“Oh, oh! Maurine,”
Cried Helen with a well-feigned look of fear,
“You’ve frightened me so I shall not appear:
I’ll hide away, refusing to be seen
By such an ogre. Woe is me! bereft
Of all my friends, my peaceful home I’ve left,
And strayed away into the dreadful wood
To meet the fate of poor Red Riding Hood.
No, Maurine, no! you’ve given me such a fright,
I’ll not go near your ugly wolf to-night.”
Meantime we’d left the garden; and I stood
In Helen’s room, where she had thrown herself
Upon a couch, and lay, a winsome elf,
Pouting and smiling, cheek upon her arm,
Not in the least a portrait of alarm.
“Now, sweet!” I coaxed, and knelt by her, “be good!
Go curl your hair; and please your own Maurine,
By putting on that lovely grenadine.
Not wolf, nor ogre, neither Caliban,
Nor Mephistopheles, you’ll meet to-night,
But what the ladies call ‘a nice young man’!
Yet one worth knowing—strong with health and might
Of perfect manhood; gifted, noble, wise;
Moving among his kind with loving eyes,
And helpful hand; progressive, brave, refined,
After the image of his Maker’s mind.”
“Now, now, Maurine!” cried Helen, “I believe
It is your lover coming here this eve.
Why have you never written of him, pray?
Is the day set?—and when? Say, Maurine, say!”
Had I betrayed by some too fervent word
The secret love that all my being stirred?
My lover? Ay! My heart proclaimed him so;
But first his lips must win the sweet confession,
Ere even Helen be allowed to know.
I must straightway erase the slight impression
Made by the words just uttered.
“Foolish child!”
I gaily cried, “your fancy’s straying wild.
Just let a girl of eighteen hear the name
Of maid and youth uttered about one time,
And off her fancy goes, at break-neck pace,
Defying circumstances, reason, space—
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