A Lesson in Mythology

I READ to her, one summer day,

A little mythologic story

About the maid who laughed at love,

And ran a race for love and glory.

I closed the book. She raised her eyes

And hushed the song she had been humming;

Glancing across the shady lawn,

I saw my wealthy rival coming.

“These ancient tales,” I gravely said,

“With meaning wise are often laden;

And Atalanta well may stand

As type of many a modern maiden.

“Minus, of course, the classic scandal,

But with no less of nimble grace,

How many dainty slippered feet

Are running now that self-same race!

“And when Hippomenes casts down

His golden apples, is there ever

A chance for Love to reach the goal?”

With saucy smile, she answered, “Never.”

I rose to go—she took my hand

(O, Fate, you ne’er that clasp can sever!)

And, “Stay,” she said, with sudden blush,—

“You know that I meant—‘hardly ever.’”