in 1330, completely 
 overturned all the old methods of warfare, and led to 
 the introduction of an almost entirely different kind 
 of arms. 
 
 In ancient times the success of an army depended 
 largely on the personal skill and courage of the 
 soldier; now, as Napoleon said: "Heaven favors 
 the side with the heaviest artillery." The warriors of 
 Nero and Alexander fought hand to hand with the 
 enemy ; the armies of Napoleon and Grant could 
 barely see their adversaries through the smoke of can- 
 non. Then each soldier was an army in himself; 
 now he is but a part of a vast machine. Then men 
 went to war at the caprice of some uneasy or ambitious 
 man ; now war is a last resort to redress wrong. In 
 the future, let us hope that the statesman will succeed 
 the general, and diplomacy render war unnecessary. 
 
 Dec. I, 1878. 
 
A MALE I LIKT. 89 
 
 A MALE FLIRT. 
 
 THE most despicable and piliful of human beings 
 (I cannot call him a Maji) is the nonentity to 
 whom the above name is applicable. A female flirt 
 is bad enough, but she has the advantage of a few 
 redeeming qualities, for she may have nothing else to 
 take up her mind, and then a litde vanity in woman 
 is pardonable ; but for a man to be a flirt is inexcus- 
 able, and his attention should be absorbed by more 
 momentous pursuits. 
 
 Augustus Elroy Fitz-Xoodle was one of these insig- 
 nificant puppies, and I wouldn't spend the time, 
 paper, ink and labor necessary to write his name, 
 were it not that I wish to tell the tale of his discomfiture, 
 in hopes that it will be an awful warning to all others 
 of the ilk. 
 
 He lived in H., a town in the western part of 
 ^Massachusetts, and the site of a female academy. 
 There were very few fellows in the neighborhood, so 
 that Augustus had full sweep, and for about two 
 months during the last term he was in clover. 
 
 There were lots of pretty girls attending the semin- 
 al v. and to all that wculd listen to him A. Elrov 
 
90 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 made love — to each according to her humor. To 
 one he talked nonsense, to another sentiment, to a 
 third romance, and so on. 
 
 Things went on swimmingly for a season. He 
 would give Maude Ashton a bouquet in the morning, 
 meet Arabella Goodwin at the post-office at noon, 
 and slip a note into her hand, wander " through wood 
 and dell " with Grace Williams in the afternoon, and 
 talk sentiment to Nina Roberts in the evening. 
 
 But by and by a change came o'er the aspect of 
 affairs. 
 
 Girls ivill talk. 
 
 Maude made a coj^fidanie of Arabella, and the latter 
 became furiously jealous, and declared she didn't 
 believe one word the other said about her Elroy. 
 Then it leaked out that Grace also laid claim to the 
 " divine Augustus,"' and this claim was again disputed 
 by Nina who declared that " Gussy " had sworn 
 eternal fidelity to her. 
 
 So the four who had once been firm friends, now 
 became deadly enemies. 
 
 Meanwhile Fitz - Noodle kept up his numerous 
 flirtations in blissful ignorance of the tempest he was 
 creating. 
 
 Matters were, however, brought to a crisis. The 
 quartette began to susped that there was something 
 wrong. They happened to all meet in the music 
 room, and Nina, after declaring that " Gussy '" loved 
 her, and her alone, said : 
 
 " I'll prove it to you, girls. He has promised to 
 
A M.M.K ri.IKT. 91 
 
 call on mc this cvcnin,^^ Vcu shall all be where }-ou 
 can hear what he says, and then you will admit that 
 I am right." 
 
 The proposition was accepted, and at seven o'clock 
 the girls were ready. Nina sitting at a table reading, 
 and the other three in an adjoining room, the door of 
 which was left ajar, so they could overhear the con- 
 versation. 
 
 A few minutes after the unsuspecting " lover was 
 shown in. He approached ]\Iiss Roberts and handed 
 her a bouquet of wild flowers, saying: 
 
 " ]\Iy dear Nina, I trust you will accept this little 
 token of my love ; I would not give you flowers 
 bought with filthy lucre, but have spent the whole 
 afternoon seeking these modest blossoms, which I 
 have plucked for you." 
 
 " The very same flowers we picked this afternoon 
 down by the brook," said Grace, in a whisper, " and 
 which he swore to preserve in memory of the happy 
 hour. Oh, the wretch ! " 
 
 Nina accepted the bouquet, and after [lacing it in 
 water, took a seat on the sofa. Her caller placed 
 himself by her side. His arm stole around her waist, 
 and he murmured in dulcet tones : 
 
 " Dearest Nina, this is one of the happiest moments 
 of my life. To sit by your side and gaze into those 
 heavenly orbs is the most exquisite pleasure." 
 
 " Do vou love me as much as you say .''" asked Nina. 
 " More than I can tell — I swear it! Can you 
 doubt me ? " 
 
92 POEMS AM) SKETCHES. 
 
 "No, but 1 have heard that you admire ]\Iaude 
 Ashton." 
 
 " What ! Admire that freckled-faced thing ! How- 
 could you think it ? "' 
 
 " Oh, I didn't, dear Gussy. But I also heard you 
 met Arabella Goodwin at the post-office to-day." 
 
 "It is false, I assure you, on my honor. The 
 forward, conceited minx ! She follows me there every 
 day, and I cannot get rid of her." 
 
 " I knew it was false. But I was told you were 
 seen this afternoon wandering by the brook with 
 Grace Williams. "' 
 
 "Yes, yes, how unfortunate! I went there to 
 gather these flowers for you, and that gawky creature 
 must needs be there, and she nearly bored me to 
 death. '■ 
 
 " And you love but me .'' "" 
 
 "Only you, dearest Nina, I pledge you my word." 
 
 " You hear that, girls } What do you think, now r 
 
 The door of the next room opened, and the three 
 infuriated maidens appeared before the astounded 
 A. Elroy P^itz-Noodle ! 
 
 I'hey tore off his paper collar and gorgeous neck- 
 tie, pulled his hair, broke his eye-glass, boxed his 
 ears, and pinched and scratched him till he cried for 
 mercy. 
 
 " So I am a freckled-faced thing, am I r exclaimed 
 Maude, administering a sounding box on his ear. 
 
 " And I am a forward, conceited minx ! " put in 
 Arabella, with a tierce pinch. 
 
A MAI.i: FI.IKl. 93 
 
 "So you were boretl to death by this gawky 
 creature this afternoon I " added Grace, pullini^ vigor- 
 ously at his hair. 
 
 "You swear you love but me?" asked Nina, 
 tweaking his nose. 
 
 But they let him go at last, and the miserable sneak 
 hurried home in a sad plight. 
 
 The girls told the story all over town, and Augustus 
 Elroy Fitz-Noodle was obliged to " depart for pastures 
 new," a wiser, and, let us hope, a better man. 
 
 Now take heed, all ye youths of this enlightened 
 age, and don't let it be said of any of you that you 
 are a contemptible " ^lale Flirt."' 
 
 June //, iSyy. 
 
(>4 POEMS AM) SKETCHES. 
 
 TOO :\IUCH FOR HBI. 
 
 JAMES EBENEZER EVERMEEK had a weak 
 spot somewhere. 
 
 It wasn't in his stomach, for that organ performed 
 its fundions with remarkable alacrity ; nor in his legs, 
 as they did him good service ; neither was it in his 
 chest, which was as sound as the Bank of England. 
 
 No, it was his head that was weak. So said his 
 wife, and she ought to know^ In fad she had inform- 
 ed him of this weakness in his "upper storey" so 
 many times, that he began to regard it as chronic. 
 
 He was hen-pecked — sadly, and unquesti-onably 
 so. The only occasion on which he broke the bonds 
 of oppression and asserted the dignity of manhood 
 was when, after indulging in too free libations from 
 the "flowing bowl," he felt sufficient Dutch courage 
 to " beard the lion in his den," his Maria in her lair. 
 
 The other night he sent word to his loving spouse 
 that he should be detained in town on business, and 
 then, exulting in the prospect of a whole evening 
 apart from his domestic dragon, he hied away with a 
 friend to the temple of Melpomene, to revel in the 
 honeved accents of Booth. 
 
lOO MICH FOR lll.-\I. 95 
 
 On the way ihilher ihc friends sl()])|)e(,l in al a 
 pO})iilar resort and drank to the health of .Mrs. Kver- 
 meek. Then they entered the theatre. A trai^edy 
 was phiyed first, and after each act the two stepped 
 out and " lubricated, " 
 
 The after-piece was Shakespeare's " TaminL^ of the 
 Shrew." James Ebenezer had never seen it before, 
 and was very much impressed by the masterly manner 
 with which Petruchio subdued the shrewish propens- 
 ties of Katherine. 
 
 He determined to try the method on his wife, and 
 confided his plan, in stricl: confidence, to his friend. 
 
 Accordingly they drained several more bumpers to 
 the success of his undertaking, and then, after bidding 
 his companion a maudlin good-night, Ebenezer wend- 
 ed his crooked way homewards. 
 
 The partner of his joys and sorrows was sitting up 
 for him, wrapped in a shawl and a grim smile, which 
 boded no good for her tardy hubby. 
 
 He mounted the steps nobly and made an admir- 
 able attempt to open the door. It was, however, a 
 deplorable failure, for he tried to force a key as large 
 again as the original into the key-hole. 
 
 But his wife kindly saved him further trouble by 
 opening the door herself 
 
 Her indignation was too deep for utterance, so he 
 stalked into the house amid a most oppressive silence. 
 
 But a miserable mat entangled itself with his feet, 
 and precipitated him against the parlor door, which 
 opened conveniently and admitted him sprawling. 
 
9^ POEMS AND skp:tches. 
 
 He picked himself up with a great deal of dignity, 
 cast a glance of ineffable contempt at the offending 
 mat, and then remarked to his wife : 
 
 " ' How bright'n goodly shines "er (hie) moon ? ' "" 
 
 " What are you talking about ? " she asked. 
 
 " ' Nay, then you lie ; 'tis 'er blessed sun,' "' quoth 
 Kbenezer. " Don't you (hie) zee it ? " 
 
 " I see you are drunk, you miserable wretch ! 
 
 " Who's drunk? " querried he. " Wazza mazzer, 
 ole (hie) woman ? " 
 
 "James Ebenezer Evermeek, where have you 
 been ? "' 
 
 "Been tzee Kazerin "n Per(hic)chuzo. He'za 
 boss. Show yer how he tames a (hie) shrew." 
 
 He seized a vase from the mantelpiece and hurled 
 it to the floor, where it was shivered to atoms. 
 
 " What are you doing ? '' shrieked his wife. 
 
 " I'll show yer who'z'er boss, ole (hie) gal." 
 
 Down went another vase, smash ! His wife seized 
 his arm to stay him, but he shook her off savagely. 
 
 Away flew another vase through the front window. 
 Mrs. Evermeek began to cry. 
 
 He heeded her not, but grasping her new spring 
 bonnet, which was on the table, he held it up and 
 quoted in tragic tone : 
 
 "Wazza call this.'' A cockle, a nutshell, a toy, a 
 baby's cap ? Take it away ! " 
 
 He threw it on the floor, and begun stamping on it. 
 
 This was too much for his wife's patience, to see her 
 pet, her pride, her darling, thus mutilated ! 
 
loo :\ir(ii roK him. 97 
 
 " \\)U wrclcli 1 " she shrieked, clulching him b\- 
 the hair, " I'll teach you to come home drunk and 
 abuse your poor weak wife, and ruin my new bonnet. 
 I'll lameiw/, yc^u reprobate I 
 
 She emphasized her speecli with sr.nchy blows of 
 her fist on the side of his head. 
 
 He struggled to free himself from her ardent em- 
 brace, but unfortunately tripped and fell heavily to the 
 door. She hung onto his hair still, and after she had 
 bum})ed his head vigorously against the floor a number 
 of times, he was ready to come to terms. He was 
 also pretty well sobered off. 
 
 " Do you want to break anything more.''" she asked 
 sarcastically. 
 
 "No, Maria, no; lemme up. " 
 
 " Not till you promise to get me a new hat." 
 
 " Yes, yes, to-morrow ; only lemme up." 
 
 ' ' And some new vases ? " 
 
 *' Yes, ]Maria." 
 
 " And a silk dress .-^ " 
 
 " Xo, I'll see you dashed frst," but a forcible bump 
 of his head caused a rapid consideration of his reply, 
 and he added : 
 
 " I will, ]Maria, I will. And now lemme up." 
 
 "Not yet, Ebenezer. One thing more: You 
 promise never to get drunk again, and not to go to 
 the theatre without me, and to take me to Long 
 Branch next summer ? " 
 
 •> I 1_ well " — 
 
 Ikimp — bump — l)ump I — 
 
9^ POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 "Yes, Maria, anything ! "" 
 
 She released him ; he arose painfully and went to 
 bathe his head. 
 
 But his faith in the wisdom of Shakespeare is gone, 
 and he says that if Petruchio had attempted to tame 
 his Maria, instead of Katherine, it is his opinion that 
 she would have proved 
 
 "Too Much For Him. "" 
 
 Jan. J., 1878. 
 
A SCKAI' OF PAPER. 99 
 
 I 
 
 •A SCRAP OF PAPER." 
 
 NEVER saw a young lad}- yet who did not have 
 an anxious desire to examine the contents of a 
 gentleman's pocket. Of course she does not care to 
 know what is in a stranger's pocket, but only what 
 her particular friends carry about them. 
 
 . Perhaps she thinks to gain some insight into a 
 man's character and habits by knowing what his 
 pockets contain — most men might certainly be 
 judged somewhat by that mode of investigation. For 
 instance, if she were to find a cigar, the 'natural 
 inference would be that he smoked, though he might 
 have concealed the fact heretofore from her. A pack 
 of cards would be very suggestive, and to find a pawn 
 ticket would reveal the state of his finances in a very 
 convincing manner. 
 
 ]\Iany other articles, which may suggest themselves to 
 the reader's mind, might each become a silent witness 
 to some good or evil, wise or foolish trait of the owner. 
 
 It may be only idle curiosity which prompts such 
 investigations — be that as it may, I still maintain 
 that, as a rule, young ladies like to rummage a gen- 
 tleman's pocket. 
 
lOO I'OEMJ AXl; SKETCHES. 
 
 Jennie Hillard was no exception to the above rule. 
 She was nineteen, pretty, accomphshed and charming. 
 Lovable too, P'red. Bartlett thought, and as she had 
 consented to become his bride, he was a very hapj y 
 young man. 
 
 Fie was well educated and held a business position 
 which was both permanent and profitable. 
 
 They were seated in her father's parlor, not very far 
 from each other ; there came a pause in the conversa- 
 tion, and finally she said ; 
 
 "Oh ! Fred, let me see what you have in your 
 pockets. My brother will never let me look into his, 
 and when he gives me his coat to mend, he is always 
 very careful to take everything out of the pockets. " 
 
 "I don't believe you'll find much of interest to 
 you, but you may empty them and see," replied Fred. 
 
 So Jennie began by pulling a lot of letters and 
 papers from one of his breast pockets. 
 
 " What a lot of letters ! "' she exclaimed. " How 
 long do you carry letters about you .? '" 
 
 " Until I have time to answer them." 
 
 " But here is one of mine written a month ago ; 
 Fm sure that has been answered. "" 
 
 " Yes, but I like to carry it with me to read over 
 once in a while."' 
 
 " You foolish fellow. Just as if my letters were 
 worth a second perusal. But from whom is this ? 
 The writing looks like a lady's. "' 
 
 " Oh ! That's from Bob Somers — you remember 
 him at school — a tall, slim fellow with an impediment 
 
" A SCRAP OF PAPER. lOI 
 
 in his speech. He writes a good deal better than he 
 can talk ; read the letter ifyou wish — he is in California. 
 
 Jennie read the letter and then proceeded with her 
 investigations. 
 
 "Why, here is one you wrote yourser. Did you 
 forget to send it ? " Jennie asked. 
 
 "Don't read that, *' said Fred, taking it frcm her hand. 
 
 ' ' Why not ? " 
 
 "I'd rather you wouldn't,"' replied he, blushing a 
 little. 
 
 She did not urge the matter, but felt a little piqued 
 that he would not let her read it. Soon afterwards 
 Fred took his departure, Jennie returned to the parlor 
 to extinguish the light, and seeing a scrap of paper 
 on the floor, picked it up. It was the very letter 
 Fred declined to let her read. Should she read it 
 now ? A glance at the first line would not permit her 
 to do otherwise. It began : 
 
 " My darling May:— Would that I could learn to forget you; 
 but, forced as I am by cruel circumstances to engage myself to 
 one I do not love, my heart is still yours. Do you ever vouch- 
 safe one little thought for one who was once dear to you ? I 
 wish I could see you once more alone before this odious marriage 
 robs me of my liberty. Will you meet again, dear, at the old 
 place, only for a few moments — " 
 
 Here the letter ended. Jennie could hardly believe 
 her eyes. Fred, false to her ? It was impossible. 
 But what else could the letter mean ? Her father was 
 wealthy. Could it be that Fred had wooed her for 
 her monev ? v^he read the letter again and then retired 
 
I02 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 and cried herself to sleep. It was the first great dis- 
 appointment of her life, and it came to her with 
 terrible violence, breaking in, as it did, on her new- 
 born happiness. 
 
 'She awoke the next morning with a severe headache, 
 and the world, which, the day before had seemed so 
 full of happiness and peace, was now gloomy and 
 barren to her. 
 
 She thought much about the letter during the day, 
 and determined, when Fred called in the evening, to 
 learn the worst. 
 
 She received him as usual, and thought he appeared 
 particularly happy. Perhaps he had seen May and 
 they had come to some understanding. She would 
 give anything to know. 
 
 She introduced the subject of names, and finally 
 asked him if May were the nickname for Mary or 
 Mabel. 
 
 He appeared somewhat embarrassed, and said it 
 might come from either name. 
 
 " I once had a friend called May,"" she continued, 
 "but her real name was Marion. Do you know any 
 one named May ? '" 
 
 " I don't think of any one," he replied. " That is, 
 among my friends."' 
 
 What a jealous pang shot through her heart at his 
 words. He probably regarded his May as dearer 
 than a friend. 
 
 She knew not how to question him, and sat in, 
 silence. 
 
•'A SCRAP OF I'APKR. "" IO3 
 
 " Tve something to show you, Jennie,"" he remark- 
 ed, drawing a paper from his pocket. 
 
 It was a literary journal, and he called her attention 
 to a story in it entitled "A Scrap of Paper," by Fred 
 Adams. 
 
 "Why, that"s your middle name, Fred'."' she 
 exclaimed. " Did you write it ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, I did."" 
 
 " You never told me you were an author."" 
 
 " That's my first attempt. I kept it secret, for I 
 was afraid they would not publish it. '" 
 
 Jennie had begun to read the sketch. 
 
 "Your heroine's name is ^lay, isn't it? How- 
 strange ! "' she remarked. 
 
 " Why so ? "'" he asked. 
 
 But Jennie did not reply. Her eyes were scanning 
 the story eagerly. There, oh, joy ! there was the very 
 letter that had awakened her jealousy — it was the 
 " scrap of paper " on which the plot turned. 
 
 How ashamed and yet how happy she felt. She 
 burst into tears. 
 
 " What is the matter, dear ? " Fred asked tenderly. 
 
 Then, half crying, yet smiling through her tears, 
 she told him the story of the letter he had lost, and 
 the jealousy it had awakened in her. 
 
 He laughed heartily at the recital, and as he kissed 
 away the tears, remarked, that it was another illustra- 
 tion of how much trouble might be caused b}' a 
 '' Scrap of Paper."' 
 
 Ami 7. /c?7c?. 
 
I04 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 SUNSET ON THE LAKE. 
 
 WE have often heard of the splendors of the 
 Itahan sunset, but we do not beheve that 
 old Sol ever conjured up a more dazzling display, nor 
 redred from his day's journey amidst a more gorgeous 
 surrounding of brilliant colors in far famed Italy, than 
 he did one evening last August, when we were fortu- 
 nate enough to view him from the deck of the Lady 
 of the Lake, as she glided over the fair bosom of lake 
 Winnepesaukee. 
 
 During the afternoon the sky had been overcast 
 with fleecy clouds, which gradually rolled together 
 and increased in size until the sky was nearly all hid- 
 den. On the north and south shores of the lake, 
 looking from the steamer, were long ranges of mount- 
 ains, whose highest peaks penetrated the clouds. 
 Thicker they became and darker, while now and then 
 a flash of lightning, followed by low mutterings of 
 thunder presaged the coming storm. 
 
 The surface of the lake was as smooth as a polished 
 mirror, but black as ink. The lightning became 
 more vivid and an unnatural darkness enshrouded us. 
 
 But suddenly the scene changes ; there is a break 
 
SL'XSET ON THE LAKE. IO5 
 
 in the clouds to the west and their edL,^es become 
 aflame with the rays of the setting sun. Slowly the 
 dense clouds roll upward, each moment growing 
 brighter, till at last the sun is seen, just above the 
 horizon, like a huge ball of burnished gold ; its rays, 
 spreading on either side, lend an indescribable beauty 
 to the clouds on the sides of the mountains, which a 
 few minutes before looked so black and dismal. 
 From a bright red in the west the colors shade down 
 to a dark rich purple. But look I From the spot 
 where the sun is about to set, along the surface of the 
 water, up to the side of the steamer, is a path of 
 glistening gold, at the end of which we see, a golden 
 shield, more brightly burnished than any borne by 
 Homeric hero. 
 
 Of such a sunset Shakespeare says : 
 
 " The weary sun hath made a golden set, 
 And by the bright track of his fiery car, 
 Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow." 
 
 Even after its ruddy face is hidden behind the 
 distant hill, its radiance gilds each cloud and mount- 
 ain. 
 
 But softly the colors fade away like the shadowy 
 images of a dream, and while we still gaze to the 
 westward, the clouds close up and shut out our 
 glimpse of paradise, as a curtain drawn by envious 
 hand over some rare work of art. 
 
 All at once we are nearly blinded by a vivid flash 
 of lightning, and another, and another, and now 
 
I06 rOEMS AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 •'Far along, 
 P>om peak to peak, the rattling crags among. 
 Leaps the live thunder." 
 
 llie rival clouds have met, and are battling madly 
 with Jove's artillery. On speeds the steamer ; the 
 lake is still calm, but now and then a puff of wind 
 ripples along its surface. 
 
 An instant later comes the rain in torrents, com- 
 pelling us to seek the shelter of the cabin. 
 
 But the storm is as brief as it is furious, and before 
 we reach the landing we can discern a timid star 
 peeping through a rift in the clouds, a tiny messenger 
 of hope. And then 
 
 "How calm, how beautiful comes on 
 The stilly hour when storms are gone ; 
 When warring winds have died away, 
 And clouds, beneath the dancing ray. 
 Melt off, and leave the sea 
 Sleeping in bright tranquility I " 
 
 There is a silvery lustre in the east, and as we glide 
 up to the landing fair Luna rises, like Venus from the 
 sea, and smiles lovingly on mountain, vale, and lake. 
 
 Scpi. /, iSy^. 
 
THE BOOKS WE READ. IO7 
 
 THE BOOKS WE READ. 
 
 A XV one, but especially the young, cannot be too 
 -^^- particular of the books he reads, particularly 
 works of fiction. Their influence is almost impercept- 
 ible at the time of reading, but it is none the less 
 potent and often manifests itself long after the work, 
 which planted its baneful seeds, has been forgotten. 
 The charac'lers in a novel become like friends or 
 acquaintances to us, ere we finish the narration of 
 their ads and adventures. 
 
 The perusal of one of Scott's novels, or any work 
 which presents to our notice characters which we can 
 admire, whose impulses and actions are pure and 
 noble, is like being introduced to and associating with 
 those people. Our best feelings are appealed to, we 
 admire the nobility, the honor, the self-sacrifice we 
 read of, the impression left by them on the mind is 
 healthy, and, unconsciously, we emulate their good 
 example. 
 
 But, in modern fxlion, vice is too often clothed in 
 an interesting guise ; at first we feel a disgust at the 
 immorality, or perhaps false moralily, of the hero or 
 heroine, the same as if we were introduced suddenly 
 
lOO POKMS A\D SKETCHES. 
 
 into a den of iniquity, a gambling house or a scene of 
 drunken carousal. But the chances are that we 
 become interested in the trials the hero or heroine 
 suffers, and the wrongs endured, and the impression 
 grows upon us as we read that perhaps they were more 
 sinned against than sinning. The consequence is 
 that, when in actual life we are brought face to face 
 with similar charac'ters, our judgment is warped and, 
 as likely as not, we make associates of people and 
 close our eyes to acT;s which, in a normal state of 
 mind, we would shun and abhor. 
 
 That is why so many novels, not absolutely vicious, 
 are yet so baneful in their effect and have brought 
 novel reading into so bad repute. Reading a pure 
 novel is like spending an evening in the society of 
 ladies and gentlemen, of whose acquaintance we 
 might well be proud, but to spend time in reading a 
 trashy novel is like carousing with a lot of drunkards. 
 Pope has well said : 
 
 " Vice is a monster of such hideous mien, 
 That to be hated needs but to be seen ; 
 But seen too oft, familiar with its face, 
 We first endure, than pity, then embrace." 
 
 Aug. lo, 1882. 
 
HIS VALENTIN K 
 
 109 
 
 HIS VALEXTIXK 
 
 C0RI(3LANX^S ADOLPHUSSPRIGGINS aspired 
 to be a poet. He always devoured with a 
 hunger insatiable the so-called poetry which served to 
 fill up the " Muses' Retreat'' in the Biingtown Boome- 
 rang. 
 
 He sported a Byron collar of the most extreme cut, 
 wore his hair long, and tucked his trousers in his 
 boots, a la Joaquin Miller, smoked a "T. D." pipe, 
 after Tennyson, cultivated " a green and yellow mel- 
 ancholy," and gloried in having his brow wear the 
 appearance of being " oershadowed with the pale cast 
 of thought, " 
 
 (This latter effect he sometimes produced by a 
 judicious but surreptitious application of a secret 
 preparation he compounded of flour and water. ) 
 
 He wore an absent look when in company (some 
 were uncharitable enough to call it a " vacant stare), 
 in order to inspire a belief that his thoughts were 
 soaring 
 
 " Far above this mundane sphere, 
 In the blue ethereal space. " 
 
 He also usually carried a lead-pencil l)ehind his 
 
IIO POEMS AND SKP:TCHES. 
 
 right ear, to give the Impression that he was always 
 ready to 
 
 "Catch the fleeting fancies as thL'y fly," 
 but that 
 
 "Do what he will, he cannot realize 
 Half he conceives— the glorious vision flies; 
 Go where he may, he cannot hope to find 
 The truth, the beauty, pidlured in his mind." 
 
 Of course he was the idol of all the girls, and the 
 special subject of ridicule of the boys. 
 
 But the bright particular star of his soul, the one 
 upon whom he lavished all his affection, sighs and 
 nonsense, was the fair Anastatia Iphigenia Boggins. 
 
 She just doted on him as a second Byron or John 
 G. Saxe. 
 
 Inspired by the example of his lofty ambition and 
 sublime aspirations, she too wooed the Muses ; and 
 when St. Valentine's day came she penned some 
 original lines, which she sent to him on scalloped 
 paper, highly perfumed with the "odor of a thousand 
 flowers," and tinted a delicate rose color. They were 
 as follows : 
 
 "O Dolphy I Erato's favorite. 
 To thee these lines I do indite ; 
 Deign, oh, deign them to receive. 
 And then I'll be happy, you may believe, 
 When by them your memory does waken, 
 To think of words you have spoken. 
 Oh ! think of her to whom you spake, 
 And then my happiness will be great." 
 
his VAl.KN'lIM-:. I I I 
 
 This hnllianf effusion filled him with deli^t^ht and 
 admiration. It tiirilled him to his inmost soul. It 
 s«» awakened his enthusiasm, that he felt inspired to 
 write a fitting reply. 
 
 He hied to his sandum, a lumber room over the 
 carriage house, and seated himself on what he 
 imagined to be 
 
 " A fleecy cloud, tipped with goUl," 
 
 but which was merely a rush-bottomed, broken-backed 
 chair. 
 
 Then, spreading a dozen sheets of paper on the 
 desk (an old three-legged washstand with a board on 
 it) before him, he proceeded to chew his pen, and roll 
 his eyes about in a manner suggestive of a cat looking 
 for a mouse that has escaped her, or of the jealous 
 ^loor when he is searching for a soft bolster with 
 which to smother Desdemona. 
 
 He had 
 
 "A theme well htted to inspire 
 The purest frenzy of poetic fire." 
 
 , But how to begin } — there was the rub. Once 
 started, he had no fears but his thoughts would flow 
 "In licjuid lines mellifluously bland." 
 
 Suddenly an idea seized him ; and, grasping his 
 pen as warrior grasps his sword, or some unfortunate 
 victim the handles of a galvanic battery, he produced 
 a number of scrawls which might have been mistaken 
 for the autograph of Horace Greeley, but which to the 
 eye of the poet were formed into this : 
 
I ' 2 pop:ms and sketches. 
 
 " Sweet angel, round this heart of mine, 
 Are twined the tendrils of thy love — " 
 
 " Oh, bother ! " he exclaimed ; " that is too much 
 hke making my heart the place ' where the woodbine 
 twineth.' " 
 
 Another interval of pen chewing, and 
 
 "Eyes in fine frenzy rolling," 
 
 and then — this is the translation : 
 
 " O Anastatia ! 
 How can I face yer, 
 And not betray my love ? 
 Your sweet smile on me 
 Does joy pile on me. 
 Like snow from above I " 
 
 This was better. The rhymes were good, the sen- 
 timent sublime, and the comparison appropriate and 
 beautiful. But still it did not exactly suit him. 
 
 A renewed wrestle with the INIuse, and Corilanus 
 won the fall with this result : 
 
 "There is a form that haunts my fancy, 
 Her name's not Jane, it is not Nancy ; 
 Her image in my heart is built, 
 And will not fade till I am kilt. 
 
 " She smiles on me — I seem to tread 
 On fleecy clouds, upon my head; 
 She frowns on me— my heart is tilled 
 With grief unspeakable, and I — " 
 
 "I — um — filled, build, gild — Oh, agony ! no 
 rhvme for filled ! "' 
 
HIS VAI.ENTINK. I I 3 
 
 He tore his hair, he groaned in anguish, he Hung 
 his papers right and left — just then he heard a harsli 
 voice calhng at the foot of the stairs : 
 
 " Corilanus, you good-for-nothing! Jest come 
 down here an' I'll tan yer hide for yer, to let them 
 pigs git out by yer blamed carelessness ! "' 
 
 The voice drew nearer ; the door flew open and 
 admitted his enraged sire. 
 
 A scene ensued of *' confusion worse confounded," 
 and as Corilanus Adolphus Spriggins walked out 
 toward the pig-pen, rubbing his trousers, his thoughts 
 were far away from his Valentine. 
 
 J/ay 12, 18-/ 8. 
 
114 POEMS AM) SKETCHES. 
 
 A RUSTIC NYMPH. 
 
 '• As lamps burn silent with unconscious light, 
 So modest ease in beauty shines most bright; 
 Unaiming charms with rays resistless fall, 
 And she, who means no mischief, does it all." 
 
 — Aaron Hill. 
 
 ^ I ^HE senior partner of the firm of Bookworm, 
 -■- Critic & Co., Booksellers and Publishers, signed 
 his name to a check with a flourish, and handed it to 
 a pale-faced young man who stood by his desk, hat 
 in hand, remarking : 
 
 "There are a hundred dollars on account, Mr. 
 Howard, and as soon as we get the second edition 
 out, which will be inside of two weeks, we will pay 
 3-ou another hundred." 
 
 Herbert Howard signed his name to the receipt 
 with a trembling hand and thanking the publisher, 
 made his exit from the dingy office. 
 
 He could hardly realize that the check represented 
 a hundred dollars, the first fruits of his literary labors. 
 He was a college graduate, and was now studying 
 law in the office of a prominent barrister in Boston. 
 He had spent his time for two years in writing a book. 
 
A RUSTIC NYMPH. II5 
 
 a novel, in which he had given expression to the 
 romance, the poetry, the nobiUty and the warm sym- 
 pathy of his nature. 
 
 More fortunate than the majority of young authors, 
 he had succeeded in finding a pubhsher. The book 
 proved a success, in facl " the hit of the season ;" the 
 first edition was already exhausted, and he had 
 received the sum agreed upon. 
 
 Now he could take his hard earned and long 
 deferred vacation, and once more visit the scenes of 
 his childhood — the " Switzerland of America. " 
 
 It was in June, the fairest month of the year. His 
 preparations were quickly made, and the next day he 
 shook the dust of the city from his feet, and started 
 for a fortnight's communion with the grandeur of 
 nature. 
 
 He arrived at North Conway shortly after noon. 
 He waited there until after the heat of the day, and 
 then started to walk seven miles to where his parents 
 lived, whom he intended to surprise. He had pro- 
 cured a stout stick and with its aid trudged over the 
 hilly road " like one to the manner born." 
 
 How natural everything looked to him. He had 
 often driven over the road behind old Whitey, the 
 family horse. The last time was when he left for 
 college six years before. He knew a great deal more 
 then, in his own estimation, than he did now, after 
 his six years of study. He had discovered that the 
 more a man learns, the more he finds there is to learn. 
 
 He was now onlv about two miles from home, and 
 
11^ POEMS AM) SKETCHES. 
 
 as he walked along wrapped in thought, he was sud- 
 denly startled b}' a woman's scream. It was a cry of 
 fear or pain, short and shrill, and then ceased as if it 
 had been forcibly suppressed. It proceeded from 
 beyond a bend in the road, a few rods from which he 
 was. 
 
 Grasping his stick firmly, Herbert ran on towards 
 the source of the cry. -On turning the bend, he dis- 
 covered a w^oman, apparently young, struggling in 
 the arms of a burly ruffian, whose dirty hand was over 
 her mouth to prevent further outcry. 
 
 The tramps back w-as towards him, and advancing 
 quickly, Herbert dealt him a blow on the head with 
 his stick. He made use of all the strength in his arm, 
 and the ruffian dropped to the ground insensible, 
 llie young lady fell likewise, for she had fainted. 
 
 There was a brook by the side of the road, and 
 Herbert bore her senseless form to its bank, and began 
 bathing her temples with the cold water. What a 
 perfecT: beauty she was ! He thought he had never 
 seen a fairer face. And how like what he had pictured 
 the heroine of his novel. It was the same face his 
 imagination had conjured up when writing. The 
 golden wavy hair, the low, broad forehead, the sofdy 
 rounded cheek, now pale as marble, the sensitive 
 mouth, were all the same, but 
 
 "Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed tlieir light, 
 And, canopied in darkness, sweetly lay, 
 Till they might open to adorn the day." 
 
 But now the lids part slowly and disclose the blue 
 
A Rl'STIC NYMPH. ; I 7 
 
 depths hcnealh, and she gazes wonderinglv at him. 
 
 " I am a friend/' he says quietly ; " the scountlrel 
 who attacked you has paid the penalty of his brutality. " 
 
 She is sitting up now. 
 
 " Oh! sir, how can I thank you ? " she murmurs, 
 and the soft cadence of the words complete the spell 
 which enwraps him. 
 
 " 1 am only too happy to be of service to you," he 
 replies, " and now, if you feel able to walk, I will 
 accompany }ou on your way. ^ly name is Howard, 
 and I am going to my parents' home in . "' 
 
 "And I am Edna Cummings ; don't you recognize 
 your old schoolmate .'' " she asks. 
 
 " I confess that at first I did not recognize you, but 
 now I do," Herbert makes reply, as he assists her to 
 rise. On reaching the road they find that the tramp 
 has recovered, and made off with himself. 
 
 The rest of the walk seemed but a few steps, 
 enlivened as it was by chatting of the time gone by. 
 Herbert left ]Miss Cummings at her father's house, 
 and then sought his home. 
 
 What joy his unexpected arrival brought to the 
 hearts of his aged parents and loving sister ! 
 
 He found a stranger at the house, a city belle, who 
 was paying his sister a visit. If he had not previously 
 met his rustic nymph, the cultivated beauty of Elsie 
 Dayton might have captivated his fancy. As it was, 
 none other than Edna could please him. 
 
 How quickly the hours of the week following 
 Herbert's arrival home seemed to glide awav ! He 
 
ii8 
 
 POEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 enjoyed every moment of the time. Elsie made use 
 of all her blandishments to win his admiration, but 
 he had eyes only for Edna. The latter first appeared 
 pleased at his attentions, but suddenly her manner 
 changed, and she treated him very coldly. He knew 
 of no cause for the change, and it troubled him deeply, 
 for he had began to love his " rustic nymph,'" as he 
 called her. 
 
 One afternoon he had been napping in the ham- 
 mock, which was hung on the piazza. When ,he 
 awoke he heard voices, and he recognized them as 
 belonging to Edna and Elsie. They were sitting 
 behind the closed blinds of an open window, whidh 
 was directly opposite to him. He could disUnguish 
 the words they uttered very distindly. He did not 
 intend to play the eavesdropper, not supposing the 
 conversation was of a private nature. But presently 
 he heard his own name. Edna w^as speaking. 
 
 "Are you sure that J\Ir. Howard is engaged.?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Elsie, " \\\?, fiancee is a wealthy lady 
 in Boston. I have often seen him with her in society." 
 
 " I am sure she is to be envied," remarked Edna. 
 
 " Yes, doubtless," was the reply. 
 
 Herbert had heard all he wanted to, so knocked 
 the book he had been reading from the hammock, 
 and whistled to Bruno who was dozing in the shade. 
 When Edna started for home he followed her. 
 
 " I beg your pardon,'' he apologized, "but may I 
 accompany you to the bridge ? " 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish," she replied. 
 
A RlSTir XVMI'H. I H) 
 
 They chailcd gaily till the bridge was reached, where 
 they stopped and gazed into the ever hurrying stream. 
 Herbert had pictured a meeting of his lovers on this 
 very bridge in his book. How natural it seemed now 
 for him to be there with Edna. He was the first to 
 break the silence. 
 
 " They say, Miss Cummings, that all is fair in love 
 and war, but I think it was hardly fair for Miss Day- 
 ton to tell you I was engaged." 
 
 " Isn't it so ?" queried Edna. 
 
 "Not unless you will have me, Edna," he replied 
 quickly. 
 
 ' ' Do you love me ? " 
 
 "As I never loved woman before. You don't 
 dislike me, do you, Edna ? " 
 
 ' ' No, Herbert. ' 
 
 A word more and I am done. When his book 
 reached its third edition, which was very soon, Her- 
 bert was united to his Rustic Xymph. 
 
 Dt'c. 2S. 1877. 
 
20 FORMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 AGAINST HIS WILL. 
 
 ^^ IV/T'^'^''^ KVANS, you have taught me a lesson I 
 -LtX shall never forget. I'm very much obliged 
 to you — more than I can tell. I shudder as I think 
 from what I have escaped." 
 
 Edith Evans shrugged her shapely shoulders. 
 
 " I am sorry, Mr. Edwards, that you so misunder- 
 stood the friendly feelings I have felt for you, and 
 thought they were of a tenderer nature ; but you men 
 are so stupid — you always imagine a young lady 
 must be in love with you if she treats you with com- 
 mon civility, and is not positively rude."' 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Evans, for your compliment; 
 but you may rest assured I shall never lay myself 
 open again to the charge o{ s/upidi(\\ by being really 
 so foolish as to believe that any fashionable young 
 lady has an atom of sincerity in her nature." 
 
 " Really, you are very severe, as well as unjust. I 
 supposed, of course, you knew I was engaged to be 
 married to Royal Stanley, when he returns." 
 
 " How should I know } You never told me, and 
 I did not suppose an engaged lady would flirt so out- 
 rageously as }ou have with me. However, I am very 
 
AdAINST HIS WII.I. 
 
 121 
 
 glad thai my eyes have been opened, al lasl, to your 
 real nature. Good evening;, Miss Evans. 
 
 He bowed and started for the door. She arose and 
 followed him. 
 
 " Vou are not angry with me, Philip.^ " she said, 
 looking at him pleadingly with her large blue eyes. 
 
 " Not at all," he replied coldly. " I pity you— but 
 not as much as I pity Royal Stanley, who will have a 
 coquette for his wife." 
 
 " We are still friends .^ " she asked. 
 ''No, x\o1 frieyids, :Miss Y.\2.x\^. — acqiiamtanccs. 
 Good evening." 
 
 As the door closed behind him Edith burst into tears. 
 "Oh! why did I ever meet him .=^ " she sobbed. 
 '• W hy am I thus made miserable .^ Before he came, 
 I was willing enough to marry Royal Stanley ; but 
 now — now I am wretched. How Philip must des- 
 pise me! He is so noble and honorable! Royal 
 Stanley, I hate you, and I'll never, never marry you !" 
 She retired to her chamber and cried till she brought 
 on a headache, and finally fell into an uneasy slumber. 
 Philip Edwards strode from the house in a very 
 unamiable mood. He had found in Edith Evans the 
 one woman he could love, and now she had proved 
 herself a heartless coquette. His faith in feminine 
 nature was shaken, and he determined, in his own 
 mind, never again to give a woman a chance to 
 trample on his affections and cast them aside, as she 
 •would a soiled ribbon. 
 
 He had latelv been graduated from a Medical 
 
122 I'OEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 University, and was promised a position in one of the 
 city hospitals. Prior to entering on his duties, he 
 determined on taking a short vacation, and fixed on 
 Ix, a small town on the coast of Massachusetts, as an 
 agreeable place in which to spend it. 
 
 On his arrival there, he took up his quarters at the 
 only hotel in the town, 'and then looked about for 
 some amusements. He found the town greatly 
 changed during the three years since he had visited it. 
 Some city people had discovered the attractions of the 
 spot, a new hotel had replaced the old one, and a 
 number of summer cottages dotted the shore. 
 
 He was rather sorry for the change but determined 
 to make the most of it. A week was passed very 
 pleasantly with boating and fishing. 
 
 One day, as he was passing along the beach, two 
 ladies came out from one of the cottages. They w^ere 
 Edith and her mother. Philip merely raised his hat 
 and passed on. 
 
 ' ' She here, " he muttered. ' ' Why can I not escape 
 from her presence ? " 
 
 He met her several times afterwards, but always 
 passed without speaking. 
 
 The day before his intended return home, Philip 
 went gunning and did not return till dusk. 
 
 As he entered the hotel, he was accosted by a man 
 who asked if he was a doctor. 
 
 " I am," replied Philip. 
 
 "Then come with me at once,' said the man, 
 " for a little bov has fallen and hurt his leg badly.'" 
 
AGAINST HIS WILL. 12^ 
 
 Philip dropped his bag aiul gun and f(»ll()\vcd ihe 
 man. They crossed the beach and came lo a cottage. 
 When they entered, the first person PhiHp saw was 
 Edith. She was sitting in a low chair, holding in her 
 lap a little boy, who was moaning. She was trying to 
 soothe him. As she saw Philip, her eyes brightened, 
 and she said : 
 
 "There, Willie, there's the good doclor come to 
 help you." 
 
 Lifting his leg tenderly, Philip said : 
 
 " Let me look at it a moment, my little man." 
 
 A short examination, and then he said : 
 
 "The leg is broken. I will set it." 
 
 Some of the bystanders procured splints and other 
 necessary appliances, and then Philip set the limb. 
 Edith steadied it while he applied the splints. 
 
 The operation was successful, and the bo}- was 
 soon easier. 
 
 "Will you be kind enough to see JNIiss Evans 
 .home, doctor ? " asked the boys mother. 
 
 "With pleasure, if she'll permit me," replied Phili}). 
 
 "Certainly," said Edith. 
 
 The night was perfed. Not a ripple stirred the 
 bosom of the ocean as it broke in solemn cadence on 
 the beach. The full moon lighted up the scene and 
 reflected itself in its mammoth mirror. They walked 
 a few minutes in silence. 
 
 Edith broke it finally by remarking : 
 
 " It is a lovely night, is n't it ? " 
 
 " It is indeed charming," was his reply. 
 
124 rOEMS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 A long silence. 
 
 " Why do you shun me so .'' "" asked Kthth. 
 
 " Why should 1 seek your company when you are 
 another's ? " returned Philip bitterly. 
 
 Edith's hand trembled on his arm as she replied : 
 
 ' ' I am no one's. " 
 
 " What do you mean.'" he exclaimed, stopping- 
 and gazing at her earnestly. 
 
 " IMy engagement with Royal Stanley is broken off." 
 
 " And you will be mine ? '' he cried eagerly. 
 
 " Will you take a coquette?'' 
 
 ' ' No, but I will take the dearest girl on earth to me ! " 
 
 His arms were about her and her head was on his 
 breast. The moon beamed on them tenderly and the 
 waves sang a glad song of perfecl; love. 
 
 Edith explained that she and Royal had been 
 betrothed in childhood by their parents, that until she 
 had seen Philip she did not know what love was ; 
 unconsciously she gave herself up to its tender influ- 
 ence, till suddenly awakened to a sense of duty by his 
 declaration, she had led him to believe that she was a 
 coquette. His departure opened her eyes to the real 
 state of her feelings, which being divulged to Royal, 
 he had given her her freedom. 
 
 Philip's pleas for pardon for his hard words, when 
 she refused him, were unnecessary, as he was already 
 forgiven. That evening he had encountered her con- 
 trary to his determination, and when at last they parted 
 at the gate, it was also very much Against His Wii.u 
 
 Orf. I. 1877. 
 

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