  (A Family Epistle from a Girl full of “Grace” to “Big Sis” in Cherokee Park.) Dear Sis— You’re losing fun galore, rusticating just at present, Although fresh eggs and buttermilk and country fare are pleasant. Music and mirth are in the air—not razors keen and sharp— ’Tis the touch of old Gerardi, a-twanging on his harp. Love rages in his silver flute; love pines upon his viol; Love pleads his cause with eloquence which lists to no denial; And he or she who will not bow to Cupid’s charming mother, I set him down a dullard—if you praise him, you’re another. The crowds keep sailing upward upon the elevators, And the boys are very, very small and the girls all sweet potatoes; There are taffetas and mousselines, and laces and illusion, Like all the rainbows since the flood, crushed in one grand confusion. Gerardi’s high on Seelbach’s Roof, with harp and flute and fiddle; Women divine crowd thickly round, and the devil’s in the middle. Did you ever hear a harpist like the Florentine, pray tell me? Like some sweet mocking-bird he soars, and his notes with rapture swell me. The moon and stars shine bright aloft; “on such a night as this” Lorenzo fled with Jessica, and kisses rhymed with bliss, “As far as Belmont”—this hanging bower hath treasure Of beauteous girls whose voice and glance are redolent of pleasure. The waiters hurry, skurry, with ring and clink of glasses, But the sparkling wines flow dimmer than the laughing eyes of lasses, And the myriad golden planets which glitter in yon skies Are eclipsed by eyes which soften at Gerardi’s melodies. Sore heart of baffled hopes, against consolation proof, Hast thou found life’s gilded web of rotten warp and woof? Drink deep of the nepenthe of woman’s witching tongue, And hear the Florentine repeat the songs which Petrarch sung. He culls the flowers of Paradise and squeezes their aroma With “Kentucky Home” and “Hearts and Flowers” and heavenly “La Paloma.” The very stars stoop down to kiss this old Italian wizard, While I—I just feel weak and faint and hollow round the gizzard. I soar aloft among the stars, inhaling the aroma Of the silver songs of Florence and Madrid’s “La Paloma,” And “Love Me and the World is Mine” in melody divine Breathes from Gerardi’s harp-strings like bouquet of Roman wine. And Weber’s “Invitation”—he pours it like old wine— “Come right on in, oh stranger! the water’s very fine!” And oh! my willing soul would stay ’mid girls and song like this And dream and sigh itself away in everlasting bliss. And there, within my vision’s range, I see a bearded “Colonel,” With jingling spurs—he fears no peers—it is the Courier-Journal. He mounts his foam-flecked war-steed, so spirited and gay; He’s going for a whirl to-night, around the “Milky Way.” He sings the old camp-meeting songs of Democratic Zion And Salvation Army melodies in praise of Billy Bryan. And from New England’s silver springs to the glaciers of Alaska He calls on all to march behind bold Billy of Nebraska. I guess he’ll skim its richest cream for Democratic butter, While many an unhorsed rival lies cussin’ in the gutter. His paragraphs are golden lamps which flare around a palace, And he pours the wine of genius from an overflowing chalice. Strong-limbed, sound-winded “Dark Horse”—he’s “bearded like a pard”—(Good-bye, old Pard!) An expert he in “sharps and flats”—the match of old Gerardi; Both artists, those old boys, “by gum!” of copious variety— Age can not wither, nor custom stale, their infinite—sobriety. |
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