Too Old for Dolls. Anthony M. Ludovici

Too Old for Dolls - Anthony M. Ludovici


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       Anthony M. Ludovici

      Too Old for Dolls

      A Novel

      Published by Good Press, 2020

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066103392

       THE ENGLISH FLAPPER [1]

       Too Old for Dolls

       CHAPTER I

       CHAPTER II

       CHAPTER III

       CHAPTER IV

       CHAPTER V

       CHAPTER VI

       CHAPTER VII

       CHAPTER VIII

       CHAPTER IX

       CHAPTER X

       CHAPTER XI

       CHAPTER XII

       CHAPTER XIII

       CHAPTER XIV

       CHAPTER XV

       CHAPTER XVI

       CHAPTER XVII

       CHAPTER XVIII

       CHAPTER XIX

       VISITORS BY NIGHT [2]

      "

       Table of Contents

      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.

      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.

      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;

      Her springtide "tailor-mades" quite plain:

       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'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.

      "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.

      The murmur of the woodland wild,

       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, truth to tell, the world's a thing

       Of wonder for a life that's new,

       And trembling her passions sing

       Their praise within her father's pew.

      Magnificats or credos sung,

       Thus oft acquire a deeper note,

       When they're intoned by voices young,

       Or issue from a virgin's throat.

      For all the world's a wondrous thing,

       And magic to the life that's new,

       And heartily her voice-chords ring

       Beside her father's in his pew.

      Who sees her clad in muslin white,

       With eyes downcast and manner prim,

       May well be minded by the sight,

       Of angels pure or cherubim.

      Yet, oh, the secret lusts of life!

       The thrills and throbs but half divined;

       The future and the great word "Wife,"

       Which ofttimes occupy her mind!

      The wicked thoughts that come and go,

       The dreams that leave her soul aghast,

       And make her long to hold and know

       The entertaining truth at last!

      But still the elfs upon the plain,

       And in the arbour where she lolls,

       With merry gesture cry again:

       Too young


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