The Rothers
We little fancied she would come—
Quit palms, and sun, and table d'hote
For two unknown small girls at home;
But soon there came a scented note
With half the phrases underscored.
And French at every second word.
And soon she followed. She would sigh.
And clasp her hands, and swear "by God;"
Her black wig ever slipped awry,
And quavered with a trembling nod;
Her face was powdered very white,
Her black eyes danced under brows of night.
Such paint! Yet were I ever to feel
Utterly lost, no saint I'd pray.
But, crooked of ringlets and high of heel,
I'd call to the rescue old Miss May;
No haloed angel sweet and slender.
Were half so kind, so staunch, so tender.
She loved the children well, but most
The girl who least was like herself—
Maudie, at worst a plaintive ghost,
Maudie, at best a laughing elf.
With eyes deep flowering under dew.
Such tender looks of lazy blue.
Florence was stronger, commonplace
No doubt, but good, sincere, and kind;
There was no Rother in her face.
There was no Rother I could find
Within her nature; but who knows?
My son shall not marry a daughter of Flo's.
You see I hate the Rothers, I!
Unjust, perhaps; all are not vile
It may be—but I cannot try.
When I think of a Rother now, to smile.
You hate the Jews, perhaps? the Turks?
In every heart some hatred lurks.
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