You know my old fancy for Harry-- Or, at least, I am certain you guessed That it took all my sense not to marry And go with that fellow out west. But that was my very first season-- And Harry was poor as could be, And mamma’s good practical reason Took all the romance out of me. She whisked me off over the ocean, And had me presented at court, And got me all out of the notion That ranch life out west was my forte. Of course I have never repented-- I’m not such a goose of a thing; But after I had consented To Joe--and he gave me the ring-- I felt such a queer sensation. I seemed to go into a trance, Away from the music’s pulsation, Away from the lights and the dance. And the wind o’er the wild prairie Seemed blowing strong and free, And it seemed not Joe, but Harry Who was standing there close to me. And the funniest feverish feeling Went up from my feet to my head, With little chills after it stealing-- And my hands got as numb as the dead. A moment, and then it was over: The diamond blazed up in my eyes, And I saw in the face of my lover A questioning, strange surprise. Maybe ’twas the scent of the flowers, That heavy with fragrance bloomed near, But I didn’t feel natural for hours; It was odd now, wasn’t it, dear? Write soon to your fortunate Clara Who has carried the prize away, And say you’ll come on when I marry; I think it will happen in May. THE WATCHER. “I think I hear the sound of horses’ feet Beating upon the graveled avenue. Go to the window that looks on the street, He would not let me die alone, I knew.” Back to the couch the patient watcher passed, And said: “It is the wailing of the blast.” She turned upon her couch and, seeming, slept, The long, dark lashes shadowing her cheek; And on and on the weary moments crept, When suddenly the watcher heard her speak: “I think I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs--” And answered, “’Tis the rain upon the roofs.” Unbroken silence, quiet, deep, profound. The restless sleeper turns: “How dark, how late! What is it that I hear--a trampling sound? I think there is a horseman at the gate.” The watcher turns away her eyes tear-blind: “It is the shutter beating in the wind.” The dread hours passed; the patient clock ticked on; The weary watcher moved not from her place. The gray dim shadows of the early dawn Caught sudden glory from the sleeper’s face. “He comes! my love! I knew he would!” she cried; And smiling sweetly in her slumbers, died. FALSE.