She’s the jauntiest of creatures, she’s the daintiest of misses, With her pretty patent leathers or her alligator ties, With her eyes inviting glances and her lips inviting kisses, As she wanders by the ocean or strolls under country skies. She’s a captivating dresser, and her parasols are stunning, Her fads will take your breath away, her hats are dreams of style; She is not so very bookish, but with repartee and punning She can set the savants laughing; and make even dudelets smile. She has no attacks of talent, she is not a stage-struck maiden; She is wholly free from hobbies, and she dreams of no “career;” She is mostly gay and happy, never sad or care-beladen, Though she sometimes sighs a little if a gentleman is near. She’s a sturdy little walker and she braves all kinds of weather, And when the rain or fog or mist drive rival crimps a-wreck, Her fluffy hair goes curling like a kinked-up ostrich feather Around her ears and forehead and the white nape of her neck. She is like a fish in water; she can handle reins and racket; From head to toe and finger-tips she’s thoroughly alive; When she goes promenading in a most distracting jacket, The rustle round her feet suggests how laundresses may thrive. She can dare the wind and sunshine in the most bravado manner, And after hours of sailing she has merely cheeks of rose; Old Sol himself seems smitten and at most will only tan her, Though to everybody else he gives a danger-signal nose. She’s a trifle sentimental, and she’s fond of admiration, And she sometimes flirts a little in the season’s giddy whirl; But win her if you can, sir, she may prove your life’s salvation, For an angel masquerading oft is she, the summer girl. “THE BEAUTIFUL BLUE DANUBE.” [With “Blue Danube Waltz” as musical accompaniment.] They drift down the hall together, He smiles in her lifted eyes; Like waves of that mighty river, The strains of the “Danube” rise. They float on its rhythmic measure, Like leaves on a summer stream; And here, in this scene of pleasure, I bury my sweet, dead dream. Through the cloud of her dusky tresses, Like a star shines out her face; And the form his strong arm presses, Is sylph-like in its grace. As a leaf on the bounding river Is lost on the seething sea, I know that forever and ever My dream is lost to me. And still the viols are playing That grand old wordless rhyme; And still those two are swaying In perfect tune and time. If the great bassoons that mutter, If the clarionets that blow, Were given a voice to utter The secret things they know,