  EULALIA sat before the glass While Betty smoothed her hair. The mirror told her how she was Attractive, young and fair; Curtius was telling her the same In rosy note, where he confessed his flame. She read with a satiric eye Of passion, hope and pain; Then, careless tossed the poor note by; Then, took it up again, And systematically tore, And folded each strip carefully in four, And handed in fine scorn each bit Of rapture to the maid, Who wot how to dispose of it. The beauty, disarrayed, Now crept in bed, blew out the light Her locks in pink curl-papers for the night. She slept; and with each gentle breath The paper in her hair Soft rustled, and, the story saith, Repeated to the air Whate’er stood on it fervent thing— And through her dream she heard it say, The twist o’er her left ear,— “I vow that I must love alway The dearest of the dear.” And o’er her forehead spoke a twist, “That stolen glove I’ve kissed and over-kissed.” Said one, “Thou are the loveliest; Thy beauty I adore.” Another, smaller than the rest, Sighed, “Love, love,” o’er and o’er. And one said, “Pity my sad plight!” So Curtius’ passion pleaded all the night. Eulalia waking in the morn, Large-eyed, sat up in bed, While vows the tend’rest that be sworn Still whispered in her head;— A dreamy bliss her soul possessed,— She rang for Betty; and before she dressed, Upon a subtly perfumed sheet, As Curtius’ own, blush-pink, She penned with crow-quill small and neat, And perfumed crow-black ink, In flowing hand right tidily, The proper, simple message, “Come at three.” Gertrude Hall. |
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