Poems by Hattie Howard Part 8

Effusive schoolgirls dote on it; Whose "frontispieces" infinite That need no decoration Are hid beneath its golden dust, Till many a fine, symmetric bust Is lost to admiration.

Smart dudes and ladies' men--the few Who wish they could be ladies too-- Display a sprig of yellow Conspicuous in their b.u.t.tonhole, To captivate a maiden soul Or vex some other fellow.

And spinsters of uncertain age Are clamoring now for "all the rage"

To give a dash of color To their complexions, which appear To be the hue they hold so dear-- Except a trifle duller.

That _negligee_ "blue-stocking" friend, Who never cared her time to spend On mysteries of the toilet, Now wears a sumptuous bouquet And shakes your hand a mile away For fear that you will spoil it.

Delightful widows, dressed in black, Complain with modest sighs they lack That coveted expression, That sort of Indian Summer air Which "relicts" always ought to wear By general concession;

And so lugubrious folds of c.r.a.pe Are crimped and twisted into shape With graceful heads of yellow, That give a winsome toning down To sombre hat and sable gown-- In autumn tintings mellow.

Alas, we only hate the weed!

And think that it must be, indeed, The ladies' last endeavor To match the gentlemen, who flaunt That odious dried tobacco plant At which they puff forever.

My Mother's Hand.

My head is aching, and I wish That I could feel tonight One well-remembered, tender touch That used to comfort me so much, And put distress to flight.

There's not a soothing anodyne Or sedative I know, Such potency can ever hold As that which lovingly controlled My spirit long ago.

How oft my burning cheek as if By Zephyrus was fanned, And nothing interdicted pain Or seemed to make me well again So quick as mother's hand.

'Tis years and years since it was laid, In her own gentle way, On tangled curls of brown and jet Above the downy coverlet 'Neath which the children lay.

As bright as blessed sunlight ray The past comes back to me; Her fingers turn the sacred page For a little group of tender age Who gather at her knee.

And when those hands together clasped Devout and still were we; To whom it seemed G.o.d then and there Must surely answer such a prayer, For none could pray as she.

O buried love with her that pa.s.sed Into the Silent Land!

O haunting vision of the night!

I see, encoffined, still, and white, A mother's face and hand.

A Leap Year Episode.

Such oranges! so fresh and sweet, So large and lovely--and so cheap!

They lay in one delicious heap, And added to the sumptuous feast For each and all in taste expert The acme of all fine dessert; So, singling out the very least As in itself an ample treat, While sparkling repartee and jest Exhilarated host and guest, Of rarity so delicate In dreamy reverie I ate, By magic pinions as it were Transported from this realm of snows To be a happy sojourner Away down where the orange grows; Amid the bloom, the verdure, and The beauty of that tropic land, While redolence seemed wafted in From orchard-groves of Mandarin.

In dinner costume _a la mode_, Expressing from the spongy skin The nectar that ran down her chin In little rills of lusciousness, Sat Maud, the beautiful coquette; Her dainty mouth, like "two lips" wet With morning dew, her crimson dress, A sad discoloration showed Where orange-juice--it was a sin!-- A polka-dot had painted in; Which moved the roguish girl to say Half-ruefully (half-_decollete_)-- "I'm glad it's Leap Year now, for I--"

Her voice was like a moistened lute "Shall wear the flowers, by and by-- I do not like this leaky fruit!"

And looking straight and saucily At cousin Ned, her _vis-a-vis_; While Will, who never dared propose, Was blushing like a red, red rose.

The company was large, and she Touched elbows with the exquisite, Gay Archibald, who took her wit And pertness all as meant for him; Who, thereby lifted some degrees Above less-favored devotees, With rainbow sails began to trim His craft of sweet felicity; So mirth in reckless afterlude Convulsed the merry mult.i.tude, Who laughed at Archie's self-esteem, And pitied Will's long-cherished dream; While all declared, for her and Ned-- His face was like a silver tray-- The wedding-banquet should be spread Before a twelvemonth pa.s.sed away.

But, ah, the sequel--blind were we To woman and her strategy!

For he so long afraid to speak Bore off the bride within a week.

If.

If all the sermons good men preach And all the precepts that they teach Were gathered into one Unbroken line of silver speech, The shining filament might reach From earth unto the sun.

If all the stories ever told By wild romancers, young or old, Into a thread were drawn, And from its cable coil unrolled, 'Twould span those misty hills of gold That heaven seems resting on.

If every folly, every freak, From day to day, from week to week, Is written in "The Book,"

With all the idle words we speak, Would it not crimson many a cheek Upon the page to look?

If all the good deeds that we do From honest motives pure and true Shall there recorded be, Known unto G.o.d and angels too, Is it not sad they are so few And wrought so charily?

Perfect Character.

He lives but half who never stood By the grave of one held dear, And out of the deep, dark loneliness Of a heart bereaved and comfortless, From sorrow's crystal plent.i.tude, Feeling his loss severe, Dropped a regretful tear.

Oh, life's divinest draught doth not In the wells of joy abound!

For the purest streams are those that flow Out of the depths of crushing woe, As from the springs of love and thought Hid in some narrow mound, Making it holy ground.

He hath been blessed who sometimes knelt Owning that G.o.d is just, And in the stillness of cypress shade Rosemary's tender symbol laid Upon a cherished shrine, and felt Strengthened in faith and trust Over the precious dust.

So perfect character is wrought, Rounded and beautified, By the alchemy of that strange alloy, The intermingling of grief and joy; So nearer Heaven the spirit, brought Bleeding, so sorely tried, Finds its diviner side.

The Miracle of Spring.

What touch is like the Spring's?

By dainty fingerings Such rare delight to give, 'Tis luxury to live Amid florescent things.

Through weary months of snow When Boreas swept low, How many an anxious hour We watched one little flower, And tried to make it grow;

And thrilled with ecstasy When, half distrustfully, A timid bud appeared, A tender scion reared In window greenery.

But lo! Spring's wealth of bloom And richness of perfume Comes as by miracle; Then why not possible Within a curtained room?