Volume Iv Part 20 (2/2)

”And how do I like my position?”

”And what do I think of New York?”

”And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?”

”And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?”

”And aren't they a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?”

Well, yes,--if you saw us out driving Each day in the Park, four-in-hand, If you saw poor dear mamma contriving To look supernaturally grand,-- If you saw papa's picture, as taken By Brady, and tinted at that,-- You'd never suspect he sold bacon And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier,-- In the bustle and glitter befitting The ”finest soiree of the year,”-- In the mists of a gaze de Chambery, And the hum of the smallest of talk,-- Somehow, Joe, I thought of the ”Ferry,”

And the dance that we had on ”The Fork;”

Of Harrison's bar, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall; Of the candles that shed their soft l.u.s.tre And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis; And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee.

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that ride,--that to me was the rarest, Of--the something you said at the gate.

Ah! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress To ”the best-paying lead in the State.”

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fas.h.i.+on and beauty and money, That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!

(Mamma says my taste still is low), Instead of my triumphs reciting,-- I'm spooning on Joseph,--heigh-ho!

And I'm to be ”finished” by travel,-- Whatever's the meaning of that.

Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good-night!--here's the end of my paper; Good-night!--if the longitude please,-- For maybe, while wasting my taper, Your sun's climbing over the trees.

But know, if you haven't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it,--on Poverty Flat

Bret Harte [1830-1902]

A DEAD LETTER A coeur blesse--l'ombre et le silence.--Balzac

I I drew it from its china tomb;-- It came out feebly scented With some thin ghost of past perfume That dust and days had lent it.

An old, old letter,--folded still!

To read with due composure, I sought the sun-lit window-sill, Above the gray enclosure,

That, glimmering in the sultry haze, Faint-flowered, dimly shaded, Slumbered like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize, Bedizened and brocaded.

A queer old place! You'd surely say Some tea-board garden-maker Had planned it in Dutch William's day To please some florist Quaker,

So trim it was. The yew-trees still, With pious care perverted, Grew in the same grim shapes; and still The lipless dolphin spurted;

Still in his wonted state abode The broken-nosed Apollo; And still the cypress-arbor showed The same umbrageous hollow.

Only,--as fresh young Beauty gleams From coffee-colored laces, So peeped from its old-fas.h.i.+oned dreams The fresher modern traces;

<script>