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!