FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
Reading edition
A RHYME FOR PRISCILLA
Dear Priscilla, quaint and very Like a modern Puritan, Is a modest, literary, Merry young American: Horace she has read, and Bion Is her favorite in Greek; Shakspeare is a mighty lion In whose den she dares but peek; Him she leaves to some sage Daniel, Since of lions she’s afraid— She prefers a playful spaniel, Such as Herrick or as Praed; And it’s not a bit satiric To confess her fancy goes From the epic to a lyric On a rose. Wise Priscilla, dilettante, With a sentimental mind, Doesn’t deign to dip in Dante, And to Milton isn’t kind; L’Allegro, Il Penseroso Have some merits she will grant, All the rest is only so-so— Enter Paradise she can’t! She might make a charming angel (And she will if she is good), But it’s doubtful if the change’ll Make the Epic understood: Honeysuckling, like a bee she Goes and pillages his sweets, And it’s plain enough to see she Worships Keats. Gay Priscilla—just the person For the Locker whom she loves; What a captivating verse on Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves He could write in catching measure, Setting all the heart astir! And to Aldrich what a pleasure It would be to sing of her— He, whose perfect songs have won her Lips to quote them day by day. She repeats the rhymes of Bunner In a fascinating way, And you’ll often find her lost in— She has reveries at times— Some delightful one of Austin Dobson’s rhymes. O Priscilla, sweet Priscilla, Writing of you makes me think, As I burn my brown Manila And immortalize my ink, How well satisfied these poets Ought to be with what they do When, especially, they know it’s Read by such a girl as you: I who sing of you would marry Just the kind of girl you are— One who doesn’t care to carry Her poetic taste too far— One whose fancy is a bright one, Who is fond of poems fine, And appreciates a light one Such as mine.
As the car reached Westville, an old man with a long white beard rose feebly from a corner seat and tottered toward the door. He was, however, stopped by the conductor, who said:
“Your fare, please.”
“I paid my fare.”
“When? I don’t remember it.”
“Why, I paid you when I got on the car.”
“Where did you get on?”
“At Fair Haven.”
“That won’t do! When I left Fair Haven there was only a little boy on the car.”
“Yes,” answered the old man, “I know it. I was that little boy.”