The afternoon was waning fast,
As thronging Kearny street there passed,
Fair maids, brides, widows closely massed,
A shining stream of
Steel.
On bonnet, hats, above, beneath,
Flashing like falchion from their sheath,
On mantle, dress, in flowers or wreath,
There’s nothing worn but
Steel.
From happy homes and firesides bright,
From hotels glittering with light,
The crowd had come. Ah, what a sight
Of scintillating
Steel.
“Try not to pass,” an old man cried,
As two among them vainly tried
To get from buttons fringe untied,
Thus scattering beads of
Steel.
“Oh stay!” the maid said, “let me rest
My mantle thus, upon thy breast.
I’ll disentangle from thy vest
Buttons my fringe of
Steel.”
A leer stood in the youth’s bad eye
As her he answered, “Do not try
To break the link thus formed by
This brilliant chain of
Steel.”
Beware, O maid, the soft reply—
Beware the glance of wicked eye,
The honeyed words, the smothered sigh—
They’re none as true as
Steel.
A traveler he, from Boston bound,
And as among the crowd he wound
His way, he thought at last I’ve found
A maid I’d like to
Steal.
There in the twilight cold and gray,
A “mash” was made. O happy day
That joined them, though in simple way,
By chain of glittering
Steel.
San Francisco News Letter and California Advertiser