Life — December 9, 1886 — page 13: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Abate Sfemee Y neat iron railings eleven feet high Enclosed are two patches of turf and of sky ; Nor a bust nor a statue is seen anywhere, And yet they have christened it ‘‘ Stuyvesant Square.” There the” houses seem beefsteaks — red flesh and white fat — Save one that's turned into a bachelor’s flat. While the fountains are fine and the flower-beds raré In the pleasant seclusion of Stuyvesant Square. But the air is delightful and coy as a nun, And even the benches delight in the sun. As for salt-ladened breezes, what breezes compare With those you encounter on Stuyvesant Square? Years ago, years ago, ere my brow had grown scarred, With feelings of pleasure I read on a card: “At home, Thursday morning ;” the date? I declare I only remember ’twas Stuyvesant Square, ‘Well, I went there ; I met her — was wholly entranced As much by her smiles as the way her eyes danced ; We'd the jolliest time in a téte-d-téte chair Of any that morning on Stuyvesant Square. No longer I chuckled the coffee-maid’s chin ; Resigned from the club at the ‘‘ Admiral Lynn ;” Sent myself 5i//ets-doux, that exhorted ‘‘ Beware!” Supposed to be posted in Stuyvesant Square. How at midnight I paced on the sidewalk below Her little chintz curtain, not minding the snow ; While the watch, with his staff and his lantern, would stare And then bid me hurry from Stuyvesant Square ! How I dreamt that one night as we dallied at chess, The world had seemed larger for one little “yes 5” I had won and we'd fled to the candle-light’s glare At the rail of St. George’s on Stuyvesant Square! Well, she married a ‘‘ million,” who dealt in cough-drops, Some patent concoction of squills and of hops. But I knew in her heart she desired to spare The fellow she jilted on Stuyvesant Square. But the prompter’s bell jingles ; the actor his say Has said in his stilted and ignorant way ; Forgive him : of course, ev'ry stranger don’t care To revel as he does in Stuyvesant Square. De Witt Sterry. comicbooks.com