The "Stay-At-Home's" Pan.
By George Augustus Baker, Jr.
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.
They come from the banks of the Hudson,
From the sands of the Branch, and Cape May,
From the parlors of bright Saratoga,
From the dash of Niagara's spray.
From misty, sea-salt Narragansett,
From Mahopac's magical lake.
They come on their way to new conquests,
They're longing for more hearts to break.
E'en Newport is dull and deserted
Its billowy beaches no more
Made bright with sweet, ocean-kissed faces,
Love's beacon lights set on the shore.
The rugged White Hills of New Hampshire,
The last of their lovers have seen,
The echoes are left to their slumbers,
No dainty feet thread the ravine.
On West Point's delightful parade ground
Sighs many a hapless cadet,
Who's basked through the long days of Summer
In the smiles of a city coquette;
And now the incipient hero
Beholds his enchantress depart,
With the spoils of her lightly-won triumph,
His buttons, as well as his heart.
Come, dry your eyes, Grandmother Nature,
They care not a whit for your woe;
The city is calling her daughters
We can't spare them longer, they know
Our beautiful, tender-voiced darlings,
With the blue of the deep Summer skies,
And the glow of the bright Summer sunshine,
Entrapped in their mischievous eyes.
We know their expenses are awful,
That horror unspeakable fills
The souls of unfortunate fathers
Who foot up their dressmaker's bills.
That they'd barter their souls for French candy;
That diamonds ruin their peace;
That they rave over middle-aged actors,
And in other respects are well, geese.
We laugh at them, boys, but we love them,
For under their nonsense we know
They've hearts that are honest and loving,
And souls that are whiter than snow.
So out with that bottle of Roederer!
Large glasses, boys! Up goes the cork!
All charged? To the belles of creation,
The glorious girls of New York.