THE BEGGING CUPID

I watched as they stood before it,— A girl with a face as fair As any among the marbles, So cold in their whiteness there; And a youth in whose glance, entreaty Each lineament seemed to stir, She only had eyes for the sculpture; He only had eyes for her. And poising in critic-fashion The delicate upturned head, “Was ever so sweet a beggar?” With sudden appeal, she said. “Just look at the innocent archness, The simple and childish grace, Half mirthful and half pathetic, That dimples his pleading face.

“Whoever could think that mischief Was hidden in such a guise? Or even that rosy sorrows Lurk in those lambent eyes? “Deny him? Perhaps! though never With hardness or scorn or blame; For I think I should sob with pity, If that were the way he came.” She turned as she spoke: the glamour Of feeling had made her blind To the trick of the stealthy arrow The Cupid concealed behind: “Ah, ha!” she cried, while the color Rubied her neck of snow— “You plausible, wheedling beggar! I have nothing to give you,—Go!” Margaret J. Preston.