68
THE BATTALION.
from her dark eyes, a smile or coquettish
wave of her fan, and is unspeakably
happy if, when his constancy has been
found to stand sufficient stress of
weather, she comes out on the balcony to
look—not at him, oh, no—but at the
clouds, at the drove of donkeys passing,
or at her neighbor’s new carriage—any
thing except at the pathetic face under
the great sombrero, as, heedless of the
crowd, he gazes steadfastly at the object
of his adoration. From that moment all
is plain sailing, and long conversations
on the most interesting of all subjects are
held in the language of signs and glances.
After long waiting, he receives a formal
invitation to her home from her guar
dians, the balcony and sidewalks are de
serted for the drawingroom, and the
courtship continues under the supervis
ion of all the family, and terminates, let
us hope, in a happy civil marriage, the
ceremony in the church, and that visit
to the photographer which, in every Mex
ican damsel’s opinion, is the acme of suc
cess.
A MEMORY.
F. SIMPSON.
A glow of golden sunset,
The shrill cicada’s cry,
An overarching forest,
A river rushing by.
I stand with her enraptured,
And gaze upon the stream,
And as the twilight gathers
I dream a pleasant dream.
Out on a distant prairie,
Tree-locked I seem to see
A vine-embowered cottage,
A dear one waiting me;
A loving look and tender
From gray eyes brightly beam.
And my heart fills with gladness
At this, my pleasant dream.
The sombre shadows falling,
I look into her eyes;
An old, old question spoken,
A saddened voice replies.
* * X- *
We pass without the forest,
Flows on the eddying stream,
But that low word in answer
Ended my sweetest dream.
ISABELLE.
F. SIMPSON.
Skipping graceful as a fawn,
O’er the flower-covered lawn;
Singing songs in merry glee,
Songs of olden melody;
Hiding by some old oak tree,
Leading my poor heart astray;
Oh, her witching smiles a spell,
Graceful, loving Isabelle.
In her hair she now entwines
Fragrant flowers, slendter vines;
How her dark eyes sparkle bright.
Lovelier than the stars of night;
With her dainty, winsome art.
She hath won from me my heart;
But I know she’ll treat it well,
Darling, dark-eyed Isabelle.