A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England

Now then as we've disposed of Dolly,
Since postscripts are the cream of letters,
A truce to all this babyish folly,
And let us talk of graver matters.

When next you climb your mother's knee,
Give her a long, sweet kiss from me;
My love, too, to your father, dear;
And tell them both my warmest wishes,
That Christmas-day may bring them cheer,
In pleasant friends, and tempting dishes.

If mine but knew that I was writing,
They'd send, I'm sure, a pretty message;
But one a story is inditing,
And t'other sees some portraits presage
In “his mind's eye,” and heeds not now
His daughter's cogitating brow.

I often hear them speak of you
And your mamma.—To-day, at dinner,
Papa exclaimed,—“Now, Fanny, do
Write to that charming Mrs. Skinner!”

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Mamma began to frown and pout,
I thought her manner quite alarming;
At last the reason faltered out,—
“I will—if you wont call her charming!”

To tell the truth,—(you'll not betray?)
I hate to see a jealous woman;
As if e'en Beauty's faintest ray
Should fall upon a heart that's human,
Without awaking grateful love
To Beauty's Author throned above!
For me,—I would not give a groat
For any one, who had not taste
And soul enough to feel and note
Where Loveliness her shrine has placed.

For instance, love, they often say,
That you are brighter far than I,
Far more intelligent and gay,
With stronger frame and lustier cry;
They say your silken hair can curl,
Your feet can tottle round the room,
Your mouth is filled with teeth of pearl,
Your cheek is rich with healthful bloom!

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My hair's as straight as sunbeams,—nay,
'Tis worse, for even when 'tis wet,
It's not refracted like the ray,
But only more refractory yet!
My head's a hopeless case, my dear,
My cheeks still wear the lily's hue,
My feet wern't made to walk I fear,
And as for teeth I've only—two!

But I should think as soon of crying,
Because yon star mine eye out-smiled,
Or roses mocked my lip,—as sighing,
When you are called a lovelier child!

No!—if, when I'm grown up a lady,
My husband talks of Mary Skinner,
No frown shall make my forehead shady,
No envious pang shall spoil my dinner!

But, dearest, as I promised “cream,”
I should have made my postscript shorter;
So lengthened,—after all 'twill seem,
That flattest beverage—milk and water!

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But one word more.—When left alone,
And half awake within your crib,
Do you not sometimes hear a tone,—
(I hope you never tell a fib!)
A silvery tone, close—close above you?
As if some warbling cherub-child
Had stolen from heaven to see and love you?
And have you not in rapture smiled,
And talked in whispers sweet and low,
About your play,—your griefs and joys,—
And begged the baby not to go,—
And promised it your prettiest toys?

I have,—I often do.—Mamma
Thinks all young children thus are blest,—
That infant-angels come from far,
To watch and share their guileless rest.

And, Mary, when again I hear
My spirit-playmate's accent clear,
And see again the wavy gleam
Of golden ringlets in my dream,—
I'll tell the angel-child of you;
And pressing on its lips of dew

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A loving kiss, I'll bid it fly
To where you in your beauty lie,
And bring me, in another trip,
A message from your own sweet lip!

Now then—good bye! my precious Mary!
I'm sure my next rhyme wont come well in;
But you'll forgive a bard's vagary,
And not forget your little
Ellen!

University of Virginia Library

POSTSCRIPT.