Before this affair—­when he comes here
      She’ll meet him, I’m sure, as she should—­
    That is, as if nothing had happened—­
      And greet him with sisterly joy;
    Between us I know we can save him. 
      I’ll write him to-morrow, poor boy.”

    THE “STAY-AT-HOME’S” PLAINT.

    The Spring has grown to Summer;
      The sun is fierce and high;
    The city shrinks, and withers
      Beneath the burning sky. 
    Ailantus trees are fragrant,
      And thicker shadows cast,
    Where berry-girls, with voices shrill,
      And watering carts go past.

    In offices like ovens
      We sit without our coats;
    Our cuffs are moist and shapeless,
      No collars binds our throats. 
    We carry huge umbrellas
      On Broad Street and on Wall,
    Oh, how thermometers go up! 
      And, oh, how stocks do fall!

    The nights are full of music,
      Melodious Teuton troops
    Beguile us, calmly smoking,
      On balconies and stoops. 
    With eyes half-shut, and dreamy,
      We watch the fire-flies’ spark,
    And image far-off faces,
      As day dies into dark.

    The avenue is lonely,
      The houses choked with dust;
    The shutters, barred and bolted,
      The bell-knobs all a-rust. 
    No blossom-like spring dresses,
      No faces young and fair,
    From “Dickel’s” to “The Brunswick,”
      No promenader there.

    The girls we used to walk with
      Are far away, alas! 
    The feet that kissed its pavement
      Are deep in country grass. 
    Along the scented hedge-rows,
      Among the green old trees,
    Are blooming city faces
      ’Neath rosy-lined pongees.

    They’re cottaging at Newport;
      They’re bathing at Cape May;
    In Saratoga’s ball-rooms
      They dance the hours away. 
    Their voices through the quiet
      Of haunted Catskill break;
    Or rouse those dreamy dryads,
      The nymphs of Echo Lake.

    The hands we’ve led through Germans,
      And squeezed, perchance, of yore,
    Now deftly grasp the bridle,
      The mallet, and the oar. 
    The eyes that wrought our ruin
      On other men look down;
    We’re but the broken play-things
      They’ve left behind in town.

    Oh, happy Gran’dame Nature,
      Whose wandering children come
    To light with happy faces
      The dear old mother-home,
    Be tender with our darlings,
      Each merry maiden bears
    Such love and longing with her—­
      Men’s lives are wrapped in theirs.

    THE “STAY-AT-HOME’S” PAEAN.

    The evenings are damper and colder;
      The maples and sumacs are red,
    The wild Equinoctial is coming,
      The flowers in the garden are dead. 
    The steamers are all overflowing,
      The railroads are all loaded down,
    And the beauties we’ve sighed for all Summer
      Are hurrying back into town.