A STRING OF BEADS
She hath a slender neck,
And, fain to clasp such whiteness,
Two strings of beads bedeck
Its grace with shining brightness.
Sweetly she sings and low,
While late the twilight lingers,
And each bead, falling slow,
Slips through her jeweled fingers.
My great-great-grandame's face
Was fair, her years but twenty;
Hers were exceeding grace
And sighing lovers plenty.
The king himself, in time—
They say he swore it roundly—
Confessed for her sweet prime
The love he felt profoundly.
And when in doleful screed
A swain declared his passion,
My grandame strung a bead
In most methodic fashion.
A bishop's heart is here,
A viscount's, earl's and, mounting
A duke's, a king's and near,
A score of knights' for counting.
She loved them all full well,
For, late in life's December,
Each golden bead she'd tell
And each dear name remember.
Ah, me! Her grandame's face
Is hers; her years but twenty;
Hers are exceeding grace
And sighing lovers plenty,
Who follow where she leads—
Hope like a siren singing—
To add their hearts—poor beads!—
Unto her grandame's stringing.
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A DISCREPANCY
MISS CLINGER—I heard you were at the ball last night. What a pity you don't dance!
Miss Poplin—But I do.
Miss Clinger—They told me you don't.
