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^''Said Confidentiallf 
 
 Bt AGNES .LEONARD 
 
 'II jjcople do not like you, tlo not ask uliat you have 
 done — hut what you liave said/' 
 
 Some tilings c'()st too much; and some people's 
 "likina:" is one of them. 
 
 'When in ilouht, tell the truth." — Mark Tivain. 
 
 Denver, Colorado 
 
 The Smith-Brooks Printing Company 
 
 1902 
 

 ooHQwmm 
 NOV. a9 1902 
 
 OOPf lb 
 
 Copyright, 1902. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 - To the memory of Professor David Swing, of Chicago, 111., whose life 
 
 ^ was so true, and whose insight was so clear, that he never misunderstood even 
 
 ^ what was said "confidentially," these verses are reverently dedicated: 
 
 Amid the synod's narrow blame, 
 
 Amid the mob's poor fooHsh praise, 
 
 We saw a grace we could not name, 
 
 A grandeur that we could not phrase. 
 
 It was not joy, it was not pain, 
 
 And yet it held the soul of each — 
 
 The triumph of a martial strain, 
 
 A wisdom more than grief could teach. 
 
 We call it "greatness" — feeble word — 
 His memory makes words meaningless ; 
 
 Yet while our hearts with awe are stirred 
 The mob shouts back, "It was success !" 
 
 Oh, fools, and blind ! Your heathen god 
 But fits the measure of your dream; 
 
 His soul was like an ocean grand, 
 And vours a bubble on the stream. 
 
The heathen god you name "Success," 
 His kingly soul in silence spurned ; 
 
 And "honors" were all meaningless 
 When into higher paths he turned. 
 
 Yet what are words ? King David sleeps ; 
 
 He ran with patience life's sad race. 
 The mob is hushed, or waits, or weeps : 
 
 He finds at last his rightful place. 
 
 'Mid "many mansions" shineth one. 
 
 Adorned with all he ever knew; 
 Upon its jeweled gates his plea, 
 
 "The Good, the Beautiful, the True." 
 
 And this little book is offered with the unforgetting affection of 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Denver, Colorado. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Some one has said that ''the true his- 
 tory of even the most commonplace book 
 would be interesting." 
 
 The true history of this book is that my 
 writing- desk was so full of things written 
 for the amusement of the Precious Few, to 
 whom I "said confidentially" the things I 
 secretly laughed about, that I remembered 
 Bronson Alcott's advice, given to me 
 nearly thirty years ago : "Whatever really 
 interests vou will sell, no matter how com- 
 monplace it may seem ;" and though I may 
 nurse dreams of publishing books interest- 
 ing to only "the higher classes," just now 
 I should like to issue a volume that would 
 sell, because brief and to the point, and 
 about the sort of things that seem to de- 
 
light a large number of people if onl)- they 
 are said confidentially. 
 
 That this book is published "for rev- 
 enue only" is the frank and unblushing con- 
 fession of 
 
 The Author. 
 Denver, Colo., October i, 1902. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 A Friend's AcKice 9 
 
 The Reply n 
 
 Airs. Puttering Payne 13 
 
 Confidentially to His Chnm . . „... 17 
 
 She to Her Chaperone 19 
 
 The Chaperone's Story 21 
 
 A Case of Conscience 25 
 
 Mrs. Amsterdam LeClicpie 27 
 
 Ode to a P)rakeman 29 
 
 "She" — A Portrait 31 
 
 She 34 
 
 He 35 
 
 Mrs. ]\Ia\v\ay 36 
 
 His Tetc a Tete 37 
 
 To a Diplomat 38 
 
 Onlv a Prisoner 40 
 
 The Woman New 42 
 
 7 
 
"The Reason"" ,. , .. . ,..^.,,... . 44 
 
 A "Society Girl"" 7 46 
 
 Her "Lectures"" 48 
 
 One Thing" Lacking .• 51 
 
 The Woman Who Knows 52 
 
 About Kathie 54 
 
 One Kind 57 
 
 "Furnished Rooms'" 59 
 
 Our Set 61 
 
 The Miner's Letter Home 62 
 
 Her Answer 64 
 
 About My "Mission" 66 
 
A FRIEND'S ADVICE. 
 
 Your book is very funny ! 
 
 But isn't it severe? 
 And won't it make you enemies, 
 
 You blessed, candid dear. 
 
 The "feeblest foe," the adage runs, 
 " 'Tis not safe to despise," 
 
 Because the very "smallest speck 
 Gives pain unto the eyes." 
 
 And don't you think you ought to hide 
 Your light, — for reasons plain, — 
 
 And only tell a sacred few 
 Of Mrs. Puttering Payne? 
 
 And Mesdames Amsterdam, LeClique, 
 Mawvay, and others, too ! 
 
 You really call a dreadful roll! 
 What do you think they'll "do?" 
 
 It makes me simply shudder ! 
 
 Of course the book will sell ! 
 But what revenge those folk will take 
 
 It's verv hard to tell. 
 
You enter in a fight, 3'ou know, 
 I fear that you will rue it ! 
 
 I love you so, — I'm bound to say 
 I wish you wouldn't do it ! 
 
 10 
 
THE REPLY. 
 
 I know I am a "savage thing," 
 
 A Goth and Vandal too; — 
 But, really, do not care a rap 
 
 What any one can "do." 
 
 I have passed the milestones, one by one, 
 
 Of youth and middle-age ; — 
 I've died a thousand deaths to slum 
 
 An hour "when heathen rage." 
 
 I could not dare to pose for less 
 
 Than "angel unawares;" — 
 I've found for "angels in disguise," 
 
 This old world little cares. 
 
 You may have "charities" galore, 
 
 Or power to woe beguile ; — 
 You may have grief your heart to break, 
 
 "The Workf' will coldly smile. 
 
 It counts you "in," or counts you "out" — 
 
 In lonely age or youth ; — 
 And Mark Twain says, "When you're in doubt. 
 
 Why, then, just tell the truth." 
 
 11 
 
But, frankly, dear, I do not write 
 To show what I can "tell;" 
 
 I need the coin ! I'm offering 
 A book I think will sell. 
 
 And if the folk who like to laugh 
 At neighbors they can tease, 
 
 Will buy this savage little book 
 
 They may "do" what they please. 
 
 I've other books of nobler trend ; 
 
 These verses pave the way 
 For better things that you, my friend, 
 
 Rejoice that I can say. 
 
 And "Enemies ?" Who fears is lost ! 
 
 Our living is the test. 
 And one who dares is one who loves ; 
 
 The brave are tenderest. 
 
 But this one thing FU promise; 
 
 If Mrs. Puttering Payne 
 Does not confess she "wears the shoe," 
 
 I never will explain. 
 
 12 
 
MRS. PUTTERING PAYNE. 
 
 Do you see that white-haired woman, 
 With a rush of "high disdain?" 
 
 Well, that's the very much-written-a1)ont ! 
 It's Mrs. Puttering Payne ! 
 
 I like to watch her stately tread, 
 "That angels would beguile;" — 
 
 Her air of high abstraction, 
 
 And her sudden radiant smile, 
 
 That seem to say : 'T was so bored 
 
 Until I saw your face. 
 Dear me! It is a cuoaress thing 
 
 How few can keep their place! 
 
 They follow me like swarming flies, — 
 
 The horrid, vulgar, herd! 
 Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! It seems so nice 
 
 With you to have a word!" 
 
 And when she shows her gleaming teeth, - 
 They match her hair in shade, — 
 
 She gives you such "a cuoaress" sense 
 That you are being weighed, 
 
 13 
 
And measured for the proper niche, 
 She thinks she can command 
 
 To offer you when she decides 
 Just what you "have on hand." 
 
 Just what you have of wit to earn, 
 The dinners she can give, 
 
 Just what you have of coin to show, 
 Just how "high Hvers" Hve. 
 
 If you are beautiful, why then, 
 She'll use you as a flower 
 
 To decorate her table with, — 
 And drop you in an hour. 
 
 If you are "clever" and can lend 
 Your culture or your brain 
 
 To make less nebulous the "claims" 
 Of Mrs. Puttering Payne, 
 
 Why, then, you'll "do," perhaps, — 
 For some occasions rare, 
 
 WHien every one, on dress parade, 
 Says, in his soul, "beware !" 
 
 Beware of every word you say ! 
 
 To misuse even one 
 In such a crowd as this, and lo ! 
 
 Your social race is run ! 
 
 14 
 
Beware of everything you do ! 
 
 A single awkward pose 
 Will trumpet for all future time 
 
 That "from the ranks you rose/' 
 
 Of course, they do not claim to know 
 Just what they mean by "ranks ;" 
 
 They only know the "common herd" 
 Will curtly mutter "thanks." 
 
 They're connoisseurs, these haughty folk, 
 
 And secretly disdain 
 The richly plated air, or joke, 
 
 Of Mrs. Puttering Payne. 
 
 They eat her dinners, drink her wines, 
 And call her twaddle "wit;" 
 
 But asked if she is "One" with them, 
 They slyly murmur, "Nit." 
 
 And then they say, with courtly guise, 
 
 Repenting truth so bold, 
 "It's really wonderful, the way 
 
 She wins both young and old ! 
 
 She's very pretty, don't you think? 
 
 Her dinners, too, are fine ; 
 It's only — 'tell it not in Gath' — 
 
 She's sometimes 'not in line.' " 
 
 15 
 
Not quite in line with those who think 
 And live for something better, 
 
 Than merely how to eat and drink, 
 To keep the social letter. 
 
 The social "letter of the law," 
 
 Declaring who is "in it;" 
 Who runs with heat the social race. 
 
 But who can never win it ! 
 
 Because "the spirit of the law" 
 These shoddy folk disdain ! 
 
 They see the "letter of the law" 
 In Mrs. Puttering Payne! 
 
 The real kindness, giving grace, 
 They think "a waste of time." 
 
 A poem is "a tiresome thing" — 
 They like a jingling rhyme. 
 
 They go to opera, it is true, 
 And prate of "masters old;" 
 
 They don't believe that you can "prove" 
 That glitter is not gold. 
 
 They strut and stare and feel so sure 
 That "Merit" strives in vain; 
 
 But, for some handsome plated ware. 
 See Mrs. Puttering Payne! 
 
 16 
 
CONFIDENTIALLY. 
 
 TO HIS CHUM. 
 
 I know I'm a bearish fellow, 
 
 But she is a dream of delight, 
 
 The girl in blue, you remember, 
 
 That I took out to dinner to-night. 
 
 She's just the winsomest fairy. 
 
 So tender, and coaxing and true ; 
 
 She isn't at all "strong minded," 
 And not a bit of "a Blue." 
 
 Of course, she's full of nonsense — 
 Most women are, you know. 
 
 And it may be that she thought me 
 At times a trifle "slow." 
 
 But I think that women fancy 
 
 A manly sort of man. 
 They don't want "girlish fellows," 
 
 Built on the dudish plan. 
 
 They like a little roughness, 
 Some bullying, you know ; 
 
 A man that's too complaisant 
 They never give a "show." 
 
 17 
 
A woman and a dog, they say, 
 And some sort of a tree, 
 'The more you beat them," why, 
 "The better they will be." 
 
 And I think that little maiden. 
 With dress and eyes of blue. 
 
 Was somewhat taken with me. 
 Though I saw her eyeing you. 
 
 But that was coquetry, I saw, 
 And meant to draw nie on. 
 
 Well, it is getting late. I find. 
 Good night ! I must be gone. 
 
SHE TO HER CHAPERONE. 
 
 "A self-made man?" Why, yes ! Of course ! 
 
 I always know these "home-made" things 
 They have a "rustic, woodland air," 
 
 Or act as if they sat on springs. 
 They think their way of "getting there," 
 
 And scornful flouting of your taste. 
 Is bright and witty — "debonair" — 
 
 Though on the "desert air" a waste. 
 
 They'd call a rainbow "poppy cock," 
 
 And "criticise" the autumn tints, 
 If old dame Nature led them on, 
 
 To give advice in "gentle hints." 
 They hate "pretense." Oh, yes, indeed; 
 
 These clumsy, stupid, "self-made" men ; 
 Yet who so proud and puffed as they 
 
 To show you what they call their "den ?" 
 
 You must not have one preference small, 
 
 Of word or manner, book or friend, 
 That does not fit their One Idea 
 
 And follow closely in their trend. 
 They are so narrow in their views, 
 
 So raw, aggressive and so crude, 
 You have a sense of being shocked, 
 
 As if their minds were simply nude. 
 
 19 
 
They never drape a single thouglit 
 
 With dainty speech or coaxing tone, 
 They're always either "over-wrought," 
 
 Or sulking in their tent alone. 
 They may have scaled heroic heights 
 
 (As monkeys climb gigantic trees), 
 But dear, oh, dear, — these "self-made" men 
 
 Expect to keep you on your knees, — 
 
 Quite torn by adoration's throes. 
 
 Awe-stricken by the things they've done ;' 
 You feel, so far as living goes, 
 
 They haven't even yet begun ! 
 They do not know the smallest thing 
 
 Concerning diplomatic arts; 
 They give you such a wearing sense 
 
 Of doing things "by fits and starts." 
 
 Don't tell me of these "self-made" men; 
 
 Their very presence makes me ache. 
 Some precious thing or cherished dream, 
 
 Their clumsiness is sure to break. 
 It may be they have "noble traits," 
 
 That incense on the world have poured ; 
 But if they have "well stored minds," 
 
 I wonder zvhere they keep them stored ! 
 
 20 
 
THE CHAPERONE'S STORY. 
 
 You may brush out my hair while I tell you 
 
 A story now thirty years old ; — 
 Perhaps you will think it prosaic — 
 
 'Tis a story I never have told. 
 I. too, in my youth, had a lover, 
 
 And he, like your own, was "self-made," 
 A resolute, noble young fellow ; 
 
 Too late is my poor tribute paid ! 
 
 I met him, of course, in the country; 
 
 I was only a "slip of a girl ;" 
 I was all full of "fool city notions," 
 
 And I thought him somewhat of a chur'. 
 He had a vacation from college, 
 
 And improved it by going to teach 
 In "deestricks" where people expected 
 
 On Sundays he'd "give them a preach." 
 
 I thought him quite clever and handsome ; 
 
 His eyes were as dark as the night. 
 His voice was mellow and tender. 
 
 His smile was a dream of delight ; 
 But I was a "girl full of notions," 
 
 The wiseacres, whispering, said ; 
 1 knew what they thought, and I only 
 
 Tossed higher mv small, foolish head. 
 
Their preacher was clever and handsome, 
 "For a young- man remarkable bright;" 
 Their praise only cheapened their hero, 
 
 I waited and watched for my knight. 
 Of course, he'd be clever and handsome, 
 
 And more than "remarkable bright;" 
 He would look like a prince, and would woo me 
 
 With eyes like the shadow of night. 
 
 I can't tell you just how it happened, 
 
 Nor what was the thought I obeyed ; 
 1 was sure, very sure, that I loved him. 
 
 And never would be "an old maid;" 
 Yet, when I went back to the city, 
 
 And all of my friends came to call. 
 My lover seemed awkward and prosy — 
 
 In theater, opera and ball. 
 
 Who cared for his Greek and his Latin ? 
 
 He was "learn-ed" — too learned by half; — - 
 A "slow-coach," they whispered, together; 
 
 The classics, they thought, "bound in calf." 
 And I, like a simpleton, listened; — 
 
 I was only a motherless girl ; 
 I shivered and shrank and decided 
 
 I never could marry a "churl." 
 
 22 
 
The play and the dancing and music, 
 
 And jesting of fools turned my head: 
 I shall see when I'm dying the anguish 
 
 That showed how his faithful heart bled ! 
 "It is better," I said, "than to suffer. 
 
 A lifetime of ennui, you know ;'" 
 "Yes, better for you, dear," he whispered, 
 
 With a face white as death in its woe. 
 
 "A lifetime of ennui!" Oh, dearie, 
 
 I was deeply with folly accurst, 
 And I thought that of all human misery. 
 
 That "just being bored" was the worst. 
 I never had dreamed of the anguish 
 
 That comes when the curtain is down. 
 And "society" turns to the wretched 
 
 A smile that is worse than a frown : 
 
 A smile and a stare of politeness, 
 
 Or perhaps an ignoring glance, 
 As if to say, "you have no money 
 
 To pay when we want to dance ! 
 Too bad ! You were once very pretty. 
 
 And might have position, you know. 
 If you only had married to please us. 
 
 Enough money to keep up a show." 
 
 23 
 
And then with their cold cheated faces, 
 
 Their pretense of music and mirth, 
 They say, "when a person's romantic, 
 
 It shows that they just want the earth. 
 They want a fine lover and money, 
 
 Want dignity, pleasure and state. 
 Want a man with the small social graces 
 
 And a soul unmistakably great. 
 
 And yet there's a small grain of wisdom. 
 
 In the chattering of "Vanity Fair," 
 There's a limit to all of your choosing, 
 
 So of greediness, darling, beware! 
 Choose that which is solid and lasting; 
 
 For tempests come sooner or late, 
 An_d the best you can find is a lover 
 
 With a soul unmistakably great. 
 
 24 
 
A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 Now just betwen iis, Rosebud, 
 
 Do you think you're quite sincere 
 To be so very charming to — 
 
 Mrs. Jones DeVere ? 
 You know we never liked her. 
 
 She's such a tawdry thing — 
 You know she only visits 
 
 Some foolish "news" to bring. 
 
 Why do you smile so sweetly? 
 
 Do you care for what she tells,— 
 That you try to cast about her 
 
 Your witcheries and spells? 
 Don't you claim to have a conscience. 
 
 And try to speak your mind? 
 Or can't you read that woman 
 
 Because you're simply blind? 
 
 Yes, I claim to have a conscience 
 
 And I'm really quite sincere 
 In trying to be pleasant 
 
 To Mrs. Jones DeVere. 
 I'm showing her a standard. 
 
 It's one I may not reach, — 
 But at least I know the standard, 
 
 And that standard I must teach. 
 
It's the standard of a woman 
 
 That is something hke a rose 
 Forever fair and fragrant. 
 
 Whoever comes or goes. 
 I know our neighbor gossips, 
 
 There is poison in her breath, 
 And to every reputation 
 
 She simply deals out death. 
 
 But I'm trying to reform her, — 
 
 With the sweetness of a rose;- 
 And just how great a bore she is 
 
 I'm sure nobody knows. 
 Yet if I can but show her 
 
 That sweetness is not "tame" 
 Perhaps I may redeem her 
 
 From a Gossip's life of shame. 
 
 26 
 
MRS. AMSTERDAM LeCLIOUE. 
 
 I could think you rather handsome, 
 Mrs. Amsterdam LeClique, 
 
 I could drape you with my dreaming 
 If you only wouldn't speak. 
 
 Your gowns are always modish, 
 
 Your posing isn't bad, 
 But your tone of voice, dear madam. 
 
 Makes me really very sad. 
 
 'Tis the voice of affectation, 
 
 Of a woman on a strain, 
 Suffering from a "social prestige" 
 
 Or a softening of the brain. 
 
 Can't you "let up" just a little? 
 
 Can't you give yourself "a rest?" 
 Will nothing else content you 
 
 But better than "the best?" 
 
 Don't you know those valiant hunters. 
 Who go aiming at the sun. 
 
 Have never any game to show 
 When the weary chase is done? 
 
 27 
 
And when 3-ou're always straining 
 To be better than the best 
 
 Yon put 3^ourself, dear madam, 
 To a very cruel test. 
 
 Your eyes grow hard and bitter, 
 Your smile is scornful, too. 
 
 Life seems at best a failure. 
 No matter what you do. 
 
 It's because you chase the shadow 
 Of your Vanity's poor dream; — 
 
 And, letting go life's substance. 
 
 Things are never what they seem. 
 
 You "do not care for preaching," 
 Mrs. Amsterdam LeClique ? 
 
 But you know there are occasions 
 When you really have to speak,— 
 
 And your voice makes me shudder. 
 With its rasping and its grating : 
 
 You think it does not matter? 
 I see your carriage waiting. 
 
 As a person in a carriage 
 
 Who does not try to speak. 
 
 You're "a very stylish woman," 
 Mrs. Amsterdam LeClique. 
 
 28 
 
ODE TO A BRAKEMAN. 
 
 He was a haui^hty brakeiiian 
 
 (^11 the i^'reat Rock Iskind road, 
 
 And his manner i^-ave new nieanino- 
 'l\) what is called "the code." 
 
 lie had a walk impressive — 
 
 Quite a la mil it aire. 
 And his eyes seemed most ferocious 
 
 With their unrelentiiii^" stare. 
 
 So haughty was his manner 
 
 He seemed some Great Unknown, 
 
 When he shouted out the stations 
 In a fierce, defiant tone. 
 
 llis uniform seemed princely, 
 So proudly was it worn, 
 
 And his badge shone like a banner 
 That some warrior had borne. 
 
 When he stepped upon the platform, 
 
 He had a ruler's mien, — 
 And such a grace in turning 
 
 ( )n the brakes, was never seen. 
 
 21) 
 
Beside him the conductor 
 
 Seemed a puny, helpless thing, 
 
 And you wondered what position 
 Any added power could bring. 
 
 Oh, proud and haughty brakeman, 
 With trim and shining hair, 
 
 With tone of voice defiant, 
 
 And the scornful, stony stare. 
 
 Accept the little tribute, 
 
 My muse essays to bring. 
 
 As a token of the glory 
 
 That may 'round a brakeman cling. 
 
 And believe me ever grateful 
 
 For the lesson you have taught : 
 
 That the humblest of positions 
 May be dignified in thought. 
 
 30 
 
"SHE"— A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Her head was strung with ringlets, 
 Her neck was hung with thing-lets, 
 And she had a somewhat Babylonian air ; — 
 
 But they said she had "a find" 
 In the region of the mind, 
 Which gave her eyes a fixed and stony stare. 
 
 She said that ancient history 
 Would explain the Karmic mystery ; 
 And to questions she would graciously reply. 
 
 Every grievance she could shatter 
 With her theory of matter 
 And her "personal Creator," which was "I." 
 
 Her "Elemental" stories 
 And her "philosophic" glories 
 Had a tendency to raise the hair on end : — 
 
 Yet if you listened kindly 
 And let her lead you blindly 
 She would demonstrate the wisdom of their trend. 
 
 But when you asked the reason 
 Of the Elemental "season," 
 And how to tell a "spook" from a "Planetarv Guide, 
 
 3 31 
 
She looked upon you coldly, 
 And answered very boldly, 
 That your question of the mark was very wide. 
 
 For any intuition 
 Showing spiritual fruition 
 Would forever keep such questions from your lips ; 
 
 And had she been a Sphinx, 
 And you a saucy minx, 
 You could not have gone more wholly in eclipse. 
 
 Her ipse dixit held you 
 As if a blow had felled you. 
 And you listened while she "led the meeting" on, 
 
 Led it on in droves and herds. 
 As she mispronounced her words. 
 And said the "Golden Age" was at its dawn. 
 
 Then you wondered how a woman, 
 Originally human. 
 Could abandon all the Muses and the Graces, 
 
 And become a Thing fantastic, 
 With philosophy elastic. 
 Just to show the world Imagination's "paces." 
 
 32 
 
Yet, with your "mortal mind," 
 Thus to ridicule inclined, 
 Something" stirred your heart to pity most intense, 
 
 For oftentimes a sorrow 
 Tempts a tortured soul to borrow 
 Nepenthe at its Reason's sad expense. 
 
 .?j 
 
"SHE." 
 
 INSPIRED BY THE WOMAN S COUNCIL. 
 
 'Oh, woman ! once content to be 
 A pleasant pourer-out of tea, 
 To sit and sew and cook and see 
 That children learnt their A, B, C ; 
 Who knew what foods with men agree, 
 And studied home econoni}^, 
 And always was content that we 
 Were masters of the family. 
 Now, oh, what change has come to thee, 
 Since thou hast taken thy degree, 
 As bold B. A. and LL. B. ! 
 Thou hop' St to pouch the lawyer's fee, 
 To don the silks of the O. C, 
 To doctor th}^ divinity — • 
 Who sits at home and mourns that he 
 Hath lost his dear unlettered she!" 
 
 — London Globe. 
 
 34 
 
"HE"— A REPLY TO "SHE." 
 
 Oh, master ! Once content to be 
 Devoted to your loving "She," — 
 To sit and read and talk and purr 
 Before the old yule logs with her, — 
 To smile at what the children said. 
 And pat each prattler on the head ; — 
 And to your "dear unlettered She" 
 A loving comrade ever be; — 
 
 What bitter change came unto thee, 
 And drove the children from thy knee. 
 And made thee seek in lodge and club 
 A gayer crowd? "Aye, there's the rub" 
 For, left alone 'till wee sma' hours, 
 A woman's gentle nature sours. 
 She thinks no more of "love and home," 
 She only sobs: "Why doth he roam?" 
 And smarting 'neath each cruel "snub," 
 Resolves to have her own dear club. 
 She is not deaf nor dumb nor blind, 
 And for her empty life must find 
 Some means her talents to disburse 
 Besides as gentle cook or nurse. 
 
 So, master, doth it come to be 
 Thy "pleasant pourer-out of tea," 
 Thy tender, unexacting "She" 
 Becomes a fitting mate for "He." 
 
 35 
 
MRS. MAWVAY. 
 
 Mrs. Mawvay was never a belle; 
 
 But she poses as being excessively "swell." 
 
 She talks through her nose, — with nothing to say, — 
 
 But then, don't you know, — she is — Mrs. Mawvay ! 
 
 She rides in a carriage ! Has dresses galore ! 
 
 She speaks with repugnance of those who are 
 
 "poor,"— 
 She wriggles with joy at "Going Away," — 
 She impresses you deeply as — Mrs. Mawvay ! 
 
 The glory of "luggage," and servants who stare; 
 The spending of money for — -"something to 
 
 wear," — 
 The eating of dinners, the seeing of sights. 
 The late morning naps, the staying up nights; 
 Why really and truly there's no other way 
 To be "very swagger," says Mrs. Mawvay! 
 
HIS TETE A TETE. 
 
 He signs his verses "Buckler Hal" — 
 
 And writes of Katy T — 
 And something- which his rhyme demands 
 
 Be called a "teeta tee." 
 
 Now "Budder Hal," a daring soul, 
 
 I risk eternal hate 
 By telling you the phrase is French 
 
 And pronounced tait ah tate. 
 
 37 
 
TO A DIPLOMAT. 
 
 I think I could have loved you 
 If I'd ever "had a chance;"' 
 
 By which, of course, you know I mean 
 If you'd made the least ''advance." 
 
 But I knew your look of deference. 
 
 Your sweetly, serious mien. 
 And artistic self-effacing 
 
 Were only meant to screen 
 
 The real you from "people" 
 
 Who would simply give you pain. 
 
 The "social thugs" and "sluggers," 
 The Vulgar and the Vain ! 
 
 I've watched your smile angelic 
 
 AMien I knew your soul was stirred 
 
 By disgust "too deep for utt'rance" 
 At some foolish deed or word. 
 
 And your tones were only dulcet 
 
 As vou said things strangely sweet 
 
 To the motley throng of people 
 That vou felt vou "had to meet." 
 
I knew your inward writhing-. 
 
 I saw you at the stake, 
 Where imprisoned Aspiration 
 
 Fires of torture had to take. 
 
 You had a Spartan patience. 
 
 A cahn. Seraphic air. 
 That left me lost in wonder 
 
 At the things you chose to hear. 
 
 And so I could have loved you. 
 
 With a life-time passion true. 
 Only that I feared, in secret. 
 
 1 might he ohnoxious. tot\ 
 
 .\nd ymn- face would never show it, 
 Nor xoiw manner hold a trace 
 
 That to my tender worship 
 
 You assigned a lowly place. 
 
 So, though I could have loved you, 
 If I'd ever had a chance. — 
 
 1 had to be contented 
 
 With a dipliMuatic dance. 
 
ONLY A PRISONER. 
 
 I sit in a beautiful palace, 
 
 A wonderful poem in stone ; 
 
 And I've said, in the pride of possession, 
 That one little nook is my own ; — 
 
 One fair little nook for communion 
 With sages and poets, and all 
 
 That makes of existence a glory — 
 Alas! — There's a noise in the hall! 
 
 'Tis the prattle of people "born idle," 
 The creatures with nothing to say, 
 
 The horrible chattering demons 
 That spoil my beautiful day. 
 
 Come down from your shelf in the corner. 
 Oh, Poet or Martyr or Sage ! 
 
 And deliver my soul from the frenzy 
 Of blind and most impotent rage. 
 
 Oh, Fenelon ! Emerson ! Whittier ! 
 
 Speak wisdom and peace to my soul ; 
 Come dear David Swing and entreat me 
 
 To calmness and high self-control ! 
 
 40 
 
Alas and alas, that your teaching's 
 
 Are mingled with wormwood and gall ; — 
 
 I am "bound to the stake," and must listen 
 To chambermaids' talk in the hall. 
 
 You are out of my reach, sage and poet. 
 You are far, far away, though so near — 
 
 I will lay my dead Hope in her coffin, 
 And drop on her forehead a tear! 
 
 At the best thou art only a prisoner. 
 Oh, soul, in the anguish and thrall 
 
 Of a room in a beautiful palace — 
 
 Where chambermaids talk in the hall. 
 
 "He said," and "we said," and "we told him, 
 "It wasn't" — "It isn't at all;" — 
 
 Oh, Poets and Sages be silent ! 
 
 For chambermaids talk in the hall. 
 
 41 
 
THE WOMAN NEW. . 
 
 The man who hates "the woman new/' 
 The woman ugly, old, or "blue"— 
 Declares he thinks her "quite a joke," 
 And wonders why she does not smoke; — 
 He's sure that "it would quiet her," 
 And then he need not fly at her. 
 
 His brain that has that "matter gray," 
 Enlight'ning man on what to sa}-. 
 Becomes so dried and smoked and dead — 
 The man is but "a figure-head," 
 He knows not what to say or do. 
 And so he "hates the Woman New." 
 
 He thinks of women in their graves. 
 
 Who were obedient little slaves. 
 
 They clasped their hands and bent their knees 
 
 And said: "My lord, please may I sneeze?" 
 
 Dear little souls, with vacant stare 
 
 And silly smile ! These were "the fair." 
 
 A woman then was but a dolt. 
 "Sweet Alice" was her name, Ben Bolt; — 
 And if man chanced on her to smile. 
 She wept with rapture all the while. 
 She stood with eyelids dropping down 
 And trembled at her Master's frown. 
 
 42 
 
Her day is passed ! The Woman New 
 With wisdom and with courage, too, — 
 Is giving men a strange surprise! 
 She is an angel in disguise, 
 Who puts her "hand unto the plow," 
 And bravely teaches "Why" and "How. 
 
 4.? 
 
"THE REASON." 
 
 The reason why I feel 
 
 In your presence deep vexation 
 Must be because I knew you, 
 
 In a former incarnation. 
 
 Perhaps you were my husband, 
 Or perhaps you were my wife, 
 
 Who, with a constant nagging. 
 Took the sweetness out of life. 
 
 Whatever was your mission, 
 
 In that long forgotten time, — 
 
 Your face is quite unwelcome 
 As a memory of crime. 
 
 And yet I dare not hate you. 
 Lest I forge another chain 
 
 That will bind us close together 
 With a riveting of pain. 
 
 I must think of you with pity. 
 Not a "pity" that disdains. 
 
 Not a bitter Godless scorning 
 That divine compassion feigns ; 
 
 44 
 
But a pity of forgiveness, 
 
 Like the Savior's on the cross, 
 
 A tenderness of loving 
 
 Past all worldly gain or loss. 
 
 I must curb my lower nature. 
 With its petty crude vexation, 
 
 And try to go up higher 
 In a future incarnation. 
 
 45 
 
"A SOCIETY GIRL." 
 
 She is tall and rather handsome, 
 With "a wealth" of flaxen hair, 
 
 With a tone of voice that's dulcet 
 And a manner debonair. 
 
 She has a massive air of strength, 
 
 A stare that seems to say, 
 She's "always been accustomed" 
 
 To — having her own way. 
 
 She has an air of wealth and pride 
 "The Idle Born," you know, 
 
 A large, abundant graciousness, 
 A scorn of what "is low." 
 
 She's "fetching" — and she feels it, too;- 
 
 She has the power to draw 
 The social "lesser lights" and make 
 
 Her simple word their law. 
 
 She gives them "such a sense of rest" — 
 The restless and ambitious. 
 
 Of her own place and influence 
 She never is suspicious. 
 
 46 
 
She does not claim to soar or sing, 
 She "hates a vile pretense:" — 
 
 She has a reputation for 
 
 The "greatest Common-Sense." 
 
 She seems to say : "It's not worth while, 
 Your fussing and your fuming; — 
 
 I'll take you up and treat you 'nice' 
 If you're only not 'presuming.' " 
 
 She feels so sure about herself. 
 Of what she is and knows, — 
 
 She doesn't always "take the time" 
 To think about her pose. 
 
 So she sometimes leans and "sozzles" 
 When she ought to sit up straight. 
 
 But — if put upon her mettle 
 She always "knows her gait." 
 
 At a glance "she's simply stunning;" 
 "Effective" is the word; — 
 
 Yet — a single fine emotion 
 Never yet her being stirred. 
 
 She has a nature bovine. 
 
 The spirit of a cow ! 
 (Of course this is the envy 
 
 Of a woman saying "Wow!") 
 
 47 
 
"HER LECTURES." 
 
 Oh, you have heard her lecture ; 
 
 Has she anything to say? 
 I mean, does she uncover 
 
 Any fine "brain-matter gray ?"' 
 
 Do tell me what she teaches ! 
 
 And did you learn a lot? 
 Try to tell me in a minute 
 
 Just what it was you got. 
 
 Yes, I went to hear her lecture ; 
 
 I always thought her sweet ; 
 And her house was very charming 
 
 For the people one might meet. 
 
 She had no vulgar flaunting, 
 
 She was restful, pure and calm. 
 
 And a certain rhythmic chanting 
 In her voice was like a psalm. 
 
 'Mid the chatter and the nonsense, 
 The posing and the "Airs" 
 
 Of the empty-headed creatures 
 Whose stock is onlv "Stares." 
 
 48 
 
She seemed a heavenly vision, 
 "On the desert air a waste ;" — 
 
 Though "Society" decided 
 
 She had "most exquisite taste." 
 
 She hadn't deepest "Cuhure;" 
 But — "learning- is a bore;" — 
 
 And she carried the impression 
 Of having "something more." 
 
 So I, too, worshiped mutely 
 At a shrine I could not name, 
 
 And I went to hear her lecture. 
 Caring not if it were "tame." 
 
 For life is more than talking. 
 And being more than speech, 
 
 And I know that heights of living 
 Feeble words may ne\er reach ! 
 
 So I listened for her meaning. 
 
 With a most profound salaam ; — 
 
 You may fancy my emotions 
 To find her the "I Am." 
 
 'The I am that I am," she said, 
 
 She felt herself to be, 
 The old Original "I Am!" 
 
 Think wliat that meant to me ! 
 
 49 
 
Since then I know the value 
 Of "a stupid education" — 
 
 And its power to know distinctions 
 'Twixt God and mere negation. 
 
 So I think her lectures taught me 
 More than I ever learned 
 
 In any vivid "thoughts that breathed' 
 Or fierv "words that burned." 
 
 so 
 
ONE THING LACKING. 
 
 A woman of culture ! Oh, yes, I know ; — 
 Goes "over the water" each season or so; 
 Reads Latin and Greek and French, I believe, 
 Has dresses galore, in which to "Receive." 
 
 And "following his nose for dirt," they say, 
 Her husband has made his politics "pay." 
 So she has "position" and culture and wealth. 
 And a force that comes of keeping her health. 
 
 Then what is the matter? How faileth her spell? 
 "Without fear or favor," — commences — votis — tell, 
 What wee sma' perfection would add to her art ? 
 Oh, merelv a trifle — she hasn't a heart. 
 
 51 
 
THE AA'O.AIAX WHO KNOAA'S. 
 
 The woman who knows may sigh or may laugh, 
 But she never is caught with a handful of chaff ; 
 She is willing, quite willing, to say what will please. 
 But she knows very well that chalk is not cheese. 
 
 She has learned this old world — with its humbugs 
 
 and snares. 
 Its ha'penny pleasures and imbecile "cares." 
 She knows when a fool with a cap and a bell 
 Says : "Look. ]\Irs. Grund}". now isn't this 'swell?' '' 
 
 She smiling- assents. She never says ''Na)''." 
 She murmurs ''Goodbye ! Fm going this wa}''." 
 She's deeply amused, but never will tell 
 How very elastic that vulgar word "swell." 
 
 You ma}" say what you will of praise or of blame, 
 "The woman who knows" will smile just the same. 
 She knows all the worth of each puerile pretense. 
 And nothing that's done can give her offense. 
 
 But show her a soul with aims white as day. 
 And an Oracle wiser than "Really They Say." 
 And she'll give you devotion so lavish and sweet, 
 She seems like a child who sits at vour feet. 
 
\ ou may ilrcani or may "so/./.le," 
 
 ]\la\' stnit or ma\ i)Ose, 
 May tell of your ancestry, money, or woes, — 
 
 None listens more kin^lly. nn-re "sympathy 
 shows. 
 Than just "that old creature," 
 
 The Woman Who Knows. 
 
ABOUT KATHIE. 
 
 I don't complain of Kathie, 
 
 Or any of her ways, 
 And when it comes to "Motives," 
 
 She commands the highest praise; 
 Yet her presence ever keeps me 
 
 In a curious mental daze. 
 
 For my various belongings 
 
 I pursue a madd'ning quest; — 
 
 My pen is always missing 
 
 And my hair-pins are non est, 
 
 Yet Kathie oft assures me 
 
 That she does her "Very Best." 
 
 If I try to write an essay, 
 
 A story, or a song, 
 That is her time to mention 
 
 Some very grievous "Wrong," 
 Or to ask me, very meekly. 
 
 Where does this or that "belong." 
 
 If my muse become insistent 
 On a prior Right of Way, — 
 
 Then Kathie moves her eyelids 
 And begins to groan and pray. 
 
 Until I stop and listen 
 
 What it is she has to say. 
 
 54 
 
She beams on me reproachful 
 
 And her "motives" sting like burrs, 
 As she asks me if "devotion" 
 
 Was ever known like hers? 
 And she tells me " 'tis important" 
 
 That I find for her the scissors. 
 
 They are lying right before her, 
 And the fact I stop to mention, 
 
 Thus increasing to a frenzy 
 
 My tortured "nervous tension," 
 
 Thus losing from my writing 
 The angel Concentration. 
 
 But she looks so round and smiling. 
 Such "a Christian spirit" shows 
 
 Toward the weakness of a person 
 Given o'er to "nervous" woes. 
 
 That I learn a deep compassion 
 For those who "come to blows." 
 
 And I know that making verses. 
 
 Or any other thing. 
 Can never truest rapture 
 
 To the unconverted bring — 
 Though their crime be but rebellion 
 
 When they may not soar and sing. 
 
 55 
 
If they "can not dwell with patience' 
 On "just the Little Things," 
 
 On the scissors or the whisk-broom, 
 Or the petty social stings; — 
 
 Why they "needn't take to posing 
 As angels without wings." 
 
 And yet this truth remaineth : 
 The tortured "nervous tension," 
 
 The strain of constant thwarting. 
 And all I can not mention, 
 
 Needs only for its healing 
 The Aneel Concentration. 
 
 56 
 
ONE KIND. 
 
 Their fad is the "Fraternal," 
 
 A gentle gathering in 
 Of all the Shapes and Shadows 
 Of squalor and of sin. 
 
 They shake their heads in sadness 
 Over "Natural Selection," 
 
 A hint of "birth" or "breeding" 
 Awakens deep dejection. 
 
 A sin is but "a blunder," — 
 
 And human hearts that break 
 
 But testify the folly 
 
 And the very "sad mistake 
 
 Of caring for the person," 
 
 When "Principle" "s the thing ;- 
 And human love quite certain 
 
 Deepest misery to bring. 
 
 To faults they are most generous 
 And "gushing" over vice; — 
 
 But to plain Respectability 
 
 These Reformers are but ice. 
 
 57 
 
Their role, of course, is Teacher; 
 
 Yet what they really teach 
 Is that what you "do" is nothing 
 
 If you have the proper speech. 
 
 They talk about "forgiveness" 
 Vv/'hen they really can't forgive 
 
 A person for insisting 
 
 That tJie test is hozu we live. 
 
 The little human kindness, 
 The small unselfish deed, 
 
 And lovely self-forgetfulness, 
 This One Kind never heed. 
 
 Their cry is "Universal," 
 
 A melting into space, 
 Of every concrete virtue 
 
 Into mushy commonplace. 
 
 S8 
 
"FURNISHED ROOMS." 
 
 You may know a hundred sorrows, 
 
 And endure their griefs and glooms, 
 If you never knew the anguish 
 
 To be found in "Furnished Rooms." 
 Here the ghosts of monster-worries, 
 
 From the tenants gone before, 
 Troop around you far less cheerful 
 
 Than that raven "Nevermore." 
 
 You knit your brow and ponder, 
 
 As your teeth you firmly set. 
 When you chance to move the bureau 
 
 And disclose — a cigarette! 
 A beastly little mixture 
 
 At which your soul is rent, 
 As it makes you cold with horror 
 
 At its evidence of "gent." 
 
 You know he wore a "diamond," 
 
 And of cloves a killing scent, 
 And he liked to talk of people. 
 
 And of places he "had went." 
 You know the calm complacence 
 
 Of his sleek and vacant stares 
 And you almost seem to hear him 
 
 Sav he's "been most everyivJicrcs." 
 
 5^ 
 
His Grammar is atrocious. 
 
 And his manner simply vile. 
 But he lavishes upon you 
 
 A patronizing smile. 
 He's pestilence and famine. 
 
 He's misery when it "booms," 
 He's everything repulsive — 
 
 He's the ghost of "Furnished Rooms. 
 
 60 
 
"OUR SET." 
 
 Our set is not "merely fuss and flare," 
 Though, indeed, it demands a certain air, — 
 A manner perhaps one learns to wear. 
 The French have named it "S avoir faire." 
 Does it mean so much ? Well, yes ; — in truth 
 Without it, nor genius, nor beauty, nor youth, 
 Nor even the "dollars and golden glare" 
 Can enter the lists in Vanity Fair. 
 
 For genius can act like a boor, you know, 
 With a nasal twang "exceeding low," — 
 And Beauty may be surprisingly rude. 
 And Youth, indeed, most painfully crude. 
 And Wealth, you see, — Why, anybody 
 May "strike it rich" and rank with "shoddy." 
 But the regal air and the queenly grace 
 Of one who always knows her place ; 
 
 Who never intrudes a "brutal fact," — 
 
 Who is full of tender, beautiful tact; 
 
 Who has no vulgar "uppish" airs. 
 
 Nor foolish frowns nor silly stares, 
 
 No snappish "wit," nor awkward pose. 
 
 But is always sweet as a summer rose. 
 
 Will be sought by "our set" with smiles so sweet 
 
 That "all the world" will be at her feet. 
 
 61 
 
THE MINER'S LETTER HOME. 
 
 'My darling, I know you'll be anxious 
 To hear from your truant once more ; 
 
 I've now just returned from the mountains — 
 Been sorting and sacking my ore. 
 
 Twelve months have elapsed since I left you, 
 A played-out and woe-begone man, 
 
 To woo the frail goddess of fortune 
 In the mines of the famous San Juan. 
 
 At last I have struck a bonanza — 
 I'll send you a sample of ore — 
 
 It assays away up in the thousands. 
 And is worth a cool million or more. 
 
 If the pay streak don't pinch in the workings. 
 And will furnish its average yield. 
 
 Gray copper, galena and ruby, 
 
 We'll both be "eternally heeled." 
 
 We'll have suppers, receptions, and parties — 
 And night shirts with laces — and wine, 
 
 And fashion will come in its grandeur. 
 And humbly will kneel at our shrine. 
 
 62 
 
While we revel in costliest splendor, 
 From evening till earliest dawn, 
 
 Who'd think that I had been toiling 
 
 In the tunnels and drifts of San Juan? 
 
 My dear, I've a favor to ask you : 
 I'm financially crippled of late; 
 
 My ore could be shipped to the smelter 
 If I'd a fifty to cover the freight. 
 
 Then look out for a thousand, 
 
 And prepare for a change in your life ; 
 
 Take the sign off your laundry and burn it. 
 For now you're a millionaire's wife." 
 
 — Denver Graphic. 
 
 63 
 
HER ANSWER. 
 
 Dear John, I received your kind letter, 
 
 And I'm glad we're "eternally heeled," 
 Provided the pay streak continues, 
 
 To "furnish its average yield." 
 But as for the "suppers and parties," 
 
 The "night shirts with laces, — and wine, 
 Are you sure that these are sufficient 
 
 To make "fashion kneel at our shrine?" 
 
 While we "revel in costliest splendor," 
 
 Will nobody say "they look green?" 
 Can I go from the wash-tub and laundry 
 
 And reign a "society queen?" 
 They say that it isn't so easy 
 
 To learn the "society-talk;" 
 And Fashion, I'm told, is quite heartless 
 
 When rich people make any balk. 
 
 At the best, could we be more than "shoddy,' 
 
 "Rich people;" with nothing to say, 
 Poor wretches, whom no one regardeth 
 
 Except for the bills they can pay. 
 Then think of the money required 
 
 For suppers, receptions, and wine. 
 And how little profit, though Fashion 
 
 Ironically "knelt at our shrine." 
 
 64 
 
She would eat of our suppers and dinners, 
 
 And sneer at the talk which we had, 
 And say, with her eye-brows uplifted. 
 
 That really our "cook wasn't bad." 
 I'm sure she would "pinch in the workings," 
 
 And furnish a pitiful yield, 
 This Fashion on wdiich you're counting 
 
 Because we're "eternally heeled." 
 
 But I've thought of a pay streak, dear husband. 
 
 More precious than rubies or gold ; 
 Its riches and pleasure and honor 
 
 Have never by mortal been told. 
 And to work it we need not be fearing 
 
 We'll make any laughable balk 
 By showing the world our conception 
 
 Of "genteel society talk." 
 
 This "pay streak" is finding the needy, 
 
 The invalid dying of care, 
 The orphaned and homeless and wretched, 
 
 And lighting their night of despair. 
 This never can "pinch in the workings," 
 
 For 'tis part of the "glory revealed," 
 That can make us of sin or of sorrow. 
 
 In truth, John, etcnallv healed. 
 
 65 
 
ABOUT MY "MISSION." 
 
 You say my earthly mission 
 You do not try to guess — 
 
 You only know "it's something good," 
 And wish me all success. 
 
 Your kindness makes me wonder 
 
 If I am so very vague 
 That my "mission" is a puzzle 
 
 Which a concrete mind must plague. 
 
 Now, if I know my "mission," 
 
 It's just to find the way 
 To say unto myself each night, 
 
 "You've done your best to-day." 
 
 My "best" is sometimes "awful" 
 In its walking over "corns" 
 
 Of those whose fad or fancy 
 Imbecility adorns. 
 
 I do not mean to hurt them, — 
 Be they stupid, grave or gay ; — 
 
 And with my small sincerities 
 I would not block their way. 
 
 66 
 
 L.o?C. 
 
I am trying hard to help them 
 With merry rhyme and jest,' 
 
 To do the thing they want to do 
 In a way that seemeth best. 
 
 Now can you name this effort 
 A "mission" or '"a call?" 
 It's an instinct quite maternal, 
 And I'm sure that is all. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 67 
 
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