Sending in your pasteboard,
Waiting in the halls,
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

Skipping in the parlour,
Bowing to the floor,
Lady of the house there,
Half a dozen more;
Ladies' dresses gorgeous,
Paniers, waterfalls,--
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

"Wish you Happy New Year"--
"Many thanks, I'm sure."
"Many calls, as usual?"
"No; I think they're fewer."
Staring at the carpet,
Gazing at the walls;
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

"Really, I must go now,
Wish I had more leisure."
"Wont you have a glass of wine?"
"Ah, thanks!--greatest pleasure."
Try to come the graceful,
Till your wine-glass falls;
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

Hostess looks delighted--
Out of doors you rush;
Sit down at the crossing,
In a sea of slush.
Job here for your tailor--
Herr Von Schneiderthals--
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

Pick yourself up slowly
Heart with anguish torn.
Sunday-go-to-meetings
In a state forlorn.
Kick a gibing boot-black,
Gibing boot-black bawls,
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Making New Year's calls.

Home, and woo the downy,
But your soul doth quake,
At most fearful night-mares--
Turkey, oysters, cake.
While each leaden horror
That your rest appalls,
Cries, "Dear heart! how pleasant;
Making New Year's calls."




JACK AND ME.


Shine!--All right; here y'are, boss!
Do it for jest five cents.
Get 'em fixed in a minute,--
That is, 'f nothing perwents.
Set your foot right there, sir.
Mornin's kinder cold,--
Goes right through a feller,
When his coat's a gittin' old.
Well, yes,--call it a coat, sir,
Though 't aint much more 'n a tear.
Git another!--I can't, boss;
Ain't got the stamps to spare.
"Make as much as most on 'em!"
Yes; but then, yer see,
They've only got one to do for,--
There's two on us, Jack and me.
Him?--Why, that little feller
With a curus lookin' back,
Sittin' there on the gratin',
Warmin' hisself,--that's Jack.
Used to go round sellin' papers,
The cars there was his lay;
But he got shoved off of the platform
Under the wheels one day.
Fact,--the conductor did it,--
Gin him a reg'lar throw,--
He didn't care if he killed him;
Some on 'em is just so.
He's never been all right since, sir,
Sorter quiet and queer;
Him and me goes together,
He's what they call cashier.
Style, that 'ere, for a boot-black,--
Made the fellers laugh;
Jack and me had to take it,
But we don't mind no chaff.
Trouble!--not much, you bet, boss!
Sometimes, when biz is slack,
I don't know how I'd manage
If 't wa'n't for little Jack.
You jest once orter hear him:
He says we needn't care
How rough luck is down here, sir,
If some day we git up there.
All done now,--how's that, sir?
Shines like a pair of lamps.
Mornin'!--Give it to Jack, sir,
He looks after the stamps.




LES ENFANTS PERDUS.


What has become of the children all?
How have the darlings vanished?
Fashion's pied piper, with magical air,
Has wooed them away, with their flaxen hair
And laughing eyes, we don't know where,
And no one can tell where they're banished.

"Where are the children?" cries Madam Haut-ton,
"Allow me, my sons and daughters,--
Fetch them, Annette!" What, madam, those?
Children! such exquisite belles and beaux:--
True, they're in somewhat shorter clothes
Than the most of Dame Fashion's supporters.

Good day, Master Eddy! Young man about town,--
A merchant down in the swamp's son;
In a neat little book he makes neat little bets:
He doesn't believe in the shop cigarettes,
But does his own rolling,--and has for his pets
Miss Markham and Lydia Thompson.

He and his comrades can drink champagne
Like so many juvenile Comuses;
If you want to insult him, just talk of boys' play,--
Why, even on billiards he's almost _blasé_,
Drops in at Delmonico's three times a day,
And is known at Jerry Thomas's.

And here comes Miss Agnes. Good morning! "_Bon jour!_"
Now, isn't that vision alarming?
Silk with panier, and puffs, and lace
Decking a figure of corsetted grace;
Her words are minced, and her spoiled young face
Wears a simper far from charming.

Thirteen only a month ago,--
Notice her conversation:
Fashion--that bonnet of Nellie Perroy's--
And now, in a low, confidential voice,
Of Helena's treatment of Tommy Joyce,--
Aged twelve,--that's the last flirtation.

What has become of the children, then?
How can an answer be given?
Folly filling each curly head,
Premature vices, childhood dead,
Blighted blossoms--can it be said
"Of _such_ is the kingdom of heaven?"




CHINESE LANTERNS.


Through the windows on the park
Float the waltzes, weirdly sweet;
In the light, and in the dark,
Rings the chime of dancing feet.
Mid the branches, all a-row,
Fiery jewels gleam and glow;
Dreamingly we walk beneath,--
Ah, so slow!

All the air is full of love;
Misty shadows wrap us round;
Light below and dark above,
Filled with softly-surging sound.
See the forehead of the Night
Garlanded with flowers of light,
And her goblet crowned with wine,
Golden bright.

Ah! those deep, alluring eyes,
Quiet as a haunted lake;
In their depths the passion lies
Half in slumber, half awake.
Lay thy warm, white hand in mine
Let the fingers clasp and twine,
While my eager, panting heart
Beats 'gainst thine.

Bring thy velvet lips a-near,
Mine are hungry for a kiss,
Gladly will I sate them, dear;
Closer, closer,--this,--and this.
On thy lips love's seal I lay,
Nevermore to pass away;--
That was all last night, you know,
But to-day--

Chinese lanterns hung in strings,
Painted paper, penny dips,--
Filled with roasted moths and things
Greasy with the tallow drips;
Wet and torn, with rusty wire,
Blackened by the dying fire;
Withered flowers, trampled deep
In the mire.

Chinese lanterns, Bernstein's band,
Belladonna, lily white,
These made up the fairy-land
Where I wandered all last night;
Ruled in all its rosy glow
By a merry Queen, you know
Jolly, dancing, laughing, witching,
Veuve Cliquot.




THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS.


"Love your neighbor as yourself,"--
So the parson preaches;
That's one-half the Decalogue.--
So the Prayer-book teaches.
Half my duty I can do
With but little labor,
For with all my heart and soul
I do love my neighbor.

Mighty little credit, that,
To my self-denial;
Not to love her, though, might be
Something of a trial,
Why, the rosy light, that peeps
Through the glass above her,
Lingers round her lips:--you see
E'en the sunbeams love her.

So to make my merit more,
I'll go beyond the letter;
Love my neighbor as myself?
Yes, and ten times better.
For she's sweeter than the breath
Of the Spring, that passes
Through the fragrant, budding woods,
O'er the meadow-grasses.

And I've preached the word I know,
For it was my duty
To convert the stubborn heart
Of the little beauty.
Once again success has crowned
Missionary labor,
For her sweet eyes own that she
Also loves her neighbor.




MARRIAGE _A LÀ MODE._
_A Trilogy._


I.
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.
A.D. 1880.


"Thank you--much obliged, old boy,
Yes, it's so; report says true.
I'm engaged to Nell Latine--
What else could a fellow do?
Governor was getting fierce;
Asked me, with paternal frown,
When I meant to go to work,
Take a wife, and settle down.
Stormed at my extravagance,
Talked of cutting off supplies--
Fairly bullied me, you know--
Sort of thing that I despise.
Well, you see, I lost worst way
At the races--Governor raged--
So, to try and smooth him down,
I went off, and got engaged.
Sort of put-up job, you know--
All arranged with old Latine--
Nellie raved about it first,
Said her 'pa was awful mean!'
Now it's done we don't much mind--
Tell the truth, I'm rather glad;
Looking at it every way,
One must own it isn't bad.
She's good-looking, rather rich,--
Mother left her quite a pile;
Dances, goes out everywhere;
Fine old family, real good style.
Then she's good, as girls go now,
Some idea of wrong and right,
Don't let every man she meets
Kiss her, on the self-same night.
We don't do affection much,
Nell and I are real good friends,
Call there often, sit and chat,
Take her 'round, and there it ends.
Spooning! Well, I tried it once--
Acted like an awful calf--
Said I really loved her. Gad!
You should just have heard her laugh.
Why, she ran me for a month,
Teased me till she made me wince;
'Mustn't flirt with her,' she said,
So I haven't tried it since.
'Twould be pleasant to be loved
Like you read about in books--
Mingling souls, and tender eyes--
Love, and that, in all their looks;
Thoughts of you, and no one else;
Voice that has a tender ring,
Sacrifices made, and--well--
You know--all that sort of thing.
That's all worn-out talk, they say,
Don't see any of it now--
Spooning on your _fiancée_
Isn't good style, anyhow.
Just suppose that one of us,--
Nell and me, you know--some day
Got like that on some one else--
Might be rather awkward--eh!
All in earnest, like the books--
Wouldn't it be awful rough!
Jove! if I--but pshaw, what bosh!
Nell and I are safe enough.--
Some time in the Spring, I think;
Be on hand to wish us joy?
Be a groomsman, if you like--
Lots of wine--good-bye, old boy."


II.
UP THE AISLE.
A.D. 1881.


Take my cloak--and now fix my veil, Jenny;--
How silly to cover one's face!
I might as well be an old woman,
But then there's one comfort--it's lace.
Well, what has become of those ushers?--
Oh, Pa, have you got my bouquet?
I'll freeze standing here in the lobby,
Why doesn't the organist play?
They've started at last--what a bustle!
Stop, Pa!--they're not far enough--wait!
One minute more--now! Do keep step, Pa!
There, drop my trail, Jane!--is it straight?
I hope I look timid, and shrinking!
The church must be perfectly full--
Good gracious, please don't walk so fast, Pa!
He don't seem to think that trains pull.
The chancel at last--mind the step, Pa!--
I don't feel embarrassed at all--
But, my! What's the minister saying?
Oh, I know, that part 'bout Saint Paul.
I hope my position is graceful--
How awkwardly Nelly Dane stood!
"Not lawfully be joined together,
Now speak"--as if any one would.
Oh, dear, now it's my turn to answer--
I do wish that Pa would stand still.
"Serve him, love, honor, and keep him"--
How sweetly he says it--I will.
Where's Pa?--there, I knew he'd forget it
When the time came to give me away--
"I, Helena, take thee--love--cherish--
And"--well, I can't help it,--"obey."
Here, Maud, take my bouquet--don't drop it--
I hope Charley's not lost the ring!
Just like him!--no--goodness, how heavy!
It's really an elegant thing.
It's a shame to kneel down in white satin--
And the flounce real old lace--but I must--
I hope that they've got a clean cushion,
They're usually covered with dust.
All over--ah, thanks!--now, don't fuss, Pa!--
Just throw back my veil, Charley--there!
Oh, bother! Why couldn't he kiss me
Without mussing up all my hair!
Your arm, Charley, there goes the organ--
Who'd think there would be such a crowd!
Oh, I mustn't look round, I'd forgotten,
See, Charley, who was it that bowed?
Why--it's Nellie Allaire, with her husband--
She's awfully jealous, I know,
Most all of my things were imported,
And she had a home-made _trousseau_.
And there's Annie Wheeler--Kate Hermon--
I didn't expect her at all--
If she's not in that same old blue satin
She wore at the Charity Ball!
Is that Fanny Wade?--Edith Pommeton--
And Emma, and Jo--all the girls!
I knew they'd not miss my wedding--
I hope they'll all notice my pearls.
Is the carriage there?--give me my cloak, Jane,
Don't get it all over my veil--
No! you take the other seat, Charley--
I need all of this for my trail.


III.
DIVORCE.
A.D., 1886.
_The Club Window._


"Yes, I saw her pass with 'that scoundrel'--
For heaven's sake, old man, keep cool!
No end of the fellows are watching--
Go easy, don't act like a fool!
'Parading _your_ shame'!--I don't see it.
It's _hers_ now, alone; for at last
You drove her to give you good reason,
Divorced her, and so it's all passed.
For _you_, I mean; she has to bear it--
Poor child--the reproach and the shame;
I'm your friend--but come, hang it, old fellow,
I swear you were somewhat to blame.
'What the deuce do I mean?' Well, I'll tell you,
Though it's none of my business. Here!
Just light a cigar, and keep quiet--
You _started_ wrong, Charley Leclear.
You weren't in love when you married--
'Nor she!'--well, I know, but she tried
To keep it dark. You wouldn't let her,
But laughed at her for it. Her pride
Wouldn't stand that, you know. Did you ever
See a spirited girl in your life,
Who would patiently pose to be pitied
As a 'patient Griselda'-like wife
When her husband neglects her so plainly
As you did?--although, on the whole,
When the wife is the culprit, I've noticed
It's rather the favorite rôle.
So she flirted a little--in public--
She'd chances enough and to spare,
Ah, _then_ if you'd only turned jealous--
But you didn't notice nor care.
Then her sickness came--even we fellows
All thought you behaved like a scrub,
Leaving her for the nurse to take care of,
While you spent your time at the club.
She never forgave you. How could she?
If I'd been in her place myself,
By Jove, I'd have _left_ you. She didn't,
But told all her woes to Jack Guelph.
When a girl's lost all love for her husband,
And is cursed with a masculine friend
To confide in, and he is a blackguard,
She isn't far off from the end.
Oh, I'm through--of _course_ nobody blamed you
In the end, when you got your divorce--
You were right enough there--she'd levanted
With Guelph, and you'd no other course.
What I mean is, if you'd acted squarely,
The row would have never occurred,
And for _you_ to be doing the tragic,
Strikes me as a little absurd.
As it stands, you've the best of the bargain,
And she's got a good deal the worst,
Leave it there, and--just touch the bell, will you?
You're nearest, I'm dying of thirst."


IV.
AT AFTERNOON TEA.


"'In New York!' Yes, I met her this morning.
I knew her in spite of her paint;
And Guelph, too, poor fellow, was with her;
I felt really nervous, and faint,
When he bowed to me, looking _so_ pleading--
I cut him, of course. Wouldn't you?
If I meet him alone, I'll explain it;
But knowing _her_, what could I do?
Poor fellow! He looks sadly altered--
I think it a sin, and a shame,
The way he was wrecked by that _creature_!
I _know_ he was never to blame.
He never suspected. He liked her--
He'd known her for most of his life--
And of course, it _was_ quite a temptation
To run off with another man's wife.
At his age, you know--barely thirty--
So romantic, and makes such a noise
In one's club--why, one _can't_ but excuse him,
Now _can_ one, dear? Boys will be boys.
I've known him so long--why, he'd come here
And talk to me just like a son.
It's my duty--I feel as a mother--
To save him; the thing can be done
Very easily. First, I must show him
How grossly the woman deceived
And entrapped him.--It made such a scandal
You know, that he _can't_ be received
At all, any more, till he drops her--
He'll certainly not be so mad
As to hold to her still. Oh, I know him
So well--I'm quite sure he'll be glad
On _any_ excuse, to oblige me
In a matter so trifling indeed.
Then the way will be clear. _We'll_ receive him,
And the rest will soon follow our lead.
We must keep our eyes on him more closely
Hereafter; young men of his wealth
And position are so sorely tempted
To waste time, and fortune, and health
In frivolous pleasures and pastimes,
That there's but one safe-guard in life
For them and their money--we've seen it--
A really nice girl for a wife.
Too bad you've no daughter! My Mamie
Had influence with him for good
Before this affair--when he comes here
She'll meet him, I'm sure, as she should--
That is, as if nothing had happened--
And greet him with sisterly joy;
Between us I know we can _save_ him.
I'll write him to-morrow, poor boy."




THE "STAY-AT-HOME'S" PLAINT.


The Spring has grown to Summer;
The sun is fierce and high;
The city shrinks, and withers
Beneath the burning sky.
Ailantus trees are fragrant,
And thicker shadows cast,
Where berry-girls, with voices shrill,
And watering carts go past.

In offices like ovens
We sit without our coats;
Our cuffs are moist and shapeless,
No collars binds our throats.
We carry huge umbrellas
On Broad Street and on Wall,
Oh, how thermometers go up!
And, oh, how stocks _do_ fall!

The nights are full of music,
Melodious Teuton troops
Beguile us, calmly smoking,
On balconies and stoops.
With eyes half-shut, and dreamy,
We watch the fire-flies' spark,
And image far-off faces,
As day dies into dark.

The avenue is lonely,
The houses choked with dust;
The shutters, barred and bolted,
The bell-knobs all a-rust.
No blossom-like spring dresses,
No faces young and fair,
From "Dickel's" to "The Brunswick,"
No promenader there.

The girls we used to walk with
Are far away, alas!
The feet that kissed its pavement
Are deep in country grass.
Along the scented hedge-rows,
Among the green old trees,
Are blooming city faces
'Neath rosy-lined pongees.

They're cottaging at Newport;
They're bathing at Cape May;
In Saratoga's ball-rooms
They dance the hours away.
Their voices through the quiet
Of haunted Catskill break;
Or rouse those dreamy dryads,
The nymphs of Echo Lake.

The hands we've led through Germans,
And squeezed, perchance, of yore,
Now deftly grasp the bridle,
The mallet, and the oar.
The eyes that wrought our ruin
On other men look down;
We're but the broken play-things
They've left behind in town.

Oh, happy Gran'dame Nature,
Whose wandering children come
To light with happy faces
The dear old mother-home,
Be tender with our darlings,
Each merry maiden bears
Such love and longing with her--
Men's lives are wrapped in theirs.




THE "STAY-AT-HOME'S" PÆAN.


The evenings are damper and colder;
The maples and sumacs are red,
The wild Equinoctial is coming,
The flowers in the garden are dead.
The steamers are all overflowing,
The railroads are all loaded down,
And the beauties we've sighed for all Summer
Are hurrying back into town.

They come from the banks of the Hudson,
From the sands of the Branch, and Cape May,
From the parlors of bright Saratoga,
From the dash of Niagara's spray.
From misty, sea-salt Narragansett,
From Mahopac's magical lake.
They come on their way to new conquests,
They're longing for more hearts to break.

E'en Newport is dull and deserted--
Its billowy beaches no more
Made bright with sweet, ocean-kissed faces,
Love's beacon lights set on the shore.
The rugged White Hills of New Hampshire,
The last of their lovers have seen,
The echoes are left to their slumbers,
No dainty feet thread the ravine.

On West Point's delightful parade ground
Sighs many a hapless cadet,
Who's basked through the long days of Summer
In the smiles of a city coquette;
And now the incipient hero
Beholds his enchantress depart,
With the spoils of her lightly-won triumph,
His buttons, as well as his heart.

Come, dry your eyes, Grandmother Nature,
They care not a whit for your woe;
The city is calling her daughters--
We can't spare them longer, they know--
Our beautiful, tender-voiced darlings,
With the blue of the deep Summer skies,
And the glow of the bright Summer sunshine,
Entrapped in their mischievous eyes.

We know their expenses are awful,
That horror unspeakable fills
The souls of unfortunate fathers
Who foot up their dressmaker's bills.
That they'd barter their souls for French candy;
That diamonds ruin their peace;
That they rave over middle-aged actors,
And in other respects are--well, geese.

We laugh at them, boys, but we love them,
For under their nonsense we know
They've hearts that are honest and loving,
And souls that are whiter than snow.
So out with that bottle of Roederer!
Large glasses, boys! Up goes the cork!
All charged? To the belles of creation,
The glorious girls of New York.




EIGHT HOURS.


"Sign the petition!" "Write my name!"
"She said, ask me!"--oh, she's fooling;
Where do you think a girl like me
Could find the time for so much schooling?
Why, I've been here since I was eight or so--
That's ten years now--and it seems like longer;
The hours are from eight till six--you see