HER LETTER. I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even you would admire,— It cost a cool thousand in France; In short, sir, "the belle of the season" A dozen engagements I've broken; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits-on the stairs-for me yet. They say he'll be rich,-when he grows up, And then he adores me indeed. And you, sir, are turning your nose up, Three thousand miles off, as you read. HER LETTER. "And how do I like my position?" "And what do I think of New York?" "And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ?" "And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that ?" "And aren't it a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?" Well, yes, if you saw us out driving Each day in the park, four-in-hand,— If you saw papa's picture, as taken You'd never suspect he sold bacon And flour at Poverty Flat. And yet, just this moment, when sitting I 125 In the bustle and glitter befitting The "finest soirée of the year,” In the mists of a gaze de Chambéry, And the hum of the smallest of talk,— Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry," Of Harrison's barn, with its muster Of the candles that shed their soft lustre Of the steps that we took to one fiddle; And how I once went down the middle Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go; Or the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow; HER LETTER. Of that ride,—that to me was the rarest ; Of the something you said at the gate : To "the best-paying lead* in the State." Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing! Instead of my triumphs reciting, I'm spooning on Joseph,-heigh-ho! 127 *Pronounced leed. Western expression for mine or digging. "Flat" is the common term for any low alluvial land. And I'm to be "finished" by travel,— Whatever's the meaning of that,— O, why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat? Good night, here's the end of my paper; For maybe, while wasting my taper, Your sun's climbing over the trees. But know, if you haven't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it,-on Poverty Flat. |