Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
At the Party
By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward (1844–1911)H
At our house!
Half a dozen children
Quiet as a mouse,
Quiet as a moonbeam.
You could hear a pin—
Waiting for the party
To begin.
(Oh dear me!)
Such a surge of sashes
Like a silken sea.
Little eyes demurely
Cast upon the ground,
Little airs and graces
All around.
To begin!
To sit so any longer
Were a sort of sin;
As if you weren’t acquainted
With society.
What a thing to tell of
That would be!
Aged five:
“I’ve tumbled up my over-dress,
Sure as I’m alive!
My dress came from Paris;
We sent to Worth for it;
Mother says she calls it
Such a fit!”
Little voice:
“I didn’t send for dresses,
Though I had my choice;
I have got a doll that
Came from Paris too;
It can walk and talk as
Well as you!”
Little girl;
Simple as a snow-drop,
Without flounce or curl.
Modest as a primrose,
Soft, plain hair brushed back,
But the color of her dress was
Black—all black.
Sweet surprise;
Bright and grave the look that
Widened in her eyes.
To entertain the party
She must do her share.
As if God had sent her
Stood she there;
With crossed hands,
How she best might meet the
Company’s demands.
Grave and sweet the purpose
To the child’s voice given:
“I have a little brother
Gone to Heaven!”
Dropped a spell;
All the little flounces
Rustled where they fell;
But the modest maiden
In her mourning gown,
Unconscious as a flower,
Looketh down.
Silently:
“Happy little maiden,
Give, O give to me
The highness of your courage,
The sweetness of your grace,
To speak a large word, in a
Little place.”