SUNDAY NIGHT

Two grave brown eyes, severely bent

Upon a memorandum book —

A sparkling face, on which are blent

A hopeful and a pensive look;

A pencil, purse, and book of checks

With stubs for varying amounts —

Elaine, the shrewdest of her sex,

Is busy balancing accounts.

Sedately, in the big armchair,

She, all engrossed, the audit scans —

Her pencil hovers here and there

The while she calculates and plans;

What's this? A faintly pensive frown

Upon her forehead gathers now —

Ah, does the butcher — heartless clown —

Beget that shadow on her brow?

A murrain on the tradesman churl

Who caused this fair accountant's gloom!

Just then — a baby's cry — my girl

Arose and swiftly left the room.

Then in her purse by stratagem

I thrust some bills of small amounts —

She'll think she had forgotten them,

And smile again at her accounts!