The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 16

The Norseman Thorkill is brave and fair--"

"Hush!" cried a voice at his shoulder.

Walter Thornbury [1828-1876]

MISS LOU

When thin-strewn memory I look through, I see most clearly poor Miss Loo, Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, Her nose, her hair--her m.u.f.fled words, And how she would open her green eyes, As if in some immense surprise, Whenever as we sat at tea, She made some small remark to me.

'Tis always drowsy summer when From out the past she comes again; The westering sunshine in a pool Floats in her parlor still and cool; While the slim bird its lean wires shakes, As into piercing song it breaks; Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajar Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar; And I am sitting, dull and shy, And she with gaze of vacancy,

And large hands folded on the tray, Musing the afternoon away; Her satin bosom heaving slow With sighs that softly ebb and flow, And her plain face in such dismay, It seems unkind to look her way; Until all cheerful back will come Her gentle gleaming spirit home: And one would think that poor Miss Loo Asked nothing else, if she had you.

Walter De la Mare [1873-

THE POET AND THE WOOD-LOUSE

A portly Wood-louse, full of cares, Transacted eminent affairs Along a parapet where pears Unripened fell And vines embellished the sweet airs With muscatel.

Day after day beheld him run His scales a-twinkle in the sun About his business never done; Night's slender span he Spent in the home his wealth had won-- A red-brick cranny.

Thus, as his Sense of Right directed, He lived both honored and respected, Cherished his children and protected His duteous wife, And naught of diffidence deflected His useful life.

One mid-day, hastening to his Club, He spied beside a water-tub The owner of each plant and shrub A humble Bard-- Who turned upon the conscious grub A mild regard.

"Eh?" quoth the Wood-louse, "Can it be A Higher Power looks down to see My praiseworthy activity And notes me plying My Daily Task?--Nor strange, dear me, But gratifying!"

To whom the Bard: I still divest My orchard of the Insect Pest, That you are such is manifest, Prepare to die.-- And yet, how sweetly does your crest Reflect the sky!

"Go then forgiven, (for what ails Your naughty life this fact avails Tu pardon) mirror in your scales Celestial blue, Till the sun sets and the light fails The skies and you."

May all we proud and bustling parties Whose lot in forum, street and mart is Stand in conspectu Deitatis And save our face, Reflecting where our scaly heart is Some skyey grace.

Helen Parry Eden [18

STUDENTS

John Brown and Jeanne at Fontainebleau-- 'Twas Toussaint, just a year ago; Crimson and copper was the glow Of all the woods at Fontainebleau.

They peered into that ancient well, And watched the slow torch as it fell.

John gave the keeper two whole sous, And Jeanne that smile with which she woos John Brown to folly. So they lose The Paris train. But never mind!-- All-Saints are rustling in the wind, And there's an inn, a crackling fire-- It's deux-cinquante, but Jeanne's desire); There's dinner, candles, country wine, Jeanne's lips--philosophy divine!

There was a bosquet at Saint Cloud Wherein John's picture of her grew To be a Salon masterpiece-- Till the rain fell that would not cease.

Through one long alley how they raced!-- 'Twas gold and brown, and all a waste Of matted leaves, moss-interlaced.

Shades of mad queens and hunter-kings And thorn-sharp feet of dryad-things Were company to their wanderings; Then rain and darkness on them drew.

The rich folks' motors honked and flew.

They hailed an old cab, heaven for two; The bright Champs-Elysees at last-- Though the cab crawled it sped too fast.

Paris, upspringing white and gold: Flamboyant arch and high-enscrolled War-sculpture, big, Napoleonic-- Fierce chargers, angels histrionic; The royal sweep of gardened s.p.a.ces, The pomp and whirl of columned Places; The Rive Gauche, age-old, gay and gray; The impa.s.se and the loved cafe; The tempting tidy little shops; The convent walls, the glimpsed tree-tops; Book-stalls, old men like dwarfs in plays; Talk, work, and Latin Quarter ways.

May--Robinson's, the chestnut trees-- Were ever crowds as gay as these?

The quick pale waiters on a run, The round green tables, one by one, Hidden away in amorous bowers-- Lilac, laburnum's golden showers.

Kiss, clink of gla.s.ses, laughter heard, And nightingales quite undeterred.

And then that last extravagance-- O Jeanne, a single amber glance Will pay him!--"Let's play millionaire For just two hours--on princely fare, At some hotel where lovers dine A deux and pledge across the wine."

They find a damask breakfast-room, Where stiff silk roses range their bloom.

The garcon has a splendid way Of bearing in grand dejeuner.

Then to be left alone, alone, High up above Rue Castiglione; Curtained away from all the rude Rumors, in silken solitude; And, John, her head upon your knees-- Time waits for moments such as these.

Florence Wilkinson [18

"ONE, TWO, THREE!"

It was an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy that was half-past three; And the way that they played together Was beautiful to see.

She couldn't go running and jumping, And the boy, no more could he; For he was a thin little fellow, With a thin little twisted knee.

They sat in the yellow sunlight, Out under the maple tree; And the game that they played I'll tell you, Just as it was told to me.

It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing, Though you'd never have known it to be-- With an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy with a twisted knee.

The boy would bend his face down On his one little sound right knee, And he'd guess where she was hiding, In guesses One, Two, Three!

"You are in the china-closet!"

He would cry, and laugh with glee-- It wasn't the china closet, But he still had Two and Three.

"You are up in papa's big bedroom, In the chest with the queer old key!"

And she said: "You are warm and warmer; But you're not quite right," said she.

"It can't be the little cupboard Where mamma's things used to be-- So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma!"

And he found her with his Three.

Then she covered her face with her fingers, That were wrinkled and white and wee, And she guessed where the boy was hiding, With a One and a Two and a Three.

And they never had stirred from their places, Right under the maple tree-- This old, old, old, old lady And the boy with the lame little knee-- This dear, dear, dear old lady, And the boy who was half-past three.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]