MY niece from Boston, Minerva Bleak, So learned they call her Madam, With all her ’ologies, French and Greek, With all the queer things she styles antique, Came to see me, an’ Adam. My brother, he wrote before she came, A patient I send to you, Just chase the cobwebs out of her brain, And make her happy and sweet again, Just now, she’s horribly blue. Blue! I cried, ’tis a serious thing, System all out of kilter! But Adam laughed when he saw me bring, Herbs I had gathered late in the spring, To brew into a philter. I tell you it was a big surprise When I got a look at her. Blue, there was nothing blue but her eyes, They were as blue as the summer skies, Adam laughed,—but no matter. She hadn’t been there many weeks When I began to worry. A girl should have roses in her cheeks, Should sing, and laugh sometimes when she speaks, And not be sad and sorry. I knew what was wrong, and told her so, Studyin’, and contrivin’ Over things she had no call to know, An’ quite neglectin’ the life an’ glow That keep the soul a-thrivin’. She had books on science, an’ books on art, An’ books on things still higher, Wonderful things that gave you a start, But not a line, or a word, on the heart Full of its vain desire. Well, she’d been there a month—maybe more, ’Twas dreadful stormy weather, She’d just been telling me o’er and o’er Quaint little stories she’d told before As we sat there together. When Martha came showin’ in young Blaine, (Most as tall as our ceilin,’ Such a splendid fellow, good and plain, With no great beauty to make him vain, But lots of sense an’ feelin.’) I introduced him all right I know— I like him—so does Adam, But Minerva’s face went white as snow, And he said, bowing his head, just so— “We’ve met, have we not, madam?” A nice romance right under my nose, I watched it growin’, growin,’ Along through the weeks of frosts and snows (Oh, I wasn’t blind you may suppose) And bitter north wind blowin’. For a man from Boston came along, (Such an elegant fellow) Played the guitar, wore his hair quite long, Talked to Minerva of art and song In tones so soft an’ mellow. Before long I had my feelings stirred, And vowed he should’nt have her. I listened long, but I never heard From his mouth one good sensible word, Nothin’ but rank palaver. And to watch that girl, who seemed so wise, Listenin’ to all he told her, It made the tears come into my eyes, An’ my strong temper get on the rise. But when the man got bolder. And they talked together, an’ agreed God’s word was but a fable, A good, well-written story, indeed, Why I got right up, as I had need, Stand this? I wasn’t able. I told him he had better take His views where they were needed, Minerva said ’twas a great mistake, Said sometimes her heart did fairly ache To know as much as he did. Then I got Minerva off alone, Ah, she was dear, the sinner, Said I, if old Satan gets this one It won’t be because I haven’t done All that I could to win her. So I told her things tender and true, Told her of love undying, Told her of peace that my own soul knew, Till pride died out of her eyes of blue An’ she fell softly crying. “You were a babe when your mother died, And I stood there beside her, Can you believe that your mother lied When she kissed your face?” I said, an’ cried “The Christ will keep an’ guide her,” “Will bring my little one home to me, As gates of pearl were lifting.” Your mother was very dear to me. Now on what big mysterious sea Would you have her soul drifting. Next day there came through the bitter cold Two offers, or what I suppose was. One in an envelope square and bold, The other all perfume, white and gold, Tied up in hot-house roses. They all went skating that afternoon Down on the frozen river. When I think how they came back so soon, Minerva half-drowned, an’ in a swoon, It always makes me shiver. ’Twas all for the best, that bath so cold, Proved a boon an’ a blessin’, Down went Blaine after her, strong an’ bold, While safe to shore the other one rolled. O ’twas a wholesome lesson! We sat there a happy crowd that night, Though winter winds were blowin’, Minerva, a little weak and white, Her left hand hid in the preacher’s right, Her eyes all soft an’ glowin’ |