E-text prepared by Sankar Viswanathan, Suzanne Shell,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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TOO OLD FOR DOLLS
A NOVEL
BY
ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI
AUTHOR OF "MANSEL FELLOWES," "CATHERINE DOYLE," "A DEFENCE
OF ARISTOCRACY," ETC.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1921
Copyright, 1921
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
THE ENGLISH FLAPPER[1]
From Nature's anvil hot she hails,
The forge still glowing on her cheek.
Untamed as yet, Life still prevails
Within her breast and fain would speak.
The forge still glowing on her cheek.
Untamed as yet, Life still prevails
Within her breast and fain would speak.
But all the elfs upon the plain,
And in the arbour where she lolls,
Repeat the impudent refrain;
Too young for babes, too old for dolls.
And in the arbour where she lolls,
Repeat the impudent refrain;
Too young for babes, too old for dolls.
Her fingers deft have guessed the knack
Of making each advantage tell:
Her hat, her hair still down her back,
Her frocks and muff of mighty spell;
Of making each advantage tell:
Her hat, her hair still down her back,
Her frocks and muff of mighty spell;
Her springtide "tailor-mades" quite plain:
In summer-time her parasols;
Each eloquent with the refrain:
Too young for babes, too old for dolls.
In summer-time her parasols;
Each eloquent with the refrain:
Too young for babes, too old for dolls.
Behold with what grave interest
She looks at all, or hind or squire;
In truth more keenly than the best
Matriculation marks require.
She looks at all, or hind or squire;
In truth more keenly than the best
Matriculation marks require.
She's told to learn from all she sees;
To watch the seasons, how they go,
And note the burgeoning of trees,
Or bulbs and pansies, how they grow.
To watch the seasons, how they go,
And note the burgeoning of trees,
Or bulbs and pansies, how they grow.
"Enough that they are fair!" she cries;
"Why should I learn how lilies blow?"
And, dropping botany, she sighs
For some new flounce or furbelow.
"Why should I learn how lilies blow?"
And, dropping botany, she sighs
For some new flounce or furbelow.
The murmur of the woodland wild,
The sound of courting birds that sing,
Are sweeter music to this child
Than all piano practising.
The sound of courting birds that sing,
Are sweeter music to this child
Than all piano practising.
She reads of love time and again,
And writes sad lays and barcarolles,
All emphasising the refrain:
Too young for babes, too old for dolls.
And writes sad lays and barcarolles,
All emphasising the refrain:
Too young for babes, too old for dolls.
...