His face bent down until her brow
Seemed touched by his mustache,
While she smiled on him—well, just how
A girl smiles on her mash.
He whispered something low and sweet,
And pointed down to where
Two little blue-silk-slippered feet
Were making people stare.
She blushed, and thrust one farther out,
As if for him to see;
A look of pain o'ercame her pout:
What ever could it be?
"Sure, never did a girl with man
So brazenly coquette
In public," said, behind her fan,
Each other girl you met.
I'll own appearances, indeed,
Were much against the maid;
But, as in many things we heed,
Of harm there was no shade.
How this I know, I'll tell to you:
I chanced to stand quite near
Upon the stairs, behind the two,
And then to overhear.
A long time passed, while neither spoke,
And then at last said he,—
"I'm sick of this: I'm sure you joke;
Your foot's quite well, I see.
"You could, if you but cared to try,
With me come down and dance."
Now, notice how her quick reply
Destroys the scene's romance.
"Perhaps you think my foot's all right;
But, sure as you are born,
I wish you wore my slippers tight,
And had—just there—that corn."
Andrew G. Tubbs.
