On such a balcony or “stoop,” one evening, I walked with Iris.  We were on pretty good terms now, and I had coaxed her arm under mine,—­my left arm, of course.  That leaves one’s right arm free to defend the lovely creature, if the rival—­odious wretch! attempt, to ravish her from your side.  Likewise if one’s heart should happen to beat a little, its mute language will not be without its meaning, as you will perceive when the arm you hold begins to tremble, a circumstance like to occur, if you happen to be a good-looking young fellow, and you two have the “stoop” to yourselves.

We had it to ourselves that evening.  The Koh-inoor, as we called him, was in a corner with our landlady’s daughter.  The young fellow John was smoking out in the yard.  The gendarme was afraid of the evening air, and kept inside, The young Marylander came to the door, looked out and saw us walking together, gave his hat a pull over his forehead and stalked off.  I felt a slight spasm, as it were, in the arm I held, and saw the girl’s head turn over her shoulder for a second.  What a kind creature this is!  She has no special interest in this youth, but she does not like to see a young fellow going off because he feels as if he were not wanted.

She had her locked drawing-book under her arm.—­Let me take it,—­I said.

She gave it to me to carry.

This is full of caricatures of all of us, I am sure,—­said I.

She laughed, and said,—­No,—­not all of you.

I was there, of course?

Why, no,—­she had never taken so much pains with me.

Then she would let me see the inside of it?

She would think of it.

Just as we parted, she took a little key from her pocket and handed it to me.  This unlocks my naughty book,—­she said,—­you shall see it.  I am not afraid of you.

I don’t know whether the last words exactly pleased me.  At any rate, I took the book and hurried with it to my room.  I opened it, and saw, in a few glances, that I held the heart of Iris in my hand.

—­I have no verses for you this month, except these few lines suggested by the season.

Midsummer.

     Here! sweep these foolish leaves away,
     I will not crush my brains to-day! 
     Look! are the southern curtains drawn? 
     Fetch me a fan, and so begone!

     Not that,—­the palm-tree’s rustling leaf
     Brought from a parching coral-reef! 
     Its breath is heated;—­I would swing
     The broad gray plumes,—­the eagle’s wing.

     I hate these roses’ feverish blood! 
     Pluck me a half-blown lily-bud,
     A long-stemmed lily from the lake,
     Cold as a coiling water-snake.

     Rain me sweet odors on the air,
     And wheel me up my Indian chair,
     And spread some book not overwise
     Flat out before my sleepy eyes.

     —­Who knows it not,—­this dead recoil
     Of weary fibres stretched with toil,
     The pulse that flutters faint and low
     When Summer’s seething breezes blow?