Acting.

    Ah, my arms hold you fast!  How can they be so bold
    When my hands offer nothing of silver or gold?

    Can it be that I see a new light in your eye? 
    Can it be that I heard then a womanly sigh?

    Ah, I feel such delight, and such joy, such surprise,
    That I hardly dare lift my own sight to your eyes

    Ah, my arms hold you fast, and my lips touch your cheek,
    And I’m crying, “Love, answer me; speak to me—­speak!”

    And the answer you give to my longing distress
    Is that word, with a blush and a kiss, that word “Yes.”

    Ah, my arms hold you fast, and I burn with a fire
    That nothing but long-waiting love can inspire.

    Yet I know you mean nothing—­mean nothing, because
    It’s mere acting.  Ah me, I can hear the applause.

An Apache Love-Song.[1]

      A-atana she was here. 
      A-atana I was dear. 
    She will never come again. 
    Chill my heart, O wind and rain. 
      A-atana she was here.

      Hark, the wind asks “Hi-you?”
      And I answer “A-coo,
    Ustey with your bitter cold;
    U-ga-sha, my love of old.” 
      Still the wind asks “Hi-you?”

    “Hi-you?” I know not where. 
      A-oo, I hardly care. 
    Take it to the land of snow;
    Take it where the stars all go. 
      “Hi-you?” I do not care.

      It-sau-i did it all—­
      It-sau-i, proud and tall. 
    Tell her I have gone to fight. 
    Ask her if her heart is light. 
      It-sau-i did it all.

[Footnote 1:  A-atana, yesterday. Hi-you, where. A-coo, here. U’s-tey, come, or bring. U’-ga-sha, go, or take. A-oo, yes.  I have no authority for the spelling of these words.  I rendered them phonetically from the pronunciation of a young Apache whom I hired to teach me the language.  Many Apache words have no perceptible accent.  A, here, has the sound of a in father.]

The Old-fashioned Girl.

    There’s an old-fashioned girl in an old fashioned street,
    Dressed in old-fashioned clothes from her head to her feet;
    And she spends all her time in the old-fashioned way
    Of caring for poor people’s children all day.

    She never has been to cotillon or ball,
    And she knows not the styles of the Spring or the Fall;
    Two hundred a year will suffice for her needs,
    And an old-fashioned Bible is all that she reads.

    And she has an old-fashioned heart that is true
    To a fellow who died in an old coat of blue,
    With its buttons all brass,—­who is waiting above
    For the woman who loved him with old-fashioned love.

A Retrospect.

    I was poor as a beggar,—­she knew it,—­
      But proud as a king through it all;
    Though it cost me two dollars to do it,
      I took little Meg to the ball.