Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3833/The Prize

by H. P. Eden

THE PRIZE.

With ivy wreathed, a hundred lights
 Shone out; the Convent play was finished;
The waning term this night of nights
 To a few golden hours diminished.

Again the curtain rose. Outshone
 The childish frocks and childish tresses
Of the late cast that had put on
 Demureness and its party dresses.

Rustled a-row upon the stage
 Big girls and little, ranged in sizes,
All waiting for the Personage
 To make the speech and give the prizes.

And there, all rosy from her róle,
 Betsey with sturdy valiance bore her,
Nor did she recognize a soul
 But braved the buzzing room before her

With such resolve that guest on guest,
 And many a smiling nun behind them,
Met her eyes obviously addressed
 To proving that she did not mind them.

(So might a kitchen-kitten see—
 Whose thoughts round housemaids' heels are centred—
The awful drawing-room's company
 He inadvertently has entered.)

Swift from her side the girlish crowd,
 With lovely smiles and limber graces,
Went singly, took their prizes, bowed,
 Returning sweetly to their places.

Then "Betsey-Jane!" and all the rout
 (Her hidden mother grown romantic)
Beheld that little craft put out
 Upon the polished floor's Atlantic.

The Personage bestowed her prize,
 And Betsey, lowly as the others,
Bowed o'er her sandals, raised her eyes
 Alight with pride—and met her mother's!

She thrust between the honoured row
 Before her in her glad elation;
Her school-mates gasped to see her go;
 The nuns divined her destination;

The guests made way. Clap following clap
 Acclaimed Convention's overleaping
As Betsey gained her mother's lap
 And gave the prize into her keeping.

 

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