When hearts are trumps Part 12

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 coupe;

"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 c.o.c.k-eyed Clerk to an attorney, play at Hamlet, Dream-souled Hamlet, wearing an eyegla.s.s?

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!