Two ladies, not real ladies (no offence— I don’t mean “not real ladies” in that sense), But pictured fancies they—who dwelt between The pages of a weekly magazine. Though often in the selfsame week they met, They were n’t exactly in the selfsame set, And could not know each other. One, I think, Was done in wash; the other, pen and ink. The wash lady (again there’s no offence— I use “wash” in its pure artistic sense) Was a brunette, vivacious, charming wholly; Neither too slim, nor yet too rolly-poly. A dazzling smile had this enchanting creature; Indeed, her most predominating feature Was a continuous show of glittering pearl; And on her forehead hung a little curl— A most distracting little curl; and last, She had a very slight Hebraic cast. Gray eyes the other had, serene and clear; A cold and distant manner; yet I fear Her looks belied her, for she oft was seen Lounging about the beach, or ’mid the green, Of the conservatory’s dim retreat, Always some chappie nestling at her feet. A first-rate fellow she, and looked her best When in a golf or walking costume dressed; In short, the other’s opposite in all, And fearfully and wonderfully tall. One day, by chance, each occupied a place On the same page, exactly face to face, In such a way ’t was possible no more For either one the other to ignore. Then in an instant burst into a flame The fire that had been smouldering. “How came You here?” they both exclaimed, as with one voice. (Here I use asterisks, though not from choice But type has limits, and must play the dunce; When two young ladies both converse at once.) **—!—***?**!!!!!!*****!!***??—— —!!*********!!-----!——!-----*** ***—!!!!!——!—!—!! I left them to their scenes. Next day I found the page in smithereens, And I reflected, “It is very sad That two nice girls should get so awfully mad About a thing for which, had they but known, Two artists were responsible alone.” |
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