 | Poems and verses by Mary Mapes Dodge |  |
76
MARY, THE COOK.
It is strange what a world of romance,
What a 'wildering, witching spell,
Hangs about Mary, the cook.
Why, it 's music to sit in her silence,
And (I 'm not ashamed to tell)
It 's heaven to catch but her look.
She, rubbing the lamps, well might madden
The stoniest slave of Aladdin—
In short, if you wish to know sweetness
And deftness and magical neatness,
You 've only to look
At Mary, the cook.
What a 'wildering, witching spell,
Hangs about Mary, the cook.
Why, it 's music to sit in her silence,
And (I 'm not ashamed to tell)
It 's heaven to catch but her look.
She, rubbing the lamps, well might madden
The stoniest slave of Aladdin—
In short, if you wish to know sweetness
And deftness and magical neatness,
You 've only to look
At Mary, the cook.
You see, as we 're all on a picnic,
Some duties must fall to the girls:
So Mary is boiling the tea.
Ah, who would n't be an old kettle
To mirror those tumbled curls,
And sing near her heart for glee!
Charley and Kate, by the beeches,
Are opening pickles and peaches;
The others devising a table;
While I, like the fox in the fable,
Sit vainly and look
At Mary, the cook.
Some duties must fall to the girls:
77
Ah, who would n't be an old kettle
To mirror those tumbled curls,
And sing near her heart for glee!
Charley and Kate, by the beeches,
Are opening pickles and peaches;
The others devising a table;
While I, like the fox in the fable,
Sit vainly and look
At Mary, the cook.
She 's “steady”—I 'd swear it. And “sober”?
Well, no—by that mischievous laugh!
“Willing”? A fellow can't tell,
Though she knows how I long to ask her,
Or guesses it more than half,
Which answers nearly as well.
Shall I ask her? (But ah, what effront'ry—
The stunningest girl in the country!)
To always be—Jove! Is she flushing
Over that fire—or—blushing?
What if I rose and “took”
Mary, the cook!
Well, no—by that mischievous laugh!
“Willing”? A fellow can't tell,
Though she knows how I long to ask her,
Or guesses it more than half,
Which answers nearly as well.
Shall I ask her? (But ah, what effront'ry—
The stunningest girl in the country!)
To always be—Jove! Is she flushing
Over that fire—or—blushing?
78
Mary, the cook!
Mine! by the grand old beeches!
Mine! by the pickles and peaches!
Mine! by the rippling brook!
Mine! by the sunset splendor!
Mine! by the starlight tender!
Mary, the cook!
Mine! by the pickles and peaches!
Mine! by the rippling brook!
Mine! by the sunset splendor!
Mine! by the starlight tender!
Mary, the cook!
| Poems and verses by Mary Mapes Dodge | |