When hearts are trumps Part 5

_He_: Well, it might give me hope, where before There was none,--quite a boon from the lips you adore When you 're hungry for love.

_She (coquetting)_: Or who knows but it might--

_He_: Yes, it might blot from life every semblance of light As the clouds blot the moon on a storm-troubled night.

But tell me.

_She_: He did.

_He_: And your answer was?

_She_: No.

_He_: You mean it, or are you coquetting yet?

_She_: Oh!

I just told him I cared for another--he smiled.

It was merely to him so much pleasure beguiled From a girl. Charge it up profit?--loss?--tell me which?

He thinks I am pretty, they say, but, not rich.

He would love me, perhaps, for a season or two, So I told him that I loved another.

_He_: And who?

_She (archly)_: Really, must I tell _you?_

_He_: No--your finger--yes, this!

A solitaire--done! and now quickly!

_She (feigning reluctance)_: One!

_He (ecstatically)_: Kiss.

Why he asked for a Vacation.

"Dear Jack: It's delightfully gay here,-- Old Paris seemed never so fine,-- And mamma says we're going to stay here, And papa--well, papa sips his wine And says nothing. You know him of old, dear.

He's only too happy to rest,-- After making three millions in gold, dear.

He's played out, it must be confessed,-- And I--I'm to wed an old Baron Three weeks from to-day, in great style (He's as homely and gaunt as old Charon, And they say that his past has been vile); And I've promised to cut you hereafter,-- Small chance, though, we ever shall meet,-- So let's turn our old love into laughter, And face the thing through. Shall we, sweet?

Can you give me up, Jack, to this _roue_, Just because we may always be poor?

There's still enough time, dear, _et tu es_ _Un brave_,--you will come, I am sure.

Put your trunk on the swiftest Cunarder, And don't give me up, Jack, for--well, There are things in this world that are harder Than poverty. Come to me!

NELL."

The Editor's Valentine.

The editor sat in his old arm-chair (Half his work undone he was well aware), While the flickering light in the dingy room Made the usual newspaper office gloom.

Before him news from the North and South, A long account of a foreign drouth, A lot of changes in local ads, The report of a fight between drunken cads,

And odds and ends and smoke and talk,-- A reporter drawing cartoons in chalk On the dirty wall, while others laughed, And one wretch whistled, and all of them chaffed.

But the editor leaned far back in his chair; He ran his hands through his iron-gray hair, And stole ten minutes from work to write A valentine to his wife that night.

He thought of metre, he thought of rhyme.

'Twas a race between weary brains and time.

He tried to write as he used to when His heart was as young as his untried pen.

He started a sonnet, but gave it up.

A rondeau failed for a rhyme to "cup."

And the old clock ticked his time away, For the editor's mind would go astray.

He thought of the days when they were young, And all but love to the winds was flung, He thought of the way she used to wear Her wayward tresses of golden hair.

He thought of the way she used to blush.

He thought of the way he used to gush.

And a smile and a tear went creeping down The face that so long had known a frown.

And this is what the editor wrote: No poem--merely a little note, Simple and manly, but tender, too; Three little words--they were, "I love you."

Acting.

Ah, my arms hold you fast! How can they be so bold When my hands offer nothing of silver or gold?

Can it be that I see a new light in your eye?

Can it be that I heard then a womanly sigh?

Ah, I feel such delight, and such joy, such surprise, That I hardly dare lift my own sight to your eyes

Ah, my arms hold you fast, and my lips touch your cheek, And I'm crying, "Love, answer me; speak to me--speak!"

And the answer you give to my longing distress Is that word, with a blush and a kiss, that word "Yes."

Ah, my arms hold you fast, and I burn with a fire That nothing but long-waiting love can inspire.

Yet I know you mean nothing--mean nothing, because It's mere acting. Ah me, I can hear the applause.

An Apache Love-Song.[1]