And if all silver were her hair, Or faded were her face, She would not look to me less fair, Nor lack a single grace. And if I were a little child, With childhood’s timid trust, I think my heart would fly to her, And love—because it must! And if I were an earnest man, With empty heart and life, I think—(but I might change my mind)— She’d be my chosen wife! Isn’t that pretty? Oh, Elsie! I hope I shall grow old as beautifully as mamma does, so that people can write poetry to me if they feel like it! Here is Jack’s, for Polly’s birthday; he says he got the idea from a real poem which is just as silly as his:— A pollywog from a wayside brook Is a goodly gift for thee; But a milk-white steed, or a venison sheep, Will do very well for me. For you a quivering asphodel (Two ducks and a good fat hen), For me a withering hollyhock (For seven and three are ten!). Rose-red locks and a pug for thee (The falling dew is chill), A dove, a rope, and a rose for me (Oh, passionate, pale-blue pill!). For you a greenery, yallery gown (Hath one tomb room for four?), Dig me a narrow gravelet here (Oh, red is the stain of gore!!). I told Jack I thought it extremely unhitched, but he says that’s the chief beauty of the imitation. I give you also some verses intended for Polly’s birthday, which we shall celebrate, when the day arrives, by a grand dinner. You remember how we tease her about her love for tea, which she cannot conceal, but which she is ashamed of all the same. Well! I have printed the poem on a card, and on the other side Margery has drawn the picture of a cross old maid, surrounded by seven cats, all trying to get a drink out of her tea-cup. Then Geoff is going to get a live cat from the milk ranch near here, and box it up for me to give to her when she receives her presents at the dinner-table. Won’t it be fun? OWED TO POLLY BECAUSE OF HER BIRTHDAY. She camps among the untrodden ways Forninst the ‘Mountain Mill’; A maid whom there are few to praise And few to wish her ill. She lives unknown, and few could know What Pauline is to me; As dear a joy as are to her Her frequent cups of tea. A birthday this dear creature had, Full many a year ago; She says she is but just fifteen, Of course she ought to know. But still this gift I bring to her, Appropriate to her age, Regardless of her stifled scorn, Or well conceal-ed rage! She smiles upon these tender lines, As you all plainly see, But when she meets me all alone, How different it will be! Now comes Geoff’s, to be given with a pretty little inkstand:—