When hearts are trumps

Her Fan. Her Fan. A dainty thing of silk and lace, Of feathers, and of paint, Held often to her laughing face When I assume the saint. Too dainty far to mix with these Old pipes, cigars, and books Of bachelordom,—rare life of ease,— Rare friends, rare wines, rare cooks. 'Twill smell of stale tobacco smoke Ere many days I fear, And hear full many a rattling joke, And feel, perhaps, a tear. Why is it here? Alas for me! I broke it at a ball. "Apologize—repair it" See? Five dollars gone,—that's all. Certainty. Phyllis, love may be for you, But it is not for me; For fortune comes between us two, And says it must not be. Another fellow's fortune, too; A million, as I know. You ask me how I found it out? Your mater told me so. Caught. When Phyllis turned her eyes on me I blushed and hesitated; For though on terms familiar, we Were not at all related. I felt her mild, reproachful glance, And knew her words would rankle. To tell the truth, I had, by chance, Been looking at her ankle. An Important Distinction. She said, without a single sigh, And hardly hesitation, That she would be my sister, aye, Or any fond relation. I answered cunningly, "Ah me, I've sisters by the dozen; Please make it in the next degree, For one may wed a cousin." Two Kinds. Oh, her eyes, her beautiful eyes! How they melt when she sobs or she sighs! How they droop When she blushes! How they flash When she crushes The love she's compelled to disguise! Oh, her i's, her beautiful i's! Who can tell them apart though he tries From her m's Or her e's, N's, or u's As you please In her letters? I offer a prize. What it Is. Just a little melancholy, Just a tear or two, Just a word that's naughty, Just a spiteful "pooh!" Just an extra cocktail, Just a flower-bill due, Just another ring to take Unto my friend, the Jew. That is what it is to be Rejected, Miss, by you. In her Pew. She looked up from her pew (Why she did, Heaven knows); But I smiled; wouldn't you? 'T was the right thing to do; And, pshaw, nobody knew. Then I tried hard to pose, But a look of hers froze All my blood. And I woo Her in future, old chappie, when not in her pew. The Suspicious Lover to the Star. O silver star, That seeth far, Tell my poor heart what she is doing; And ease my pain, Who would again Be at her side, and still be wooing. Does she regret The token set By me upon her slender finger? Or in the dance Do her eyes glance At it sometimes,—and sometimes linger? Be, silver star, Particular, And do not be afraid of hurting. I know her well, And truth to tell, I fear my lady love is flirting. A Slight Surprise. Come, lovely Laura! strike the lyre, And I will sing a song to thee That will thy maiden heart inspire With love, and love alone for me. Why hesitate? Come, strike the lyre! Down where the chord is minor D. Of wooing thee I'll never tire. Good gracious! Why do you strike me? Past vs. Present. Through all the days I courted her My memory fondly floats, When love and I exhorted her To read, re-read my notes. But now I love her ten times more, And my soul fairly gloats To think that my hard times are o'er,— For now she pays my notes. The Usual Way. Three young maidens sat in a row, With three grim dragons behind 'em; And each of these maidens had a young beau, And they all of 'em made 'em mind 'em. These three maidens are married now; In three brown-stone fronts you'll find 'em. But ever since the very first row They can none of 'em make 'em mind 'em. A Difference in Style. Sweet Phyllis sat upon a stile, With love and me beside her, Her red lips in a pouting smile. A pout? Her eyes belied her. My thoughts were merry as the day,— And though the joke was shocking,— I shouted quick, and turned away: "A spider's on your stocking!" The fun, of course, I did not see, But heard an exclamation That sounded much like "Gracious me!" And guessed the consternation. Then Phyllis sat upon the style Of men who would deride her; But she no longer sits the while With love and me beside her. Afraid. Down the broad stairs, Stranger to cares, My love comes tripping and smiling and free; The snows on her breast Are a blush unconfessed. I wonder what fate has in waiting for me? My heart seems to throb Like a broken-paced cob; I fear I'm a coward in love, as they say. She's commencing to laugh; How the fellows will chaff. By Jove, I'm not going to ask her to-day. Ye Retort Exasperating. "Sweete maide," ye lovesicke youthe remarked, "Thou'rt fickle as my star! By far ye worste I ever sparked, You are! You really are! Albeit yt my brains are nil, I'm gallante as can be; I'lle be to you whate'er you wille, If you'lle be more to me." "Faire youthe," ye maide replied, "I do Not barter, as a rule, But I'lle be sister untoe you,— Be you my Aprille foole." A Rhyming Reverie. It was a dainty lady's glove; A souvenir to rhyme with love. It was the memory of a kiss, So called to make it rhyme with bliss. There was a month at Mt. Desert, Synonymous and rhymes with flirt. A pretty girl and lots of style, Which rhymes with happy for a while. There came a rival old and bold, To make him rhyme with gold and sold. A broken heart there had to be. Alas, the rhyme just fitted me. A Sure Winner. Oh, treat me not with cold disdain, My pretty maids of fashion; Look upon the hearts you've slain, And listen to my passion. Though I am not so peerly proud As men of higher station, So handsome that the madding crowd Collects in admiration; And have, perhaps, too great a store Of sandy hair and freckles, I've mortgages and bonds galore, And muchly many shekels. You yet may journey league or mile To wed, as you're aware. Come, cease your longing for mere style, And take A. MILLIONNAIRE. Tantalization. She stands beneath the mistletoe As though she did not know it. She looks quite unconcerned, you know, And pretty, yes,—but, blow it, I have to turn and walk away; I'll have revenge anon. She knows quite well, alack the day, That my wife is looking on. His Usual Fate. All one season Lost to reason, Breathing sea air By the beach, where Young hearts mingle, Love was playful All the day full. We were single. Now with mournful Looks and scornful Turns he too us; He is through us, Worried, harried. Love is sighing; Love is dying. We are married. On Two Letters from Her. I wrote her a letter. It took her quite two To answer it after she'd read it. My letter contained what perhaps even you Have written,—at least, you have said it. My letter contained the old tale of a heart That longed to be linked to another; And I told her to think on each separate part, And ask the advice of her mother. She apparently did, for the very next mail Brought me a message of woe. It took her two letters; they made me turn pale; For they were the letters "N" "O". A Serenade—en Deux Langues. Sous le maple, mort de night, Avec le lune beams shining through, Ecoutez-moi, mon hapless plight. Je vous aime—qui lovez-vous? Je plink les strings de mon guitar. Il fait bien froid; J'am nervous, too. Dites-moi, dites-moi ce que vous are? Je vous aime; qui lovez-vous? Tu es si belle, je veux vous wed. Mon père est riche—comme riche est you? Bonne nuit, adieu; J'ai cold in head. Je vous aime—qui lovez-vous. When a Girl says "No." When a girl says "Yes," There's a quick caress, A kiss, a sigh, A melting eye. There's a vision of things That hard cash brings,— A winter at Nice With a servant apiece, A long yachting cruise, Name in "personal news," Plenty of wine, Two hours to dine; But it's different quite when a girl says "No." When a girl says "No," It's so different, oh! No kiss, ten sighs, Two tear-dimmed eyes. There's a vision of things That poverty brings,— A winter complete On Uneasy Street, A temptation to rob, A twelve-dollar job, A boarding-house meal, And you pray a new deal; For it's different quite when a girl says "No." Uncertainty. Jenny has a laughing eye, Yet she is most wondrous shy. But why? Jenny says she hates the men; Still she'll marry. Artful Jen! But when? I've a rival who is rich; With one of us sweet Jen will hitch. But which? Her Peculiarities. The Question of the Learned Man . How doth the little blushing maid Employ each shining hour? Doth she, in sober thought arrayed, Learn knowledge that is power? Say, doth she mend her father's socks, And cook his evening meal? And doth she make her own sweet frocks With adolescent zeal? The Reply of the Observant Youth . Not much; not much. She knows it all; She doth not need to learn. She thinks of naught but rout or ball, And which youth will be her'n. She hustles for a diamond ring; She cares not for her dad. She does not make him anything,— Except, she makes him mad. Tying the Strings of her Shoe. Tying the strings of her shoe, With only the moon to see me. Could I be quick? Could you? That is the time to woo What would any one do? I tied no knot that would free me, Tying the strings of her shoe, With only the moon to see me. When You are Rejected. Don't say "Good day," Then grab the door and slam it. Be quite Polite; Go out, and then say, "---- it." A Bachelor's Views. A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,—at least its embers; A dog, a glass;— 'T is thus we pass Such hours as one remembers. Who'd wish to wed? Poor Cupid's dead These thousand years, I wager. The modern maid Is but a jade, Not worth the time to cage her. In silken gown To "take" the town Her first and last ambition. What good is she To you or me Who have but a "position"? So let us drink To her,—but think Of him who has to keep her; And sans a wife Let's spend our life In bachelordom,—it's cheaper. My Cigarette. Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry? Why this small tear, So pure and clear, In each blue eye? 'My cigarette— I'm smoking yet?' (I'll be discreet.) I toss it, see, Away from me Into the street. You see I do All things for you. Come, let us sup. (But oh, what joy To be that boy Who picked it up.) Discovered. AN EPISODE ON BEACON HILL. You are frowning; I don't wonder. Reading Browning; Hard as thunder! Oh, excuse me; You adore it? You amuse me; I abhor it. Let me see it. Who has taught you? Now to me it— Ah, I've caught you. It must be hard so (Hence the frown?) To read the bard so— Upside down. The Ice in the Punch. The wail of the 'cello is soft, sweet, and low; There are strains of romance in the thrumming banjo. The violin's note—feel it float in your ear; And the harp makes one fancy that angels are near. The voice of a young girl can reach to the heart; The song of the baritone—well, it is art. The flute and the lute in gavotte—the guitar In soft serenade—how entrancing they are! But to all the mad millions Who dance at cotillons There's naught like the clink and the clank and the crunch Of the ice in the punch. So here's to the recipe, ancient in Spain, And here's to the basket of cobwebbed champagne. Again to the genius who grows the sharp spice, But ten times to King Winter who furnishes ice; For to all the mad millions Who dance at cotillons There's naught like the clink and the clank and the crunch Of the ice in the punch. The Tale of a Broken Heart. She was a Beautiful, Dutiful, Grand, And rollicking queen of Bohemia, With a cheek that was Rosier, Cosier, And As soft as a lily, and creamier. She was always com- pelling me, Selling me, I Was her slave, but she treated me shamefully. She went on the Stage, was a Rage, as a— Why— As a page, and they spoke of her blamefully. And then in the Papers her Capers were Writ. I love her no longer,—I swear it; But I oft spend a Dollar and Holler and Sit Through her antics. Oh, how can I bear it? Where did you get it? Pray, ladies, ye of wondrous clothes, That draw admiring "ahs!" and "ohs!" And "By Joves!" as men chat, Permit me,—love the right bestows,— Where did you get that hat? The very hat, sweet maids, I mean, So often now on Broadway seen, That is so very flat; Black as a rule, but sometimes green. Where did you get that hat? In shape an oyster-dish,—the crown,— A ribbon bristles up and down, Quite striking—yes, all that; The sweetest, neatest thing in town! Where did you get that hat? No "No!" The word Fell upon my ears Like the knell of a funeral bell. I had fondly expected A whispered "yes" that Would steal into my soul Like the song of an angel From some distant Aidenn. I arose and brushed off The knees of my trousers. "Farewell," I said; "you have ruined my life." "Nonsense," she replied in the cold, cutting voice Of a woman who has been used to $100 bills And a coupé; "There have been thirty-seven before you, and they Are all married and happy now. You see I know all about young men." "I do not think a young, timid girl Should 'No' so much," I answered. And going out (Carefully escorted by the butler, for there was A better overcoat than mine in the hall), I left her alone and unloved,—with no one to care for her Save a couple of dozen servants And a doting father and mother. A Midsummer Night's Tempest. AN EPILOGUE TO HAMLET, PERFORMED BY AMATEURS. SCENE: Elsinore—a platform before the castle (on an improvised stage). Inky darkness. Shade of Hamlet (solus) . Shade of Hamlet : Oh, did you see him, did you see the knave, The spindle-shanked, low-browed, and cock-eyed Clerk to an attorney, play at Hamlet, Dream-souled Hamlet, wearing an eyeglass? Oh, it was horrible. ( Enter Shade of Laertes .) Shade of Laertes : What's the matter with Hamlet? S. of H. : He's not all right. No, by the fame of Shakespeare, he's all wrong. A certain convocation of talented amateurs Are e'en at him. Your amateur is your only emperor for talent; There's not a genius in the universe Who will essay as much. S. of L. : Or, who will imitate nature so abominably. Your head is level, Ham., and I—even I, Laertes, suffered at the hands of one Whose fiery hair, parted in the middle Like a cranberry pie, caused me to believe That some of nature's journeymen had made a man, And not made him well, he imitated nature So abominably. S. of H. :       Ha' the fair Ophelia! (Enter Shade of Ophelia .) S. of O. : Yes, my lord, thine own Ophelia, Come back to earth with heaviness o' grief Thy madness ne'er begot, for I have seen The efforts of a lisping, smirking maid, As graceful as a bean-pole, and as lean. Attempt to paint the sorrow of my heart. Oh, I would get me to a nunnery. S of H. :       Let me Ophelyour pulse. Mad—quite mad; and all because A creature whom these mortals call a Miss, Quite properly, as her efforts are amiss, Would fain portray thee. Soft you, now! O fair Ophelia. Nymph in thine orisons Be all her sins remembered. Why let the stricken deer go weep, The untrained amateur play? All those that watch must surely weep. So wise men stay away. ( Flickering blue lights and curtain .) The Abused Gallant. Two lovely maidens (woe is me!) Play tennis with my heart; And each is wondrous fair to see, And each is wondrous smart. In learning, money, beauty, birth, None can surpass them—none. But each receives my "court" with mirth, And tells the other one. My "court"! The term is fitly used— A tennis court, you see. And I know well I am abused, By the "racket" they give me. Maud strikes my heart a brutal blow, And Mabel cries out, "Fault!" And back and forth I undergo A feminine assault. Maud asks my age. Alas! I hear Sweet Mabel say, "The goose Is very nearly forty, dear." Maud answers, "Oh, 'the deuce'!" And so my poor heart with their wit Is volleyed oft and oft, Till Mabel cries, while holding it, "This heart is far too soft." And firing it into the net, She says, with girlish vim, "Although he isn't in our 'set,' We're making 'game' of him." And making game they are, I swear By all the saints above, With all the terms of tennis there Save but the sweetest, "love." After the Ball. A last word in the vestibule, A touch of taper fingers, A scent of roses, sweet and cool, When she has gone still lingers. He pauses at the carriage door To sigh a bit and ponder He thinks the matter o'er and o'er, And all his senses wander. With mantle thrown aside in haste, Her heart a bit uncertain, And neither time nor love to waste, She watches through the curtain. And she has played him well, he knows Nor has he dared to stop her. She wonders when he will propose; He wonders how he'll drop her. Vanity Fair. Oh, whence, oh, where Is Vanity Fair? I want to be seen with the somebodies there. I've money and beauty and college-bred brains; Though my 'scutcheon's not spotless, who'll mind a few stains? To caper I wish in the chorus of style, And wed an aristocrat after a while So please tell me truly, and please tell me fair, Just how many miles it's from Madison Square. It's here, it's there, Is Vanity Fair. It's not like a labyrinth, not like a lair. It's North and it's South, and it's East and it's West; You can see it, oh, anywhere, quite at its best. Dame Fashion is queen, Ready Money is king, You can join it, provided you don't know a thing. It's miles over here, and it's miles over there; And it's not seven inches from Madison Square. For the Long Voyage. "Were I a captain bold," I said, And gently clasped her hand, "Wouldst sail with me, by fancy led, To every foreign strand? "Wouldst help me furl my silver sail, And be my trusty crew? Wouldst stand by in the midnight gale, My pilot tried and true?" "Well, no," she answered, blushing red, "Such heavy work I hate. But,"—listen what the maiden said,— "I would be your first mate." This is the end. The printing was done by John Wilson & Son, Cambridge for Fredrick A. Stokes Company New York MDCCCICVIII *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN HEARTS ARE TRUMPS *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. 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