By Willis George Emerson
Boston And Chicago: Forbes & Company: 1902
MY OLD SWEETHEART
My sweetheart of the long ago—
With rosy cheeks and raven hair—
Sang lullabies so soft and low,
All joyous was the rhythmic air.
Though other links with luckless fate
Have brought me bruises bathed in tears,
From childhood up to man’s estate
Her love has held me all the years.
Our ties grow fonder, day by day,
While graces, all, in her combine.
Oh, love! make good and glad the way
Where walks this sweetheart—Mother mine.
Once an American mother, with the wealth of a Croesus and a lovely daughter, longed for titled distinction.
In her net she caught an adventurer, clothed in a frayed-out remnant of a former nobility—and an eyeglass.
They bartered and came to terms,—dollars, title,—while an innocent girl was thrown in as an incident.
“And what is writ is writ,—
Would it were worthier.”
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.
Every author who, early or late, finds it his delightful, yet dangerous, privilege to “get under cover” owes something to Pliny the Younger for recording the fact that Pliny the Elder used to say that “no book was so bad but that some good might be got out of it.”
With this delightful assurance as an incentive, the author of “Buell Hampton” began, some twelve years ago, to construct the story herewith presented.
There is so much in the following tale of the great Southwest that is based upon facts and actual happenings that I hardly know where history ceases and fiction begins.
I know the grain-bags of promise were torn open and found to be filled with the tare seeds