Love's Millionaire
By Florence May Alt
Within my little cottage
Are peace and warmth and light;
And loving welcome waiting
When I come home at night.
The polished kettle’s steaming,
The snowy cloth is spread—
And close against my shoulder
There leans a smooth brown head!
Her eyes are lit with laughter
(They light the world for me)—
“For how much would you sell me?
Now tell me, sir!” cries she.
‘Tis then I answer, somehow,
Between a smile and tear,
“Not for all the gold in Klondike!
The gold in Klondike, dear!”
When the cosy tea is over,
With many a frolic fond,
I sit and read my paper;
And from the room beyond
I hear the clink china,
The tread of nimble feet,
And broken bits of singing
That somehow ripple sweet.
I hear a rush and rustle
Behind my easy-chair;
Short, chubby arms enclasp me
And choke me unaware!
Into my arms is tumbled
A crinkled, golden head,
A ball of fluffy whiteness
That ought to be in bed.
She asks her mother’s question—
I kiss the answer clear;
“Not for all the gold Klondike;
The gold in Klondike, dear!”
In dim and dusky office
I dig my bits of gold;
I suffer not with hunger,
Nor perish with the cold.
My nuggets needs by tiny
(I dig them with a pen),
But the Yukon’s golden gravel
I leave for other men.
My treasure lies exhaustless,
My claim is staked with care;
What is all the gold in Klondike,
Since I’m love’s millionaire?
