 | The complete poetical writings of J. G. Holland |  |
507
A LEGEND OF LEAP YEAR.
“No poet should invent his own romance.”—
Stedman.
Stedman.
“One, two,
Buckle my shoe.”
Two little shoes with silver buckles dight,
Lay in the room where she had passed the night.
She raised them in her fingers, pink and white,
And put them on her feet, and strapped them tight.
Buckle my shoe.”
Two little shoes with silver buckles dight,
Lay in the room where she had passed the night.
She raised them in her fingers, pink and white,
And put them on her feet, and strapped them tight.
“Three, four,
Open the door.”
Then slowly rising from her cushioned chair,
She gave a last deft crinkle to her hair,
And oped the door and hurried down the stair—
Her petticoats soft rustling through the air!
Open the door.”
Then slowly rising from her cushioned chair,
She gave a last deft crinkle to her hair,
And oped the door and hurried down the stair—
Her petticoats soft rustling through the air!
“Five, six,
Pick up sticks.”
Straight to the yard she skipped on queenly toes,
To where in serried ranks the wood-pile rose,
Then piled her arm with hickory to her nose,
And bore it to the house through air that froze.
Pick up sticks.”
Straight to the yard she skipped on queenly toes,
To where in serried ranks the wood-pile rose,
Then piled her arm with hickory to her nose,
And bore it to the house through air that froze.
“Seven, eight,
Lay 'em straight.”
At length the wood was blazing on the fire,
Though still unequal to her fierce desire;
And so she punched and punched the cheerful pyre,
And heaped with sticks the household altar higher.
Lay 'em straight.”
At length the wood was blazing on the fire,
Though still unequal to her fierce desire;
And so she punched and punched the cheerful pyre,
And heaped with sticks the household altar higher.
508
“Nine, ten,
Good fat hen.”
And then the eager hunger-fiend was foiled,
And she was glad, indeed, that she had toiled;
For when her hands were washed, so sadly soiled,
She sat down to a last year's chicken—BROILED!
Good fat hen.”
And then the eager hunger-fiend was foiled,
And she was glad, indeed, that she had toiled;
For when her hands were washed, so sadly soiled,
She sat down to a last year's chicken—BROILED!
“Eleven, twelve,
Toil and delve.”
Then to her waist her pink of pinafores
She fastened, and did up her little chores,
Made soap, made bread, baked beans, and swept her floors,
And worried through a hundred household bores.
Toil and delve.”
Then to her waist her pink of pinafores
She fastened, and did up her little chores,
Made soap, made bread, baked beans, and swept her floors,
And worried through a hundred household bores.
“Thirteen, fourteen,
Girls are courtin.”
Next morn before her door the grocer's van
Drove up. 'Twas leap-year, and she laid her plan.
So when he asked for orders, she began
To blush, and said she'd take a market-man!
Girls are courtin.”
Next morn before her door the grocer's van
Drove up. 'Twas leap-year, and she laid her plan.
So when he asked for orders, she began
To blush, and said she'd take a market-man!
“Fifteen, sixteen,
Girls are fixin'.”
She overhauled her linen-chest with pride,
Bought hose, bought gloves, bought sheetings two yards wide,
Bought blankets and a hundred things beside
That woman buys when she becomes a bride.
Girls are fixin'.”
She overhauled her linen-chest with pride,
Bought hose, bought gloves, bought sheetings two yards wide,
Bought blankets and a hundred things beside
That woman buys when she becomes a bride.
“Seventeen, eighteen,
Girls are waitin'.”
And then she waited—waited day by day,
Till weeks had flown, and months had passed away,
But still her order lingered in delay,
Although she longed to have it filled—and pay.
Girls are waitin'.”
And then she waited—waited day by day,
Till weeks had flown, and months had passed away,
But still her order lingered in delay,
Although she longed to have it filled—and pay.
509
“Nineteen, twenty,
Girls are plenty.”
At length she knew. Embarras de richesses
Had thrown the fellow into wild distress,
And he had gone to drinking to excess,
Crushed by the weight of offered loveliness.
Girls are plenty.”
At length she knew. Embarras de richesses
Had thrown the fellow into wild distress,
And he had gone to drinking to excess,
Crushed by the weight of offered loveliness.
She called and saw him, selling by the pound
Within his stall. “Fact is,” said he, “I found
That gals this year so wonderful abound,
No single market-man won't go around!”
Within his stall. “Fact is,” said he, “I found
That gals this year so wonderful abound,
No single market-man won't go around!”
| The complete poetical writings of J. G. Holland | |