In the Days of Crinoline
A plain tilt-bonnet on her headShe took the path across the leaze.—Her spouse the vicar, gardening, said,“Too dowdy that, for coquetries,So I can hoe at ease.”
But when she had passed into the heath,And gained the wood beyond the flat,She raised her skirts, and from beneathUnpinned and drew as from a sheathAn ostrich-feathered hat.
And where the hat had hung she nowConcealed and pinned the dowdy hood,And set the hat upon her brow,And thus emerging from the woodTripped on in jaunty mood.
The sun was low and crimson-facedAs two came that way from the town,And plunged into the wood untraced . . .When separately therefrom they pacedThe sun had quite gone down.
The hat and feather disappeared,The dowdy hood again was donned,And in the gloom the fair one nearedHer home and husband dour, who connedCalmly his blue-eyed blonde.
“To-day,” he said, “you have shown good sense,A dress so modest and so meekShould always deck your goings henceAlone.” And as a recompenseHe kissed her on the cheek.
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