S T O R I E S

She was a Boston maid of high degree,
With eyes that shone like incandescent lights.
And just such pouting lips as seem to me
The kiss invites.
I met her on the Common’s grassy sod.
Near where the fountain plays in squirtive mood;
She stood reflective, while a plastic wad
Of gum she chewed.
“It does one good to seek this spot,” said I.
“When weary of the city’s hum and buzz.”
She creased her waxie pastime to reply:
“That’s what it does.”
“This sylvan spot,” then softly I averred.
“The foot of man seems almost to defile.”
Her voice came, sweet as notes of woodland bird
“Well, I should smile.”
“The balmy breezes whispering overhead
With such enchanting softness kiss the brow!”
In tones of liquid melody she said:
“You’re shoutin’ now!”
“And have you noticed, fair one, how each bird
Seems here to choose its sweetest vocal gem?”
I dwelt in rapture on her every word.
“I’m onto them.”
And now the leaves like moving emeralds seem,
When in response to the sweet breeze they shake.”
Her voice came soft as echo from a dream:
“They take the cake.”
“Dost wander often to a sylvan spot,
The dreamy sense of quietude to seek?”
Soft purled her answer: “Well, I take a trot
‘Bout once a week.”
In converse sweet I lingered by her side,
And felt that there forever I could dwell,
And as I left her after me she cried:
“So long, old fel.”
I was not captured by her voice so rich,
Nor with her lovely face, so fresh and young,
But with the sweet dexterity with which
Her slang she slung.
 
As copied from the New York Clinnar sometime  in the 1880's
Author unknown