Point Lace and Diamonds Part 1

Point Lace and Diamonds.

by George A. Baker, Jr.

RETROSPECTION.

I'd wandered, for a week or more, Through hills, and dells, and doleful green'ry, Lodging at any carnal door, Sustaining life on pork, and scenery.

A weary scribe, I'd just let slip My collar, for a short vacation, And started on a walking trip, That cheapest form of dissipation--

And vilest, Oh! confess my pen, That I, prosaic, rather hate your "Ode to a Sky-lark" sort of men; I really am not fond of Nature.

Mad longing for a decent meal And decent clothing overcame me; There came a blister on my heel-- I gave it up; and who can blame me?

Then wrote my "Pulse of Nature's Heart,"

Which I procured some little cash on, And quickly packed me to depart In search of "gilded haunts" of fashion, Which I might puff at column rates, To please my host and meet my reckoning; "Base is the slave who"--hesitates When wealth, and pleasure both are beckoning.

I sought; I found. Among the swells I had my share of small successes, Made languid love to languid belles And penn'd descriptions of their dresses.

Ah! Millionairess Millicent, How fair you were! How you adored me!

How many tender hours we spent-- And, oh, beloved, how you bored me!

APRIL, 1871.

Is not that fragmentary bit Of my young verse a perfect prism, Where worldly knowledge, pleasant wit, True humor, kindly cynicism, Refracted by the frolic gla.s.s Of Fancy, play with change incessant?

JUNE, 1874.

Great Caesar! What a sweet young a.s.s I must have been, when adolescent!

AUGUST, 1886.

A ROSEBUD IN LENT.

You saw her last, the ball-room's belle, A _souffle_, lace and roses blent; Your worldly worship moved her then; She does not know you now, in Lent.

See her at prayer! Her pleading hands Bear not one gem of all her store.

Her face is saint-like. Be rebuked By those pure eyes, and gaze no more

Turn, turn away! But carry hence The lesson she has dumbly taught-- That bright young creature kneeling there With every feeling, every thought

Absorbed in high and holy dreams Of--new Spring dresses truth to say, To them the time is sanctified From Shrove-tide until Easter day.

A REFORMER.

You call me trifler, faineant, And bid me give my life an aim!-- You're most unjust, dear. Hear me out, And own your hastiness to blame.

I live with but a single thought; My inmost heart and soul are set On one sole task--a mighty one-- To simplify our alphabet.

Five vowel sounds we use in speech; They're A, and E, I, O, and U: I mean to cut them down to four.

You "wonder what good _that_ will do."

Why, this cold earth will bloom again, Eden itself be half re-won, When breaks the dawn of my success And U and I at last are one.

IN THE RECORD ROOM, SURROGATE'S OFFICE.

A tomb where legal ghouls grow fat; Where buried papers, fold on fold, Crumble to dust, that 'thwart the sun Floats dim, a pallid ghost of gold.

The day is dying. All about, Dark, threat'ning shadows lurk; but still I ponder o'er a dead girl's name Fast fading from a dead man's will.

Katrina Harland, fair and sweet, Sole heiress of your father's land, Full many a gallant wooer rode To snare your heart, to win your hand.

And one, perchance--who loved you best, Feared men might sneer--"he sought her gold"-- And never spoke, but turned away Stubborn and proud, to call you cold.

Cold? Would I knew! Perhaps you loved, And mourned him all a virgin life.

Perhaps forgot his very name As happy mother, happy wife.

Unanswered, sad, I turn away-- "You loved _her_ first, then?" _First_--well--no-- You little goose, the Harland will Was proved full sixty years ago.

But Katrine's lands to-day are known To lawyers as the Gla.s.s House tract; Who were her heirs, no record shows; The t.i.tle's bad, in point of fact, If she left children, at her death, I've been retained to clear the t.i.tle; And all the questions, raised above, Are, you'll perceive, extremely vital.

DE LUNATICO.

The squadrons of the sun still hold The western hills, their armor glances, Their crimson banners wide unfold, Low-levelled lie their golden lances.

The shadows lurk along the sh.o.r.e, Where, as our row-boat lightly pa.s.ses, The ripples startled by our oar, Hide murmuring 'neath the hanging gra.s.ses.

Your eyes are downcast, for the light Is lingering on your lids--forgetting How late it is--for one last sight Of you the sun delays his setting.

One hand droops idly from the boat, And round the white and swaying fingers, Like half-blown lilies gone afloat, The amorous water, toying, lingers.

I see you smile behind your book, Your gentle eyes concealing, under Their drooping lids a laughing look That's partly fun, and partly wonder That I, a man of presence grave, Who fight for bread 'neath Themis' banner Should all at once begin to rave In this--I trust--Aldrichian manner.

They say our lake is--sad, but true-- The mill-pond of a Yankee village, Its swelling sh.o.r.es devoted to The various forms of kitchen tillage; That you're no more a maiden fair, And I no lover, young and glowing; Just an old, sober, married pair, Who, after tea, have gone out rowing

Ah, dear, when memories, old and sweet, Have fooled my reason thus, believe me, Your eyes can only help the cheat, Your smile more thoroughly deceive me.

I think it well that men, dear wife, Are sometimes with such madness smitten, Else little joy would be in life, And little poetry be written.

PRO PATRIA ET GLORIA.

The lights blaze high in our brilliant rooms; Fair are the maidens who throng our halls; Soft, through the warm and perfumed air, The languid music swells and falls.