The same old pantomine

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

THE SAME OLD PANTOMIME

By Burton Egbert Stevenson

SEE the girl—
No, not that one—
She of the blue eyes and curly hair,
Over yonder,
Clad in the brown bathing-suit.

How her eyes sparkle and her lips pout!
Mark the plump whiteness of her arm,
The dimple at the elbow,
And the pink little fingers
Which she holds out imploringly
To the dazzled youth beside her.

She is going to take a plunge.
And the surf is rather high to-day.
She gives a little shriek
As it curls about her dainty ankles.
She declares she never will dare to venture
Into that seething torrent—
That she will die of fright.
She clutches at his arm,
And he turns red with joy.

He speaks to her encouragingly—
He is not large, nor strong.
Just an ordinary youth.
But he feels like a hero now.
He tells her there is no danger—
Is he not there to protect her?

She raises her blue eyes to his—
Oh, ye gods!
His brain begins to swim—
Perhaps he has water on the brain.
Else how could it swim?—
His heart is beating madly.
And he feels very warm internally.
But she is cool,
She is calm.
She knows the ropes.
So she presses to him.
She shows how much she trusts him.
She places her life in his keeping.
Instinctively his arm is about her waist.
And they go down into the surf together.

But is she really frightened?
Not on your life.
She has been there many times before—
Many, many times.
She can outswim him two to one.
If there is any rescuing to be done,
She will be the rescuer.
But she is wise.
She knows she must appear a timid, shrinking thing
If she would make his heart go pit-a-pat.
She has tried it a hundred times before,
With others,
And it has never failed,
For men's hearts are very much alike.

To-night,
Beneath the old arbor back of the boathouse—
How well she knows the place,
And will happen upon it again by accident—
He will tell her how he loves her,
How he yearns
To go through life protecting her
Even as he did this afternoon.
And her eyes will melt into his,
Her head will droop upon his shoulder.
She will breathe a little sigh
Of love and rest and uttermost content—
And he will feel,
With swelling breast,
That at last he has become a Man.

As she rests there
And listens to his fevered protestations,
His hopes and fears, and plans for all the future,
She decides that this time it shall be for keeps.
'Twere dangerous to dally longer,
For she was born in 1870—
Although the 0 in the family Bible has been altered to a 6—
And she begins to feel
A-weary of it all.

She is ready to retire
And leave the field to other girls
Who have been rehearsing
The same old pantomime,
And who have already given her a point or two.

How can one win a race
Handicapped by the weight of thirty Summers?
'Twere better to retire,
Become a matron, and go decently to seed.