THE CHAPERON

I TAKE my chaperon to the play-
She thinks she 's taking me.
And the gilded youth who owns the box,
A proud young man is he;
But how would his young heart be hurt
If he could only know

That not for his sweet sake I go
Nor yet to see the trifling show;
But to see my chaperon flirt.

Her eyes beneath her snowy hair

They sparkle young as mine; There's scarce a wrinkle in her hand So delicate and fine.

And when my chaperon is seen,

They come from everywhere The dear old boys with silvery hair, With old-time grace and old-time air, To greet their old-time queen.

MADAM HICKORY

FIT theme for song, the sylvan maid Who, if she knew not fauns or satyrs, Had conjured oft in mossy shade

Visions of savage pale-face haters; I trow she dined on pork and maize In cabin, single-roomed and sooted, Quite innocent of frills and stays, Warm-hearted and bare-footed.

Her beauty surely brought her note,
Its praises fed her soul like manna;
Gossip o'er furtive tales did gloat,
Sacred to Venus not Diana;
But when the valiant lover came

Weary of fortune's smile and frown

She died without the White House por

tal,

But never wife wore richer crown,

A sacred troth and love immortal:
That love had made a queen of her
Whom haughty dames turned prudish
backs on,

And History smiles but has no slur
For Mistress Andrew Jackson.

BLOSSOM TIME

A terror hedged the hero's name

And she was white as ermine.

Thenceforth, a matron fair and fat,

She shared the doting warrior's station. Thais with Alexander sat

And heard the plaudits of a nation; Though envious souls with poisoned leer Offset her new life by the other, The hero held her yet more dear, Stainless as Mary Mother.

Tenderest blossom-points were seen;
A robin courier proclaimed good cheer:
Summer will soon arrive, for I am here.

And now from cherry boughs in flower
The languid breeze arousing shakes,
With every honeyed breath, a shower

Of feather snow in drifting flakes; And apple trees in bloom, like ricks of white,

Are veiled with smoky, amethystine light.

"I am the bitter herbage of that plain Where no flocks pasture, and no man shall have

Homestead, nor any tenure there may gain
But only for a grave.

"A worthless weed, a drifting, broken weed,
What can I do in all this boundless sea?
No creature of the universe has need
Or any thought of me."

Hither and yonder, as the winds might blow,

The sea-weed floated. Then a refluent tide

Swept it along to meet a galleon's prow "Land ho!" Columbus cried.

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Never the soft rains beat them, nor the snow,

Nor the sharp winds that we marsh-stalkers know.

In the sad halls of heaven they sleep the sleep,

Yea, and no morn breaks through their slumber deep.

These things they cast me forth at eventide to bear

With curving sickle over sod and sand; And no wild tempest drowns me to despair, No terrors fear me in a barren land. Perchance somewhere, across the hollow hill,

Or in the thickets in these dreary meads, Great grapes, uncut, are on the limp vine still,

And waving corn still wears its summer weeds,

Unseen, ungathered in the earlier tide, When larger summer o'er the earth did

glide.

Who knows? Belike from this same sterile path

My harvest hand, heaped with an aftermath,

Shall cast the garner forth before their feet, Shapely and shaven clean and very sweet.

Thanksgiving to the gods!

Wet with the falling rain,

My face and sides are beaten as with rods, And soft and sodden is the endless plain

How long-how long do I endure in vain?