THE MODERN BELLE.

The daughter sits in the parlor, And rocks in her easy-chair; She is dressed in silks and satins, And jewels are in her hair; She winks, and giggles, and simpers, And simpers, and giggles, and winks; And though she talks but little, It's vastly more than she thinks. Her father goes clad in russet— All brown and seedy at that; His coat is out at the elbows, And he wears a shocking bad hat. He is hoarding and saving his dollars, So carefully, day by day, While she on her whims and fancies Is squandering them all away. She lies in bed of a morning Until the hour of noon, Then comes down, snapping and snarling Because she's called too soon. Her hair is still in papers, Her cheeks still bedaubed with paint— Remains of last night's blushes Before she attempted to faint. Her feet are so very little, Her hands so snowy white, Her jewels so very heavy, And her head so very light; Her color is made of cosmetics— Though this she'll never own; Her body is mostly cotton, And her heart is wholly stone. She falls in love with a fellow Who swells with a foreign air; He marries her for her money, She marries him for his hair— One of the very best matches; Both are well mated in life; She's got a fool for a husband, And he's got a fool for a wife.