  FAIR Daphne was a modest miss, A convert of the “Kiss Not” fad, Who swore no man should know her kiss, Unless it be her dear old dad. E’en as a tot it caused her grief To play at “Drop the handkerchief”; She called each youthful suitor, “Brute!” Who offered her a chaste salute. In vain her father bade her wed, In vain he urged, in vain entreated; She only shook her pretty head, And all his arguments defeated. “Talk not of men,” she said. “To me, Diana’s priestess I would be, And range the woods, heart-free, foot-loose, To kill the chipmunk and the moose.” “Ah, well!” he sighed (It is a shame, And rather mars this graceful verse, I cannot rhyme his beastly name), “Ah, well! Perhaps you might do worse. I longed for grand-sons, but”—a sigh— “The cost of living sure is high; I’m tired of fish and long for liver!” Her pa, Peneus, was a river. And so it happened, Daphne did Devote her days unto the Chase; Whenever she saw a man, she hid; Nor would she show her pretty face To any man except her father; A modest little maiden? Rather! So modest she—she would not flirt Her dainty little hunting skirt! Though best-laid plans of mice and men May go astray; no mouse, no man, Can hope to bring the wit in play That e’en the dullest godling can. For gods beat human folks all hollow— Especially the god Apollo; Apollo, who was far from stupid, Had heard of Daphne from Dan Cupid, And he resolved that he would see How true young Cupid’s tale might be. He laid in wait and spied the maid, Who tripped along the woodland path, In haste and somewhat disarrayed, Intent upon her evening bath, Not dreaming that a soul was near, Until upon her startled ear There broke a single love-lorn sigh, Which warned her that the god was nigh. Then like a startled fawn she fled, The grass scarce bending ’neath her feet, Her hair out-streaming from her head, Her face as pale as any sheet. And as she fled the god pursued, (A most ungentle act, and rude!) And gained, and gained, and gained so fast, She thought her breath must fail at last! “Help! Help!” she cried. “Peneus, aid Your daughter—save, oh, save me now! So weary and so sore afraid!” And in a moment on her brow Some tiny twigs began to grow, Her feet took root—for, you must know, Her father, by divine decree, Transformed his daughter to a tree! “Ah!” sighed Apollo, “what is this? My tree! You can’t escape me now!” Upon her trunk he pressed a kiss— Poor Daphne blushed in every bough; “You have,” said he, “a lovely limb;” (Say, honest, I’m ashamed of him!) How sad to see a perfect lady Become a character so shady! The Moral is—be careful how You dress when you go out to swim; Poor Daphne might be hunting now, |
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