238 The Chaperon

I TAKE my chaperon to the play—

She thinks she ’s taking me.

And the gilded youth who owns the box,

A proud young man is he—

But how would his young heart be hurt

If he could only know

That not for his sweet sake I go

Nor yet to see the trifling show;

But to see my chaperon flirt.

Her eyes beneath her snowy hair

They sparkle young as mine;

There ’s scarce a wrinkle in her hand

So delicate and fine.

And when my chaperon is seen,

They come from everywhere—

The dear old boys with silvery hair,

With old-time grace and old-time air,

To greet their old-time queen.

They bow as my young Midas here

Will never learn to bow

(The dancing-masters do not teach

That gracious reverence now);

With voices quavering just a bit,

They play their old parts through,

They talk of folk who used to woo,

Of hearts that broke in ’fifty-two—

Now none the worse for it.

And as those aged crickets chirp

I watch my chaperon’s face,

And see the dear old features take

A new and tender grace—

And in her happy eyes I see

Her youth awakening bright,

With all its hope, desire, delight—

Ah, me! I wish that I were quite

As young—as young as she!