A-Naughty-Biography and other poems :: A-NAUGHTY-BIOGRAPHY. MY INFANCY.

A-NAUGHTY-BIOGRAPHY. MY INFANCY.

Mrs. Enoch Taylor

Full forty years have passed and gone,

Since early on a winter’s morn,

My infant eyes first struck the light.

At once I showed my baby-spite,

To find my new abode so plain,

And half resolved I’d not remain.

If I had unexpected come,

And found this unpretending home,

I might the negligence excused,

But now I felt I was abused.

For half a year the fact was known

That I was on the road to town,

And all the neighbors, far and near,

Said, “Doctor’d bring a baby here.”

And so I came at dawn of day,

A-crying, too, I’ve heard them say,

And found few preparations made—

I’ve often wondered that I stayed.

Plain petticoats and untrimmed slips,

Pewter spoons that scratched my lips,

A cradle made of painted pine,

That rocked so rough it made me whine;

Then three long hours every day

The colic checked my baby play;

For months this griping kept me riled,

And nearly set my mother wild.

At last our troubles seemed to wane,

I thought I’d bid adieu to pain,

When teething time, with all its pangs,

Commenced its course with piercing twangs;

My mother’d walk the floor by day—

My pa by night, I’ve heard them say.

My father, jolly, good, and kind,

Would often half make up his mind

To slap me soundly if I cried,

But his heart would fail him when he tried,

And as he tossed and dandled me

In drowsiness upon his knee,

They say the more he nursed and tried,

The more I always screamed and cried,

And often would each soul alarm

Upon our little one-horse farm.

These trials lasted just a year,

The coast again seemed getting-clear,

When all at once the whooping-cough

Attacked and nearly took me off.

For nine long weeks I whooped and choked,

While mother nursed and father joked—

He was always great to jest and pun,

And turn all troubles into fun—

He said the crisis now was here,

And we had nothing worse to fear.

Alas! his jesting hopes were vain,

The whooping-cough did not remain,

But measles next came breaking out,

The pimples showing, little doubt,

Another siege was mine to bear.

“To all the ills that flesh was heir,”

I felt my infant lot was given,

And really wished I was in heaven.

But quiet comfort did arrive,

And I began to grow and thrive,

And ma and pa could take their rest,

And thought themselves supremely blest.

Just then I first began to talk;

At later date, I learned to walk;

But stammered out my early say,

And stumbled on my infant way,

Till one bright morn in early June,

A baby “brought in a balloon,”

Unjoints my little Grecian nose,

My infant ire at once arose.

Our family now was much too large,

And then it was a fearful charge

For mother, who had much to do.

I’d try to put the baby through.

I’d feel its tiny foot, and sly

Would pinch or scratch, and make it cry,

Or rub its head, with look so meek,

And pull its hair or pinch its cheek;

And mother would at once begin

To look for the offending pin,

That made the “baby waby” shriek,

Ne’er dreaming it was Bessie’s freak.

So, at the early age of three,

Being bad as bad could be,

I never was a minute mute,

And people thought me smart and cute;

The baby was, I’m glad to say,

More good and quiet in its way—

Not half the trouble I had been—

Unless I stuck it with a pin,

Or rocked it hard, and made it cry,

You scarce would know the babe was by.

So time rolled on, and I intent

On infant mischief, came and went,

Till little sister learned to talk.

’Twas I that taught her first to walk;

She’d tumble down—I’d pull her through

And scold her well, and shake her too.

Then she would totter on and cry,

While I would chase a butterfly,

And leave her standing in the lane,

A-wondering when I’d come again.

Around the barn we used to roam,

Or any place away from home;

We hand-in-hand would tramp and play,

From early morn till close of day,

Upsetting all the honest nests

That enterprising hens possessed,

And loving little ducks to death,

And out of chickens squeeze the breath,

Till mother’d come and frown and fuss,

And father, too, to save a muss.

Then homeward bound you’d see us go,

The family party in a row,

But I was nearly always last,

For when my penitence was past,

I stopped at times upon the way,

To finish my neglected play;

And father laughed and mother’d scold

About the black sheep of the fold.

Thus matters stood when I was five,

The hardest little case alive.

We spent the hottest summer days

Working hard at baby-plays,

Making pies of mud and clay,

Hauling sand and dirt away;

Through grass and puddles we would wade,

Till we a hill or ditch had made.

With muddy dresses, tousled hair,

And dirty faces, we’d repair

From lane to road, from road to lane,

Through dirt and dust, through sun and rain.

Our infant lives were passing by,

When all at once, we scarce knew why,

A shadow came upon our home,

And all our household filled with gloom.

Our father, ever good and kind,

Was taken from our midst, to find

A better home beyond the skies,

Which lasting happiness supplies,

And mother and five little ones

Were left to tread the world alone.

But blessings came from every friend

That could a kind assistance lend;

Our lot, though lonely, sad, and scant,

Was brightened and relieved from want

For kindred hearts, with willing hand,

Gave shelter to our orphan band.

Our home, of course, must scattered be

To suit the sad emergency.

Our little circle’s severed ties

Dimmed my mother’s loving eyes,

But still her grateful heart was glad

To know the help and hope we had.

I thought in this extremity,

There’d be a wondrous rush for me,

That I’d be claimed by all our kin,

But found myself quite taken in.

My country aunts took all the rest,

Though, after all, we fared the best.

The oldest boy, my brother Joe,

Who helped my father plough and hoe,

Was my especial pet and pride,

Now, since brother Sam had died.

So, when my city aunt arrived

To take her pick, at once, I strived

To be selected as her choice,

For Joe was pet among the boys,

And then we could together go,

The city sights each other show.

So, sure enough, our aunty came

A-riding grandly up the lane,

And caught me in my dishabille,

Much against my wayward will;

For I had hoped she’d find me clean,

That she might then and there have seen

How well I’d look in city guise.

Why did she take me by surprise?

The Diamond State was then our home,

And aunty came from Quakerdom,

A-looking prim and quite severe,

But still, I felt I needn’t fear,

For I had much to recommend

My ladyship, you may depend.

I dressed myself with special care,

And put on quite a company air;

And, strutting past my maiden aunt,

I wondered what more she could want;

She put her specs upon her nose,

And closely scanned my country clothes,

And asked if I was always good;

Never naughty, pert, or rude.

I shunned her kind but searching eye,

And half resolved, I’d not reply,

As I had nothing good to tell,

My silence might do just as well.

I thought she’d find out, soon enough,

My manners were a little rough,

And did not want to disenchant

My new-made friend, and city aunt.

So, looking meek and kind of shy,

I paused, before I made reply;

Then told her sometimes I was bad,

But blamed the company that I had;

’Twas never any fault of mine,

If ever I cut up a shine,

And any mischief that was done

Was nearly always just for fun.

So aunty smiled, and hoped I’d be

A little lady, and she’d see

If she could take me up to town,

And try to tone my manners down.

I then, at once, desired to know,

If she couldn’t take my brother, Joe.

She said she rather thought she would,

If both would promise to be good.

So off, in haste, I quickly ran,

To tell of aunty’s pleasant plan,

To dream of city’s new delights,

And think of all the wondrous sights

That soon would greet our verdant eyes

And fill our hearts with glad surprise.

So, then we soon began to pack—

Our outfit most was on our back—

Our trunks and traps were small and few,

Which, fortunately, aunty knew.

So, on a balmy, summer day,

We all prepared to start away

To leave our home and mother, kind,

And in the world our lot to find;

When will life ever seem as bright

As that receding from our sight?

So, slowly riding down the lane

We ne’er could call our own again,

Poor mother wept in silent woe,

But thought it best for us to go.

So, next you’ll see the orphan pair

In the midst of city’s stifled air;

No fields, no lanes, no trees to climb,

A-wondering how we’d kill the time.

What earthly goods we’d gladly give,

To get back home again to live!

Our aunty, sensible and kind,

Told us to leave regrets behind,

And, in her wise and pleasant way,

Informed us, life was not all play.

But childhood’s troubles seldom last

Much longer than the cause is past.

The city soon began to be

A wonder and a joy to me;

My aunty got me pretty clothes

And taught me how to turn my toes;

She’d dress me up so clean and sweet

And send me out into the street.

I’d miss the “pies” and “puddles” there

And to the gutters I’d repair,

And play and paddle there in glee,

Till I was summoned in to tea.

My vixen spirit, as of old,

New mischief daily would unfold,

And aunty shuddered, as she saw

How little I respected law;

So, wishing me to live by rule,

She entered me, at once, in school.

SCHOOL LIFE.

One Monday morn in early Fall

We made the nearest school a call,

To ascertain if they would take

A pupil willing to forsake

All mischief and frivolity,

And strictly stick to A, B, C.

The teacher showed a little doubt—

She saw how I began to pout;

I did not like the busy looks

Of slates and pencils, chalk and books—

I felt I’d much prefer to be

A stranger to my A, B, C.

I knew more now, at any rate,

Than many children did at eight,

Then why should I, that was so smart,

Go learning lessons all by heart?

I showed my feelings in my face,

And aunty, vexed at my disgrace,

At once enrolled my naughty name

Upon the future book of fame.

I then and there began to climb

The hill of science; oh! the time

It took to teach me how to do;

But I fought it out, and struggled through.

The teacher seldom suited me—

Indeed, we never could agree;

Her notions always seem so queer,

I wondered why they put her there;

And aunty, too, was odd as she,

Both seemed to be opposed to me.

I felt if ever I grew big,

I’d love to give them both a dig.

At times my patience would give out;

You couldn’t play a bit without

At once, she’d raise an awful fuss—

A little laugh would make a muss.

You couldn’t talk in any peace,

But you’d be told at once to cease,

And look upon your book or slate,

Or be kept in till awful late,

You even couldn’t turn around,

No matter what the sight or sound

That made you want to look behind—

You might have just as well been blind,

Or deaf and dumb, for all she cared—

She always kept you kind of scared.

No matter what you had to say,

She’d surely look another way,

And talk and teach, and teach and talk;

Slate and pencil, book and chalk;

Were ever at her finger ends—

I wonder she had any friends.

Indeed, she hadn’t many there,

Except the good girls round her chair.

They seemed to think her very nice;

I wished they’d taken my advice,

And never mind a word she said;

They soon would found, what motive led

Her to appear so sweet to them,

And that she wasn’t such a gem.

She had a special spite at me,

The reason why I couldn’t see;

She’d scold me soundly every day,

Whether I would work or play;

And then she’d often keep me in,

For just a little bit of sin,

That no one else would scarcely see—

She was just as mean as mean could be.

If it hadn’t been for family pride,

I think I’d left that school or died;

But aunty thought it best to stay,

And she nearly always had her way.

So there I was for one long year,

And then I left without a tear.

I’d learned to read and write and spell,

Indeed, they said I studied well.

My failing was behaving bad,

At least that’s what the teacher said;

But she was always saying things,

And telling tales that trouble brings.

I’ve left her class, I’m glad to say—

I’ll try a new one now to-day.

Alas, a-lack-a-day—ah! me,

I fear we too will disagree;

There’s much that’s new I want to know,

And ask the girls if they will show

Exactly how the things are done,

Besides we want a little fun,

Just to cheer us as we learn—

The teachers are so stiff and stern,

I wouldn’t be one for a farm—

They do the children so much harm;

Though aunty said to-night at tea

That’s what she’s going to make of me.

I don’t know what I’ve ever done

To her, indeed to any one,

That I should suffer such a fate,

Or learn a trade I love to hate.

I tell you what, when I get big,

You’ll see me dance a different jig;

I won’t be sober, staid, and stern,

And try to make the children learn.

Poor little things, I’ll let them be,

Remembering how it was with me.

Just worry, lecture, preach, and scold,

Enough to make a young one old.

At school and home I had no rest,

Was always getting blamed or blest,

And mostly too without a cause,

Just for breaking little laws,

That never should, by rights, been made,

Nor never would by Bessie’s aid.

So, thus my early life was spent,

From class to class I yearly went;

Each teacher seemed to be my foe,

And quite content to have me go;

But still I had my share of fun,

In spite of all the scolding done.

In tricks and pranks I took delight,

And misbehaved with all my might;

In tact and lessons I excelled,

Or I should long since been expelled.

The merits that I got to-day

To-morrow’s marks would wipe away.

But, at the end of every term,

Remorse and resolution firm

Would fill me with a new desire;

But “all the fat was in the fire”

The minute mischief crossed my way,

Which it, alas! did every day.

Thus school life, with its hopes and fears—

At least the first short seven years—

Was drawing nearly to a close,

When, all at once, the question rose—

What should next be done with me.

The teachers gladly did agree,

That I should try my luck and leave—

The high-school might my name retrieve.

So I studied hard, both night and day,

(But leisure took for fun and play),

Till testing time, with questions hard,

Brought me my happy hope’s reward.

I did not pass with honors high—

I guess you know the reason why;

But still I passed, and was content,

And to my laurels proudly went,

And talked as big and looked as wise

As those that got the highest prize;

And felt it was a happy school,

Possessing such a precious jewel.

So, at the age of green fourteen,

I felt as proud as any queen.

A new leaf I resolved to turn,

And study hard and laurels earn;

I stood quite high for one so young,

And could I only held my tongue

I might have been almost a star,

But mischief would my merits mar;

For what I gained by work and tact,

I’d loose by some rebellious act:

I sacrificed myself to fun—

My ablest efforts were undone

By some wild freak or fractured rule,

That put me down a dot in school.

I soon began, as heretofore,

To find the teachers quite a bore,

In interfering all the time—

Indeed it seems a chronic crime,

To be officious and prevent

The pleasures that were my intent.

They so delight in being dry

And dull and stiff. I wonder why?

They looked with frowning doubt and dread

On every thing I did and said.

At times they’d give a sickly smile

At my peculiar wayward style;

But in a moment they would be

A-pointing morals all at me.

As we were taught full forty things,

With names as long as corset strings,

And teachers stern and dignified,

I future punishment denied.

I felt we had our troubles here,

And naught to come was aught to fear.

Away into the quiet night

I’d pore and ponder by the light

That poets call the “midnight oil,”

Some crooked problem to uncoil,

Or draw a map, or parse a verse,

Or write an essay, which was worse,

Or worry with celestial globes—

The very thought my bosom probes

With recollections full of woe.

What good is it for us to know

That Mars has belts or Saturn rings—

A thousand other different things?

That don’t concern this world at all,

Nor never have since Adam’s fall.

Then scanning Milton through and through

Is what I did despise to do;

Nor did I care a single dime

If all his blank verse had been rhyme,

Or was awry or wrong in rhythm,

Or had it been with him—in Heaven.

That Paradise was lost I knew—

I never doubted it was true;

Then why extend the dreary tale,

To worry pupils—maid and male?

Mythology and classic lore

Is such an everlasting bore.

The other poets we’d dissect,

And try their metre to correct—

And murder many of their lays

So sadly that it would amaze

The sainted soul, could it but know

The scandalous scanning done below!

Then algebra, with x and z,

Would always vex and puzzle me,

And make me wish that each equation

Was in the sea, with mensuration.

I’d sigh and cipher for an hour,

And long for calculating power

To get the cube root or the square,

Or puzzle out the proper share

That A and B would have to get

In value either gross or net.

Then hunting rivers, lakes, and bays,

And telling all their different ways

Of rising, flowing, and their end,

Or with what waters they may blend;

And all their lengths and widths and size,

And what each state or town supplies,

Of products, imports, exports, ores

That yearly pass its special shores.

Ah me! the mountains I would climb

To find the height, and what a time

I’ve had with longitudes and poles,

Enough to try poor pupils’ souls—

And tropics, latitudes, and zones,

That gave me geographic groans.

And then we had to daily tell

The capitals and towns as well,

Of territories and of states,

And give in full the different dates

Of settlements and civil wars,

And then we’d have five minutes pause,

Before our history began.

Thus our daily duties ran.

We never knew an hour’s peace;

For if we weren’t in Rome or Greece,

Discussing troubles old and stale,

Some insurrection to bewail,

We’d have our massacres at home,

To fill our hearts with bygone gloom,

Rebellions, riots, rows, and wars,

Breaking all the country’s laws;

But then that was so long ago,

I hardly think we need to know

All those troubles that are past,

It’s bad enough to know the last.

And then I think it’s really vile

To take us through the British isle,

And worry o’er her wars and woes,

Her usurpations, overthrows,

Her kings and queens both killed and crowned.

We’ll never get a single pound,

For all our interest in their fate,

No matter how large their estate.

I’m tired now of history.

I’ve learned it all, and can not see

Why we have to know so much

About the English, French, and Dutch,

And all these men of ancient times,

Their virtue, valor, and their crimes.

We have as many of to-day

As we can well their traits portray.

Then why go back to ages past

To get our heroes for a cast?

Or worry o’er the wars of yore,

When we can have them at our door,

Green and fresh, of recent date,

In our own land, indeed our state?

What trials teachers do invent.

They never seem to be content

Without a torture of some kind

To agitate the pupil’s mind.

And as for rest or idle hours,

The very thought their temper sours.

But study early, study late,

Things you like and things you hate;

Study hard and study long,

Whether you are weak or strong.

I tried my best to keep my brain

Healthy, sound, and free from pain;

I never had it suffer aught

From exercise of weighty thought.

All extra care and overwork,

My great ambition was to shirk;

To save the tissues of my mind,

I’ve always been somewhat inclined!

I’d study just to struggle through,

But not enough to make me blue,

Nor any recreation miss,

Which now I think accounts for this

Entire health which is my boast,

That over study might have lost.

In moderation thus I went

From grade to grade, and was content.

In tricks and trifling, mirth and fun,

Was always passing number one.

The teachers vexed at every turn,

And wanting me to leave or learn,

Would often help me gladly through

Their special class into a new,

Thus hoping then and there to find

More occupation for my mind,

And for themselves relief and rest.

How little my adieus distressed;

For those bereft of such a prize

Looked coolly on with driest eyes!

Once or twice I skipped a grade,

And cast the good girls in the shade,

Thus rid that teacher most entire

Of all the mischief I’d inspire;

’Twas less in learning than in luck,

Together with my tact and pluck,

That helped me prematurely through,

But that is nothing odd or new.

I gushed as much at my advance

As though it was no game of chance,

And never hinted in the least,

As honors on me so increased,

’Twas troubled teachers pushing me

To get me through thus rapidly.

So thus, for two years and a half—

I think of it, and have to laugh—

I spent the chequered, closing days

Of school life, with its blame and praise,

Till all at once the president,

On my departure firmly bent,

Informed me I must now begin

My graduating bays to win.

He seemed quite glad to have me leave,

Indeed, there’s no one seemed to grieve

About my going at this date,

So I resolved to graduate.

My parting essay now I write,

And try sad feelings to excite.

I use the most pathetic strain,

As though I’d willingly remain

To share those sweet scholastic joys

That leaving school at once destroys.

I tried to make their bosoms sigh

For blessings now about to fly.

But, ah! alas, what cool content

My phrases to their faces lent!

I sadly spoke of happy scenes

Of school life, with its hopes and dreams,

Of patient teachers, just and kind,

And wondered if we’d ever find

In life again, such friends as these,

(And, aside, I thought) as hard to please.

I really felt it was a time

When I should utter thoughts sublime,

But no one seemed to be disposed

To feel the slightest discomposed;

Nor could I hear a sob or sigh,

Or see a single moistened eye!

Each teacher that I left behind

Seemed reconciled and well resigned

To hear my valedictory read,

And every parting word I said

Gave pleasure, I could plainly see,

To all the high-school faculty.

That day in June I’ll ne’er forget,

Their happy faces haunt me yet.

So eager, anxious, and content,

To lose a light, ’twas only lent.

I felt their hearts were made of stone,

To be so glad when I was gone.

Our president, so mild and meek,

So happy was, he scarce could speak;

He said my welfare was his aim,

But now my farewell was the same!

So I hurriedly my parchment drew,

And bid the happy school adieu.

GIRLHOOD.

Thus I left those hallowed halls,

Its blackboards and its pictured walls,

With maps and charts of every size,

To torture brain and tease the eyes;

And fondly fancied I was through;

I knew twice now what others knew,

And all I had to do was show

My talents off, and catch a beau.

What consternation then was mine,

When aunt’s original design

Was carried out, to have me teach—

I’d almost rather beg or preach;

But as it was her great desire,

And as I had no wealthy sire,

My talents must my banker be—

So I took a class in A, B, C.

Again I must divide my time,

between a share of prose and rhyme;

I taught all day which was my prose—

The rhyme in evening, was my beau.

My daily duties never flagged,

But evening callers often lagged;

I’d wonder too how they could know

My many charms and tarry so!

How often evenings I have sat,

Impromptu welcomes all so pat;

I’d tell the girl to say “I’m home,”

Alas the callers never come!

And I would sit and read a book,

I’d read before, and never look

Disconcerted or annoyed,

Till evening hopes were all destroyed.

Then, disappointed, I’d retire,

And try to think of something higher,

But bitter pangs would rend my heart,

And dreams and nightmares make me start.

Sometimes a beau would happen in,

And make me most commit a sin,

By seeming very much surprised,

When really I had half surmised

That he was coming for a week—

But this was just a girlish freak.

They really ought to like to come,

I made them feel so much at home;

They seemed so happy while they stayed,

And left reluctantly, they said;

And I would often think it true,

And show my sorrow—wouldn’t you?

But, ah, alas! I soon began

To see the sad deceit of man;

I’d sit and watch and wait in vain,

My nose against the window-pane,

Or listen with an anxious spell,

To hear the ringing of the bell,

And bless the beggar that would dare,

To waken hope and bring despair!

Thus matters stood at seventeen—

An age that’s always noted been

For sunny happiness and joys—

And so would mine, but for the boys;

The very ones that suited me,

My aunty never seemed to see

With loving eyes as I desired,

And those she liked I ne’er admired;

And when we did on one agree

He hardly ever fancied me!

The scrapes and troubles I have had,

Enough to make a martyr sad;

These sorrows didn’t happen once,

But worried me for weeks and months.

At last becoming better known,

New suitors I began to own,

And having more, had bitter choice

And had occasion to rejoice

That I was blest with lots of beaus,

But none seemed anxious to propose.

They’d come and go with thoughtless air,

And I, pretending not to care,

Would bid them welcome and adieu,

As sweet and kind as if I knew

Their very heart-throb was for me—

Their lives one line of constancy!

How many sorry sighs I’ve had

About a wayward truant lad,

How oft “unwisely but too well,”

Would love assert its magic spell,

And hold my heart so tight and strong—

I’m glad it never lasted long!

I’ve thought at times I couldn’t live,

Unless Augustus would forgive

The little pique I showed last night,

Done really more in love than spite.

I’ve gone to bed and tried to weep

Myself into a troubled sleep;

But oft the sorrow I’d forget,

Before I found my eyes were wet!

Or Morpheus would my senses blind,

And leave love’s trials all behind.

How kind in Nature to prepare

A heart elastic, that can bear

The miseries and weighty woes

That must attend the age of beaus.

For, with so many different kind,

You couldn’t well make up your mind,

Especially when you didn’t know

Which was destined for your beau.

To wait and wait, and then to find

The wrong one is the one inclined

To breathe his hopes into your ears,

A nuisance is that seldom cheers.

Just after such a blow as this,

I thought I saw much future bliss,

In a student of the “nobby” kind,

So rich and handsome and refined.

But, oh, dear me! my brief delight

Was shattered by his getting tight,

And a love of fully thirty days

Was checked by aunt in many ways.

I thought at last it might be best

To let my student lover rest.

My next, an artist proud and poor,

By chance then living in next door,

Was always at my beck and call,

Which aunty didn’t like at all—

She said he was a fop and dandy.

To me he was so nice and handy,

And then so pleasant and polite,

We had engagements every night;

Till all at once my artist beau

Was told by aunt ’twas best to go—

The love that lasted three long months

Was crushed and killed by her at once.

And then I had an interval

Of several weeks in which to fill

The place of lovers I had lost—

But no one knew the pain it cost,

And nothing but a handsome clerk

I chanced to meet while at his work,

Could make amends for all my woes;

But he, alas! did not propose.

I think he would, but times were hard,

Which often happy hopes retard.

I, knowing this, would not allow

Him any chance to make a vow,

For poverty, though not a crime,

Has always been a dread of mine.

His handsome eyes and wavy hair,

Were great temptations I declare;

And then his love was firm and true

But he hadn’t cash enough for two.

So we sighed in silence o’er our fate,

And wisely thought it best to wait—

The other callers too seemed slow,

I’ve often wondered why ’twas so.

I had no wealth, or charms to praise;

But, then, I had such “winning ways,”

That ought to take, and may-be will—

At least I won’t give up until

I hear from some more hopeful source,

All true love has a crooked course.

I know the chap I’d like to catch—

I think ’twould be a splendid match—

I wonder what he thinks of me?

I’ll wait a while and we will see;

He has a tender sort of way

When he wishes me to sing or play;

And, when the hour comes to leave,

He often looks disposed to grieve.

He’s handsome, too, but awful shy,

Has such a melting, mellow eye,

It makes me reconciled to wait

If just to see, at any rate,

If time won’t ripen his desire,

And sparks of love for me inspire;

And while I wait he’ll never know

I ever wished to have a beau.

Here twice this week, I do declare,

And took me out once to the fair;

I really think he’s coming round,

So I’ll keep cool and hold my ground;

Should he propose, I’ll show surprise,

And stammer, No, with drooping eyes:

That’s the way they do in books,

Nor show their haste by eager looks;

I hope he won’t discover mine,

Nor take in earnest my decline,

It really wasn’t final, nay,

It only meant a slight delay

In making up my maiden mind,

And, in repeating he will find

That after the surprise was o’er,

I’d “love and honor and adore.”

But blessed luck, and happy fate,

That didn’t give me long to wait.

One quiet eve, in early fall,

He came, and made a lovely call;

No other beaus that night appeared,

As both of us at first had feared;

And aunty being out of town,

We didn’t dread her maiden frown.

So being favored thus by fate,

His smothered love he did relate.

Our happiness and new-made bliss

Was sanctioned by the sealing kiss.

I quite forgot the sighs and looks

So recommended in the books,

And answered, Yes, without delay

Or looking once another way.

He found I wasn’t hard to woo,

My answer came so frank and true;

For when you’re suited, what’s the sense

Of being kept in such suspense,

Till silly rules of etiquette

Love’s happy longings all upset?

That evening Cupid’s capers thrived,

Till all at once my aunt arrived;

I fear we guilty look and feel,

Our awkward actions can’t conceal

How matters stand, but I will try

By tact detection to defy.

We treat each other calmly cool,

Talk carelessly of church and school,

Or any subject but the one

That we have just agreed upon.

To please my aunty’s prudish ear,

We shunned the theme to us so dear,

Till passing hours in hasty flight,

Suggest to us a sad good-night.

Now he is gone—how queer I feel!

I wish I only dared reveal

My pent up joy unto my aunt;

I want to, but I really can’t.

She always seemed to like this beau

As well as any that I know,

But then she never thought that he

Would ever care a fig for me;

And now I fear that when she finds

He really loves and has designs,

She might at once discover flaws

To cause her to object or pause,

And then what misery would be mine

No heart could know or tongue define.

The fearful Rubicon is past;

I’ve told her all—her sanction asked,

And she consents—most strange to tell,

I find my suitor suits her well;

But wonders what he e’er could see

In such a wayward girl as me.

Indeed, I’ve often wondered too,

Though other people never knew,

But what I thought I was a prize;

Nor did my suitor e’er surmise—

He thought me all that he desired;

That trait in him I so admired!

For total blindness in a beau

Is one the best gifts that I know;

So, feeling so secure in this,

We might have lived a life of bliss,

But for a couple other beau,

Who thought at once that they’d propose;

They never dreamed of it before,

Nor would till they had been four score.

If I had still kept “fancy free,”

They never would have fancied me.

“It seldom rains but what it pours”—

Too many beaus are often bores.

I cutely kept my matters mum,

But found it truly troublesome;

I told them I was nothing loth

To love, indeed to marry, both—

For still on mischief I was bent,

And seldom said a word I meant;

Must ever have my share of fun

At sad expense of “number one.”

I really felt, I blush to tell,

That I was getting quite a “belle,”

And could afford to put on airs,

When offers tackled me in pairs!

And then, too, I had been so fast

In saying yes, that I would blast

Those tender hopes I lately made—

Two lovers cast one in the shade.

I timed my hours to see them all,

Preventing, thus, a lover’s squall,

And thought my wits were working fine,

When, all at once, that aunt of mine

Commenced, she said, “to smell a rat,”

And then we had a lively spat.

I hardly need to tell the rest—

For aunty always came out best—

And I was then obliged to be

Content with one, instead of three,

And though I loved the first one well,

I missed the two, I blush to tell.

If aunty hadn’t been so queer,

I’d had three lovers all the year,

But now I stuck to number one,

And left the other two undone.

And neither of them seemed to die,

I can not tell the reason why;

They nearly always do in books,

Or turn out bad, which I think looks

A “GOOD BYE”-OGRAPHY.

I’ll say a few words at the close,

In case discussions ever rose

About my traits in after life—

I mean when I became a wife.

A lenient husband’s charity,

In trust and boundless love for me,

O’erlooked my early erring ways,

And filled my ear with daily praise.

Indulgent friends would kindly say

Such pleasant things most every day,

And looked so mildly on my mirth,

It made me overrate my worth,

And feel reformed, as aunty quotes,

“That I have sown my wildest oats.”

The stern realities of life

Will sober down the gayest wife.

The cares and crosses surely come

To cloud, at times, the brightest home;

And mine was not exempt from these,

For sighs and sorrows and disease

Were all, in turn, my painful lot—

’Twere better though they were forgot.

I’ll finish in the brightest strain,

Nor have my friends peruse, with pain,

A clouded page, when my intent

Was solely for their merriment;

They’ll see how short these twenty years,

Beside the first, in print appears.

The reason ’s easy understood:

The traits depicted here are good,

And occupy a smaller space

Than wicked ones I had to trace.

I wanting quite a good sized book,

My sinnings and short comings took

The other side, I do engage,

Would hardly fill the second page.

I’ll say, for fear my friends deplore,

These vixen traits are mine no more;

The heroine, once known as “Naughty,”

Is now reformed—“fair, fat, and forty.”

The heroine, once known as “Naughty,”
Is now reformed—“fair, fat, and forty.”

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