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III. IN DIALECTHER 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;
I`m be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir, "the belle of the season"
Is wasting an hour upon you. A dozen engagements I`ve broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
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. "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 they 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 poor dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand,--
If you saw papa`s picture, as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that,
You`d never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat. And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier,--
In the bustle and glitter befitting
The "finest soiree of the year,"--
In the mists of a gaze de Chambery,
And the hum of the smallest of talk,--
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry,"
And the dance that we had on "The Fork;" Of Harrison`s barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle,
Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee; Of the moon that was quietly sleeping
On the hill, when the time came to go;
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bedclothes of snow;
Of that ride--that to me was the rarest;
Of--the something you said at the gate.
Ah! Joe, then I wasn`t an heiress
To "the best-paying lead in the State." Well, well, it`s all past; yet it`s funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,
Of some one who breasted high water,
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee`s daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat. But goodness! what nonsense I`m writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low),
Instead of my triumphs reciting,
I`m spooning on Joseph,--heigh-ho!
And I`m to be "finished" by travel,--
Whatever`s the meaning of that.
Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat? Good-night!--here`s the end of my paper;
Good-night!--if the longitude please,--
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.
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