A youth and maid, one winter night,Were sitting in the corner;His name, we're told, was Joshua White,And hers was Patience Warner.Not much the pretty maiden said,Beside the young man sitting;Her cheeks were flushed a rosy red,Her eyes bent on her knitting.Nor could he guess what thoughts of himWere to her bosom flocking,As her fair fingers, swift and slim,Flew round and round the stocking.While, as for Joshua, bashful youth,His words grew few and fewer;Though all the time, to tell the truth,His chair edged nearer to her.Meantime her ball of yarn gave out,She knit so fast and steady;And he must give his aid, no doubt,To get another ready.He held the skein; of course the threadGot tangled, snarled and twisted;"Have Patience!" cried the artless maid,To him who her assisted.Good chance was this for tongue-tied churlTo shorten all palaver;"Have Patience!" cried he, "dearest girl!And may I really have her?"The deed was done; no more, that night,Clicked needles in the corner:—And she is Mrs. Joshua WhiteThat once was Patience Warner.
A youth and maid, one winter night,Were sitting in the corner;His name, we're told, was Joshua White,And hers was Patience Warner.
Not much the pretty maiden said,Beside the young man sitting;Her cheeks were flushed a rosy red,Her eyes bent on her knitting.
Nor could he guess what thoughts of himWere to her bosom flocking,As her fair fingers, swift and slim,Flew round and round the stocking.
While, as for Joshua, bashful youth,His words grew few and fewer;Though all the time, to tell the truth,His chair edged nearer to her.
Meantime her ball of yarn gave out,She knit so fast and steady;And he must give his aid, no doubt,To get another ready.
He held the skein; of course the threadGot tangled, snarled and twisted;"Have Patience!" cried the artless maid,To him who her assisted.
Good chance was this for tongue-tied churlTo shorten all palaver;"Have Patience!" cried he, "dearest girl!And may I really have her?"
The deed was done; no more, that night,Clicked needles in the corner:—And she is Mrs. Joshua WhiteThat once was Patience Warner.
BY E.T. CORBETT.
It's easy to talk of the patience of Job. Humph! Job had nothin' to try him;Ef he'd been married to 'Bijah Brown, folks wouldn't have dared come nigh him.Trials, indeed! Now I'll tell you what—ef you want to be sick of your life,Jest come and change places with me a spell, for I'm an inventor's wife.And sech inventions! I'm never sure when I take up my coffee-pot,That 'Bijah hain't been "improvin'" it, and it mayn't go off like a shot.Why, didn't he make me a cradle once that would keep itself a-rockin',And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin'?And there was his "patent peeler," too, a wonderful thing I'll say;But it hed one fault—it never stopped till the apple was peeled away.As for locks and clocks, and mowin' machines, and reapers, and all such trash,Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of them, but they don't bring in no cash!Law! that don't worry him—not at all; he's the aggravatinest man—He'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle and think and plan,Inventin' a Jews harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn,While the children's goin' barefoot to school, and the weeds is chokin' our corn.When 'Bijah and me kep' company, he wasn't like this, you know;Our folks all thought he was dreadful smart—but that was years ago.He was handsome as any pictur' then, and he had such a glib, bright way—I never thought that a time would come when I'd rue my weddin'-day;But when I've been forced to chop the wood, and tend to the farm beside,And look at 'Bijah a-settin' there, I've jest dropped down and cried.We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gun,But I counted it one of my marcies when it bust before 'twas done.So he turned it into a "burglar alarm." It ought to give thieves a fright—'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night.Sometimes I wonder ef 'Bijah's crazy, he does such curious things.Have I told you about his bedstead yit? 'Twas full of wheels and springs;It hed a key to wind it up, and a clock-face at the head;All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you saidThat bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor,And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more.Wa'al, 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five,But he hadn't more 'n got into it, when—dear me! sakes alive!Them wheels began to whizz and whirr! I heard a fearful snap,And there was that bedstead with 'Bijah inside shet up jest like a trap!I screamed, of course, but 'twant no use. Then I worked that hull long nightA-tryin' to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright:I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin',So I took a crowbar and smashed it in. There was 'Bijah peacefully lyin',Inventin' a way to git out agin. That was all very well to say,But I don't believe he'd have found it out if I'd left him in all day.Now, since I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm tired of life,Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's wife?
It's easy to talk of the patience of Job. Humph! Job had nothin' to try him;Ef he'd been married to 'Bijah Brown, folks wouldn't have dared come nigh him.Trials, indeed! Now I'll tell you what—ef you want to be sick of your life,Jest come and change places with me a spell, for I'm an inventor's wife.And sech inventions! I'm never sure when I take up my coffee-pot,That 'Bijah hain't been "improvin'" it, and it mayn't go off like a shot.Why, didn't he make me a cradle once that would keep itself a-rockin',And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin'?And there was his "patent peeler," too, a wonderful thing I'll say;But it hed one fault—it never stopped till the apple was peeled away.As for locks and clocks, and mowin' machines, and reapers, and all such trash,Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of them, but they don't bring in no cash!Law! that don't worry him—not at all; he's the aggravatinest man—He'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle and think and plan,Inventin' a Jews harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn,While the children's goin' barefoot to school, and the weeds is chokin' our corn.When 'Bijah and me kep' company, he wasn't like this, you know;Our folks all thought he was dreadful smart—but that was years ago.He was handsome as any pictur' then, and he had such a glib, bright way—I never thought that a time would come when I'd rue my weddin'-day;But when I've been forced to chop the wood, and tend to the farm beside,And look at 'Bijah a-settin' there, I've jest dropped down and cried.We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gun,But I counted it one of my marcies when it bust before 'twas done.So he turned it into a "burglar alarm." It ought to give thieves a fright—'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night.Sometimes I wonder ef 'Bijah's crazy, he does such curious things.Have I told you about his bedstead yit? 'Twas full of wheels and springs;It hed a key to wind it up, and a clock-face at the head;All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you saidThat bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor,And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more.Wa'al, 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five,But he hadn't more 'n got into it, when—dear me! sakes alive!Them wheels began to whizz and whirr! I heard a fearful snap,And there was that bedstead with 'Bijah inside shet up jest like a trap!I screamed, of course, but 'twant no use. Then I worked that hull long nightA-tryin' to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright:I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin',So I took a crowbar and smashed it in. There was 'Bijah peacefully lyin',Inventin' a way to git out agin. That was all very well to say,But I don't believe he'd have found it out if I'd left him in all day.Now, since I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm tired of life,Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's wife?
(Story of an old Woman who knew Washington.)
BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.
An aged negress at her doorIs sitting in the sun;Her day of work is almost o'er,Her day of rest begun.Her face is black as darkest night,Her form is bent and thin,And o'er her bony visage tightIs stretched her wrinkled skin.Her dress is scant and mean; yet stillAbout her ebon faceThere flows a soft and creamy frillOf costly Mechlin lace.What means the contrast strange and wide?Its like is seldom seen—A pauper's aged face besideThe laces of a queen.Her mien is stately, proud, and high,And yet her look is kind,And the calm light within her eyeSpeaks an unruffled mind."Dar comes anodder ob dem tramps,"She mumbles low in wrath,"I know dose sleek Centennial chapsQuick as dey mounts de path."A-axing ob a lady's ageI tink is impolite,And when dey gins to interviewI disremembers quite.Dar was dat spruce photometerDat tried to take my head,And Mr. Squibbs, de porterer,Wrote down each word I said.Six hundred years I t'ought it was,Or else it was sixteen—Yes; I'd shook hands wid WashingtonAnd likewise General Greene.I tole him all de generals' namesDar ebber was, I guess,From General Lee and La FayetteTo General Distress.Den dar's dem high-flown ladiesMyoldtings came to see;Wanted to buy dem some heirloomsOf real Aunt Tiquity.Says I, "Dat isn't dis chile's name,Dey calls me Auntie Scraggs,"And den I axed dem, by de poundHow much dey gabe for rags?De missionary had de moseInsurance of dem all;He tole me I was ole, and said,Leabes had dar time to fall.He simply wished to ax, he said,As pastor and as friend,If wid unruffled bosom IApproached my latter end.Now how he knew dat story IShould mightily like to know.I 'clar to goodness, Massa Guy,If dat ain't really you!You say dat in your wash I sentYou only one white vest;And as you'se passin' by you t'oughtYou'd call and get de rest.Now, Massa Guy, about your shirts,At least, it seems to meDat you is more particularDan what you used to be.Your family pride is stiff as starch,Your blood is mighty blue—I nebber spares de indigoTo make your shirts so, too.I uses candle ends, and wax,And satin-gloss and paints,Until your wristbands shine like toDe pathway ob de saints.But when a gemman sends to meEight white vests eberry week,A stain ob har-oil on each one,I tinks it's time to speak.When snarled around a button dar'sA golden har or so,Dat young man's going to be wed,Or someting's wrong, I know.You needn't laugh, and turn it offBy axing 'bout my cap;You didn't use to know nice lace,And never cared a snapWhat 'twas a lady wore. But folksWid teaching learn a lot,And dey do say Miss Bella buysDe best dat's to be got.But if you really want to know,I don't mind telling youJus' how I come by dis yere lace—It's cur'us, but it's true.My mother washed for WashingtonWhen I warn't more'n dat tall;I cut one of his shirt-frills offTo dress my corn-cob doll;And when de General saw de shirt,He jus' was mad enoughTo tink he got to hold reviewWidout his best Dutch ruff.Ma'am said she 'lowed it was de calfDat had done chawed it off;But when de General heard dat ar,He answered with a scoff;He said de marks warn't don' of teef,But plainly dose ob shears;An' den he showed her to de do'And cuffed me on ye years.And when my ma'am arribed at homeShe stretched me 'cross her lap,Den took de lace away from meAn' sewed it on her cap.And when I dies I hope dat deyWid it my shroud will trim.Den when we meets on Judgment Day,I'll gib it back to him.So dat's my story, Massa Guy,Maybe I's little wit;But I has larned to, when I'm wrong,Make a clean breast ob it.Den keep a conscience smooth and white(You can't if much you flirt),And an unruffled bosom, likeDe General's Sunday shirt.
An aged negress at her doorIs sitting in the sun;Her day of work is almost o'er,Her day of rest begun.Her face is black as darkest night,Her form is bent and thin,And o'er her bony visage tightIs stretched her wrinkled skin.Her dress is scant and mean; yet stillAbout her ebon faceThere flows a soft and creamy frillOf costly Mechlin lace.What means the contrast strange and wide?Its like is seldom seen—A pauper's aged face besideThe laces of a queen.Her mien is stately, proud, and high,And yet her look is kind,And the calm light within her eyeSpeaks an unruffled mind."Dar comes anodder ob dem tramps,"She mumbles low in wrath,"I know dose sleek Centennial chapsQuick as dey mounts de path."A-axing ob a lady's ageI tink is impolite,And when dey gins to interviewI disremembers quite.Dar was dat spruce photometerDat tried to take my head,And Mr. Squibbs, de porterer,Wrote down each word I said.Six hundred years I t'ought it was,Or else it was sixteen—Yes; I'd shook hands wid WashingtonAnd likewise General Greene.I tole him all de generals' namesDar ebber was, I guess,From General Lee and La FayetteTo General Distress.Den dar's dem high-flown ladiesMyoldtings came to see;Wanted to buy dem some heirloomsOf real Aunt Tiquity.Says I, "Dat isn't dis chile's name,Dey calls me Auntie Scraggs,"And den I axed dem, by de poundHow much dey gabe for rags?De missionary had de moseInsurance of dem all;He tole me I was ole, and said,Leabes had dar time to fall.He simply wished to ax, he said,As pastor and as friend,If wid unruffled bosom IApproached my latter end.Now how he knew dat story IShould mightily like to know.
I 'clar to goodness, Massa Guy,If dat ain't really you!You say dat in your wash I sentYou only one white vest;And as you'se passin' by you t'oughtYou'd call and get de rest.Now, Massa Guy, about your shirts,At least, it seems to meDat you is more particularDan what you used to be.Your family pride is stiff as starch,Your blood is mighty blue—I nebber spares de indigoTo make your shirts so, too.I uses candle ends, and wax,And satin-gloss and paints,Until your wristbands shine like toDe pathway ob de saints.But when a gemman sends to meEight white vests eberry week,A stain ob har-oil on each one,I tinks it's time to speak.
When snarled around a button dar'sA golden har or so,Dat young man's going to be wed,Or someting's wrong, I know.You needn't laugh, and turn it offBy axing 'bout my cap;You didn't use to know nice lace,And never cared a snapWhat 'twas a lady wore. But folksWid teaching learn a lot,And dey do say Miss Bella buysDe best dat's to be got.But if you really want to know,I don't mind telling youJus' how I come by dis yere lace—It's cur'us, but it's true.My mother washed for WashingtonWhen I warn't more'n dat tall;I cut one of his shirt-frills offTo dress my corn-cob doll;And when de General saw de shirt,He jus' was mad enoughTo tink he got to hold reviewWidout his best Dutch ruff.Ma'am said she 'lowed it was de calfDat had done chawed it off;But when de General heard dat ar,He answered with a scoff;He said de marks warn't don' of teef,But plainly dose ob shears;An' den he showed her to de do'And cuffed me on ye years.And when my ma'am arribed at homeShe stretched me 'cross her lap,Den took de lace away from meAn' sewed it on her cap.And when I dies I hope dat deyWid it my shroud will trim.
Den when we meets on Judgment Day,I'll gib it back to him.So dat's my story, Massa Guy,Maybe I's little wit;But I has larned to, when I'm wrong,Make a clean breast ob it.Den keep a conscience smooth and white(You can't if much you flirt),And an unruffled bosom, likeDe General's Sunday shirt.
BY CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES.
John Verity's Experience.
I saw the congregation rise,And in it, to my great surprise,A Kossuth-covered head.I looked and looked, and looked again,To make quite sure my sight was plain,Then to myself I said:That fellow surely is a Jew,To whom the Christian faith is new,Nor is it strange, indeed,If used to wear his hat in church,His manners leave him in the lurchUpon a change of creed.Joining my friend on going out,Conjecture soon was put to routBy smothered laugh of his:Ha! ha! too good, too good, no Jew,Dear fellow, but Miss Moll Carew,Good Christian that she is!Bad blunder all I have to say,It is a most unchristian wayTo rig Miss Moll Carew—She has my hat, my cut of hair,Just such an ulster as I wear,And heaven knows what else, too.
I saw the congregation rise,And in it, to my great surprise,A Kossuth-covered head.I looked and looked, and looked again,To make quite sure my sight was plain,Then to myself I said:
That fellow surely is a Jew,To whom the Christian faith is new,Nor is it strange, indeed,If used to wear his hat in church,His manners leave him in the lurchUpon a change of creed.
Joining my friend on going out,Conjecture soon was put to routBy smothered laugh of his:Ha! ha! too good, too good, no Jew,Dear fellow, but Miss Moll Carew,Good Christian that she is!
Bad blunder all I have to say,It is a most unchristian wayTo rig Miss Moll Carew—She has my hat, my cut of hair,Just such an ulster as I wear,And heaven knows what else, too.
BY LUCRETIA DAVIDSON.
I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers,And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers;My thoughts ran along in such beautiful meter,I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter:It seemed that a law had been recently madeThat a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid;And in order to make them all willing to marry,The tax was as large as a man could well carry.The bachelors grumbled and said 'twas no use—'Twas horrid injustice and horrid abuse,And declared that to save their own hearts' blood from spilling,Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling.But the rulers determined them still to pursue,So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue:A crier was sent through the town to and fro,To rattle his bell and a trumpet to blow,And to call out to all he might meet in his way,"Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day!"And presently all the old maids in the town,Each in her very best bonnet and gown,From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red and pale,Of every description, all flocked to the sale.The auctioneer then in his labor began,And called out aloud, as he held up a man,"How much for a bachelor? Who wants to buy?"In a twink, every maiden responsed, "I—I!"In short, at a highly extravagant price,The bachelors all were sold off in a trice:And forty old maidens, some younger, some older,Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder.
I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers,And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers;My thoughts ran along in such beautiful meter,I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter:It seemed that a law had been recently madeThat a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid;And in order to make them all willing to marry,The tax was as large as a man could well carry.The bachelors grumbled and said 'twas no use—'Twas horrid injustice and horrid abuse,And declared that to save their own hearts' blood from spilling,Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling.But the rulers determined them still to pursue,So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue:A crier was sent through the town to and fro,To rattle his bell and a trumpet to blow,And to call out to all he might meet in his way,"Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day!"And presently all the old maids in the town,Each in her very best bonnet and gown,From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red and pale,Of every description, all flocked to the sale.The auctioneer then in his labor began,And called out aloud, as he held up a man,"How much for a bachelor? Who wants to buy?"In a twink, every maiden responsed, "I—I!"In short, at a highly extravagant price,The bachelors all were sold off in a trice:And forty old maidens, some younger, some older,Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder.
BY ARABELLA WILSON.
O Sextant of the meetinouse which sweepsAnd dusts, or is supposed to! and makes fiers,And lites the gas, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose,In which case it smells orful—wus than lampile;And wrings the Bel and toles it when men diesTo the grief of survivin' pardners, and sweeps paths,And for these servaces gits $100 per annum;Wich them that thinks deer let 'em try it;Gittin up before starlite in all wethers, andKindlin' fiers when the wether is as coldAs zero, and like as not green wood for kindlins(I wouldn't be hierd to do it for no sum);But o Sextant there are one kermodityWuth more than gold which don't cost nuthin;Wuth more than anything except the Sole of man!I mean pewer Are, Sextant, I mean pewer Are!O it is plenty out o' dores, so plenty it doant noWhat on airth to do with itself, but flize aboutScatterin leaves and bloin off men's hats;In short its jest as free as Are out dores;But O Sextant! in our church its scarce as piety,Scarce as bankbills when ajunts beg for mishuns,Which sum say is purty often, taint nuthin to me,What I give aint nuthing to nobody; but O Sextant!You shet 500 men women and childrenSpeshily the latter, up in a tite place,Sum has bad breths, none of em aint too sweet,Sum is fevery, sum is scroflus, sum has bad teethAnd sum haint none, and sum aint over clean;But evry one of em brethes in and out and inSay 50 times a minnet, or 1 million and a half breths an hour;Now how long will a church full of are last at that rate?I ask you; say fifteen minnets, and then what's to be did?Why then they must breth it all over agin,And then agin and so on, till each has took it downAt least ten times and let it up agin, and what's more,The same individible doant have the privilegeOf breathin his own are and no one else,Each one must take wotever comes to him,O Sextant! doant you know our lungs is bellusesTo blo the fier of life and keep it fromGoing out: und how can bellusses blo without wind?And aint wind are? I put it to your konshens,Are is the same to us as milk to babies,Or water is to fish, or pendlums to clox,Or roots and airbs unto an Injun doctor,Or little pills unto an omepath,Or Boze to girls. Are is for us to brethe.What signifize who preaches ef I cant brethe?What's Pol? What's Pollus to sinners who are ded?Ded for want of breth! Why Sextant when we dyeIts only coz we cant brethe no more—that's all.And now O Sextant? let me beg of youTo let a little are into our cherch(Pewer are is sertin proper for the pews);And dew it week days and on Sundays tew—It aint much trobble—only make a hoal,And then the are will come in of itself(It love to come in where it can git warm).And O how it will rouze the people upAnd sperrit up the preacher, and stop garpsAnd yorns and fijits as effectoolAs wind on the dry boans the Profit tels of.—Christian Weekly.
O Sextant of the meetinouse which sweepsAnd dusts, or is supposed to! and makes fiers,And lites the gas, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose,In which case it smells orful—wus than lampile;And wrings the Bel and toles it when men diesTo the grief of survivin' pardners, and sweeps paths,And for these servaces gits $100 per annum;Wich them that thinks deer let 'em try it;Gittin up before starlite in all wethers, andKindlin' fiers when the wether is as coldAs zero, and like as not green wood for kindlins(I wouldn't be hierd to do it for no sum);But o Sextant there are one kermodityWuth more than gold which don't cost nuthin;Wuth more than anything except the Sole of man!I mean pewer Are, Sextant, I mean pewer Are!O it is plenty out o' dores, so plenty it doant noWhat on airth to do with itself, but flize aboutScatterin leaves and bloin off men's hats;In short its jest as free as Are out dores;But O Sextant! in our church its scarce as piety,Scarce as bankbills when ajunts beg for mishuns,Which sum say is purty often, taint nuthin to me,What I give aint nuthing to nobody; but O Sextant!You shet 500 men women and childrenSpeshily the latter, up in a tite place,Sum has bad breths, none of em aint too sweet,Sum is fevery, sum is scroflus, sum has bad teethAnd sum haint none, and sum aint over clean;But evry one of em brethes in and out and inSay 50 times a minnet, or 1 million and a half breths an hour;Now how long will a church full of are last at that rate?I ask you; say fifteen minnets, and then what's to be did?Why then they must breth it all over agin,And then agin and so on, till each has took it downAt least ten times and let it up agin, and what's more,The same individible doant have the privilegeOf breathin his own are and no one else,Each one must take wotever comes to him,O Sextant! doant you know our lungs is bellusesTo blo the fier of life and keep it fromGoing out: und how can bellusses blo without wind?And aint wind are? I put it to your konshens,Are is the same to us as milk to babies,Or water is to fish, or pendlums to clox,Or roots and airbs unto an Injun doctor,Or little pills unto an omepath,Or Boze to girls. Are is for us to brethe.What signifize who preaches ef I cant brethe?What's Pol? What's Pollus to sinners who are ded?Ded for want of breth! Why Sextant when we dyeIts only coz we cant brethe no more—that's all.And now O Sextant? let me beg of youTo let a little are into our cherch(Pewer are is sertin proper for the pews);And dew it week days and on Sundays tew—It aint much trobble—only make a hoal,And then the are will come in of itself(It love to come in where it can git warm).And O how it will rouze the people upAnd sperrit up the preacher, and stop garpsAnd yorns and fijits as effectoolAs wind on the dry boans the Profit tels of.
—Christian Weekly.
GOOD-NATURED SATIRE.
Women show their sense of humor in ridiculing the foibles of their own sex, as Miss Carlotta Perry seeing the danger of "higher education," and Helen Gray Cone laughing over the exaggerated ravings and moanings of a stage-struck girl, or the very one-sided sermon of a sentimental goose.
BY CARLOTTA PERRY.
'Twas the height of the gay season, and I cannot tell the reason,But at a dinner party given by Mrs. Major ThwingIt became my pleasant duty to take out a famous beauty—The prettiest woman present. I was happy as a king.Her dress beyond a question was an artist's best creation;A miracle of loveliness was she from crown to toe.Her smile was sweet as could be, her voice just as it should be—Not high, and sharp, and wiry, but musical and low.Her hair was soft and flossy, golden, plentiful and glossy;Her eyes, so blue and sunny, shone with every inward grace;I could see that every fellow in the room was really yellowWith jealousy, and wished himself that moment in my place.As the turtle soup we tasted, like a gallant man I hastedTo pay some pretty tribute to this muslin, silk, and gauze;But she turned and softly asked me—and I own the question tasked me—What were my fixed opinions on the present Suffrage laws.I admired a lovely blossom resting on her gentle bosom;The remark I thought a safe one—I could hardly made a worse;With a smile like any Venus, she gave me its name and genus,And opened very calmly a botanical discourse.But I speedily recovered. As her taper fingers hovered,Like a tender benediction, in a little bit of fish,Further to impair digestion, she brought up the Eastern Question.By that time I fully echoed that other fellow's wish.And, as sure as I'm a sinner, right on through that endless dinnerDid she talk of moral science, of politics and law,Of natural selection, of Free Trade and Protection,Till I came to look upon her with a sort of solemn awe.Just to hear the lovely woman, looking more divine than human,Talk with such discrimination of Ingersoll and Cook,With such a childish, sweet smile, quoting Huxley, Mill, and Carlyle—It was quite a revelation—it was better than a book.Chemistry and mathematics, agriculture and chromatics,Music, painting, sculpture—she knew all the tricks of speech;Bas-relief and chiaroscuro, and at last the Indian Bureau—She discussed it quite serenely, as she trifled with a peach.I have seen some dreadful creatures, with vinegary features,With their fearful store of learning set me sadly in eclipse;But I'm ready quite to swear if I have ever heard the TariffOr the Eastern Question settled by such a pair of lips.Never saw I a dainty maiden so remarkably o'erladenFrom lip to tip of finger with the love of books and men;Quite in confidence I say it, and I trust you'll not betray it,But I pray to gracious heaven that I never may again.—Chicago Tribune.
'Twas the height of the gay season, and I cannot tell the reason,But at a dinner party given by Mrs. Major ThwingIt became my pleasant duty to take out a famous beauty—The prettiest woman present. I was happy as a king.
Her dress beyond a question was an artist's best creation;A miracle of loveliness was she from crown to toe.Her smile was sweet as could be, her voice just as it should be—Not high, and sharp, and wiry, but musical and low.
Her hair was soft and flossy, golden, plentiful and glossy;Her eyes, so blue and sunny, shone with every inward grace;I could see that every fellow in the room was really yellowWith jealousy, and wished himself that moment in my place.
As the turtle soup we tasted, like a gallant man I hastedTo pay some pretty tribute to this muslin, silk, and gauze;But she turned and softly asked me—and I own the question tasked me—What were my fixed opinions on the present Suffrage laws.
I admired a lovely blossom resting on her gentle bosom;The remark I thought a safe one—I could hardly made a worse;With a smile like any Venus, she gave me its name and genus,And opened very calmly a botanical discourse.
But I speedily recovered. As her taper fingers hovered,Like a tender benediction, in a little bit of fish,Further to impair digestion, she brought up the Eastern Question.By that time I fully echoed that other fellow's wish.
And, as sure as I'm a sinner, right on through that endless dinnerDid she talk of moral science, of politics and law,Of natural selection, of Free Trade and Protection,Till I came to look upon her with a sort of solemn awe.
Just to hear the lovely woman, looking more divine than human,Talk with such discrimination of Ingersoll and Cook,With such a childish, sweet smile, quoting Huxley, Mill, and Carlyle—It was quite a revelation—it was better than a book.
Chemistry and mathematics, agriculture and chromatics,Music, painting, sculpture—she knew all the tricks of speech;Bas-relief and chiaroscuro, and at last the Indian Bureau—She discussed it quite serenely, as she trifled with a peach.
I have seen some dreadful creatures, with vinegary features,With their fearful store of learning set me sadly in eclipse;But I'm ready quite to swear if I have ever heard the TariffOr the Eastern Question settled by such a pair of lips.
Never saw I a dainty maiden so remarkably o'erladenFrom lip to tip of finger with the love of books and men;Quite in confidence I say it, and I trust you'll not betray it,But I pray to gracious heaven that I never may again.
—Chicago Tribune.
BY HELEN GRAY CONE.
Though I met her in the summer, when one's heart lies 'round at ease,As it were in tennis costume, and a man's not hard to please;Yet I think at any season to have met her was to love,While her tones, unspoiled, unstudied, had the softness of the dove.At request she read us poems, in a nook among the pines,And her artless voice lent music to the least melodious lines;Though she lowered her shadowing lashes, in an earnest reader's wise,Yet we caught blue gracious glimpses of the heavens that were her eyes.As in Paradise I listened. Ah, I did not understandThat a little cloud, no larger than the average human hand,Might, as stated oft in fiction, spread into a sable pall,When she said that she should study elocution in the fall.I admit her earliest efforts were not in the Ercles vein:She began with "Lit-tle Maaybel, with her faayce against the paayne,And the beacon-light a-trrremble—" which, although it made me wince,Is a thing of cheerful nature to the things she's rendered since.Having learned the Soulful Quiver, she acquired the Melting Mo-o-an,And the way she gave "Young Grayhead" would have liquefied a stone;Then the Sanguinary Tragic did her energies employ,And she tore my taste to tatters when she slew "The Polish Boy."It's not pleasant for a fellow when the jewel of his soulWades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs in frenzy roll:What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me grievous painWhen she rose in social gatherings and searched among the slain.I was forced to look upon her, in my desperation dumb—Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was comeShe would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very least—As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast.Once, ah! once I fell a-dreaming; some one played a polonaiseI associated strongly with those happier August days;And I mused, "I'll speak this evening," recent pangs forgotten quite.Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish: "CurfewSHALLnot ring to-night!"Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy warm romance!Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in France?Oh, as she "cull-imbed!" that ladder, swift my mounting hope came down.I am still a single cynic; she is still Cassandra Brown!
Though I met her in the summer, when one's heart lies 'round at ease,As it were in tennis costume, and a man's not hard to please;Yet I think at any season to have met her was to love,While her tones, unspoiled, unstudied, had the softness of the dove.
At request she read us poems, in a nook among the pines,And her artless voice lent music to the least melodious lines;Though she lowered her shadowing lashes, in an earnest reader's wise,Yet we caught blue gracious glimpses of the heavens that were her eyes.
As in Paradise I listened. Ah, I did not understandThat a little cloud, no larger than the average human hand,Might, as stated oft in fiction, spread into a sable pall,When she said that she should study elocution in the fall.
I admit her earliest efforts were not in the Ercles vein:She began with "Lit-tle Maaybel, with her faayce against the paayne,And the beacon-light a-trrremble—" which, although it made me wince,Is a thing of cheerful nature to the things she's rendered since.
Having learned the Soulful Quiver, she acquired the Melting Mo-o-an,And the way she gave "Young Grayhead" would have liquefied a stone;Then the Sanguinary Tragic did her energies employ,And she tore my taste to tatters when she slew "The Polish Boy."
It's not pleasant for a fellow when the jewel of his soulWades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs in frenzy roll:What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me grievous painWhen she rose in social gatherings and searched among the slain.
I was forced to look upon her, in my desperation dumb—Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was comeShe would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very least—As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast.
Once, ah! once I fell a-dreaming; some one played a polonaiseI associated strongly with those happier August days;And I mused, "I'll speak this evening," recent pangs forgotten quite.Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish: "CurfewSHALLnot ring to-night!"
Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy warm romance!Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in France?Oh, as she "cull-imbed!" that ladder, swift my mounting hope came down.I am still a single cynic; she is still Cassandra Brown!
BY HELEN GRAY CONE.
She gazed upon the burnished braceOf plump, ruffed grouse he showed with pride,Angelic grief was in her face:"Howcouldyou do it, dear?" she sighed."The poor, pathetic moveless wings!"The songs all hushed—"Oh, cruel shame!"Said he, "The partridge never sings,"Said she, "The sin is quite the same.""You men are savage, through and through,A boy is always bringing inSome string of birds' eggs, white and blue,Or butterfly upon a pin.The angle-worm in anguish dies,Impaled, the pretty trout to tease—""My own, we fish for trout with flies—""Don't wander from the question, please."She quoted Burns's "Wounded Hare,"And certain burning lines of Blake's,And Ruskin on the fowls of air,And Coleridge on the water-snakes.At Emerson's "Forbearance" heBegan to feel his will benumbed;At Browning's "Donald" utterlyHis soul surrendered and succumbed."Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls!He thought, beneath the blessed sun!"He saw her lashes hang with pearls,And swore to give away his gun.She smiled to find her point was gainedAnd went, with happy parting words(He subsequently ascertained),To trim her hat with humming birds.—From the Century.
She gazed upon the burnished braceOf plump, ruffed grouse he showed with pride,Angelic grief was in her face:"Howcouldyou do it, dear?" she sighed."The poor, pathetic moveless wings!"The songs all hushed—"Oh, cruel shame!"Said he, "The partridge never sings,"Said she, "The sin is quite the same."
"You men are savage, through and through,A boy is always bringing inSome string of birds' eggs, white and blue,Or butterfly upon a pin.The angle-worm in anguish dies,Impaled, the pretty trout to tease—""My own, we fish for trout with flies—""Don't wander from the question, please."
She quoted Burns's "Wounded Hare,"And certain burning lines of Blake's,And Ruskin on the fowls of air,And Coleridge on the water-snakes.At Emerson's "Forbearance" heBegan to feel his will benumbed;At Browning's "Donald" utterlyHis soul surrendered and succumbed.
"Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls!He thought, beneath the blessed sun!"He saw her lashes hang with pearls,And swore to give away his gun.She smiled to find her point was gainedAnd went, with happy parting words(He subsequently ascertained),To trim her hat with humming birds.
—From the Century.
A dozen others equally good must be reserved for that encyclopædia! This specimen, ofvers de sociétérivals Locker or Baker:
BY ALICE WILLIAMS.
"Two souls with but a single thought,Two hearts that beat as one."
"Two souls with but a single thought,Two hearts that beat as one."
Nellie,loquitur.Bless my heart! You've come at last,Awful glad to see you, dear!Thought you'd died or something, Belle—Suchan age since you've been here!My engagement? Gracious! Yes.Rumor's hit the mark this time.And the victim? Charley Gray.Know him, don't you? Well, he'sprime.Such mustachios! splendid style!Then he's not so horrid fast—Waltzes like a seraph, too;Has some fortune—best and last.Love him? Nonsense. Don't be "soft;"Pretty much as love now goes;He's devoted, and in timeI'll get used to him, I 'spose.First love? Humbug. Don't talk stuff!Bella Brown, don't be a fool!Next you'd rave of flames and darts,Like a chit at boarding-school;Don't be "miffed." I talked just soSome two years back. Fact, my dear!But two seasons kill romance,Leave one's views of life quite clear.Why, if Will Latrobe had askedWhen he left two years ago,I'd have thrown up all and goneOut to Kansas, do you know?Fancy me a settler's wife!Blest escape, dear, was it not?Yes; it's hardly in my lineTo enact "Love in a Cot."Well, you see, I'd had my swing,Been engaged to eight or ten,Got to stop some time, of course,So it don't much matter when.Auntie hates old maids, and thinksEvery girl should marry young—On that theme my whole life longI have heard the changes sung.So,ma belle, what could I do?Charley wants a stylish wife.We'll suit well enough, no fear,When we settle down for life.But for love-stuff! See my ring!Lovely, isn't it? Solitaire.Nearly made Maud Hinton turnGreen with envy and despair.Her's ain't half so nice, you see.DidI write you, Belle, aboutHow she tried for Charley, tillI sailed in and cut her out?Now, she's taken Jack McBride,I believe it's all from pique—Threw him over once, you know—Hates me so she'll scarcely speak.Oh, yes! Grace Church, Brown, and that—Pa won't mind expense at lastI'll be off his hands for good;Cost a fortune two years past.My trousseau shall outdo Maud's,I'vecarte blanchefrom Pa, you know—Mean to have my dress from Worth!Won't she be justravingthough!—Scribner's Monthly Magazine, 1874.
Nellie,loquitur.Bless my heart! You've come at last,Awful glad to see you, dear!Thought you'd died or something, Belle—Suchan age since you've been here!My engagement? Gracious! Yes.Rumor's hit the mark this time.And the victim? Charley Gray.Know him, don't you? Well, he'sprime.Such mustachios! splendid style!Then he's not so horrid fast—Waltzes like a seraph, too;Has some fortune—best and last.Love him? Nonsense. Don't be "soft;"Pretty much as love now goes;He's devoted, and in timeI'll get used to him, I 'spose.First love? Humbug. Don't talk stuff!Bella Brown, don't be a fool!Next you'd rave of flames and darts,Like a chit at boarding-school;Don't be "miffed." I talked just soSome two years back. Fact, my dear!But two seasons kill romance,Leave one's views of life quite clear.Why, if Will Latrobe had askedWhen he left two years ago,I'd have thrown up all and goneOut to Kansas, do you know?Fancy me a settler's wife!Blest escape, dear, was it not?Yes; it's hardly in my lineTo enact "Love in a Cot."Well, you see, I'd had my swing,Been engaged to eight or ten,Got to stop some time, of course,So it don't much matter when.Auntie hates old maids, and thinksEvery girl should marry young—On that theme my whole life longI have heard the changes sung.So,ma belle, what could I do?Charley wants a stylish wife.We'll suit well enough, no fear,When we settle down for life.But for love-stuff! See my ring!Lovely, isn't it? Solitaire.Nearly made Maud Hinton turnGreen with envy and despair.Her's ain't half so nice, you see.DidI write you, Belle, aboutHow she tried for Charley, tillI sailed in and cut her out?Now, she's taken Jack McBride,I believe it's all from pique—Threw him over once, you know—Hates me so she'll scarcely speak.Oh, yes! Grace Church, Brown, and that—Pa won't mind expense at lastI'll be off his hands for good;Cost a fortune two years past.My trousseau shall outdo Maud's,I'vecarte blanchefrom Pa, you know—Mean to have my dress from Worth!Won't she be justravingthough!
—Scribner's Monthly Magazine, 1874.
Women are often extremely humorous in their newspaper letters, excelling in that department. As critics they incline to satire. No one who read them at the time will ever forget Mrs. Runkle's review of "St. Elmo," or Gail Hamilton's criticism of "The Story of Avis," while Mrs. Rollins, in theCritic, often uses a scimitar instead of a quill, though a smile always tempers the severity. She thus beheads a poetaster who tells the public that his "solemn song" is
"Attempt ambitious, with a ray of hopeTo pierce the dark abysms of thought, to guideIts dim ghosts o'er the towering crags of DoubtUnto the land where Peace and Love abide,Of flowers and streams, and sun and stars."
"Attempt ambitious, with a ray of hopeTo pierce the dark abysms of thought, to guideIts dim ghosts o'er the towering crags of DoubtUnto the land where Peace and Love abide,Of flowers and streams, and sun and stars."
"His 'solemn song' is certainly very solemn for a song with so cheerful a purpose. We have rarely read, indeed, a book with so large a proportion of unhappy words in it. Frozen shrouds, souls a-chill with agony, things wan and gray, icy demons, scourging willow-branches, snow-heaped mounds, black and freezing nights, cups of sorrow drained to the lees, etc., are presented in such profusion that to struggle through the 'dark abyss' in search of the 'ray of hope' is much like taking a cup of poison to learn the sweetness of its antidote. Mr. —— in one of his stanzas invites his soul to 'come and walk abroad' with him. If he ever found it possible to walk abroad without his soul, the fact would have been worth chronicling; but if it is true that he only desires to have his soul with him occasionally, we should advise him to walk abroad alone, and invite his soul to sit beside him in the hours he devotes to composition."
Then humor is displayed in the excellent parodies by women—as Grace Greenwood's imitations of various authors, written in her young days, but quite equal to the "Echo Club" of Bayard Taylor. How perfect her mimicry of Mrs. Sigourney!
BY L.H.S.
How hardly doth the cold and careless worldRequite the toil divine of genius-souls,Their wasting cares and agonizing throes!I had a friend, a sweet and precious friend,One passing rich in all the strange and rare,And fearful gifts of song.On one great work,A poem in twelve cantos, she had toiledFrom early girlhood, e'en till she becameAn olden maid.Worn with intensest thought,She sunk at last, just at the "finis" sunk!And closed her eyes forever! The soul-gemHad fretted through its casket!As I stoodBeside her tomb, I made a solemn vowTo take in charge that poor, lone orphan work,And edit it!My publisher I sought,A learned man and good. He took the work,Read here and there a line, then laid it down,And said, "It would not pay." I slowly turned,And went my way with troubled brow, "but moreIn sorrow than in anger."
How hardly doth the cold and careless worldRequite the toil divine of genius-souls,Their wasting cares and agonizing throes!I had a friend, a sweet and precious friend,One passing rich in all the strange and rare,And fearful gifts of song.On one great work,A poem in twelve cantos, she had toiledFrom early girlhood, e'en till she becameAn olden maid.Worn with intensest thought,She sunk at last, just at the "finis" sunk!And closed her eyes forever! The soul-gemHad fretted through its casket!As I stoodBeside her tomb, I made a solemn vowTo take in charge that poor, lone orphan work,And edit it!My publisher I sought,A learned man and good. He took the work,Read here and there a line, then laid it down,And said, "It would not pay." I slowly turned,And went my way with troubled brow, "but moreIn sorrow than in anger."
Phœbe Cary's parody on "Maud Muller" I never fancied; it seems almost wicked to burlesque anything so perfect. But so many parodies have been made on Kingsley's"Three Fishers" that now I can enjoy a really good one, like this from Miss Lilian Whiting, of the BostonDaily Traveller, the well-known correspondent of various Western papers:
After Kingsley.
BY LILIAN WHITING.
Three poets went sailing down Boston streets,All into the East as the sun went down,Each felt that the editor loved him bestAnd would welcome spring poetry in Boston town.For poets must write tho' the editors frown,Their æsthetic natures will not be put down,While the harbor bar is moaning!Three editors climbed to the highest towerThat they could find in all Boston town,And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour,Till the sun or the poets had both gone down.For Spring poets must write, though the editors rage,The artistic spirit must thus be engaged—Though the editors all were groaning.Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand,Just after the first spring sun went down,And the Press sat down to a banquet grand,In honor of poets no more in the town.For poets will write while editors sleep,Though they've nothing to earn and no one to keep;And the harbor bar keeps moaning.
Three poets went sailing down Boston streets,All into the East as the sun went down,Each felt that the editor loved him bestAnd would welcome spring poetry in Boston town.For poets must write tho' the editors frown,Their æsthetic natures will not be put down,While the harbor bar is moaning!
Three editors climbed to the highest towerThat they could find in all Boston town,And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour,Till the sun or the poets had both gone down.For Spring poets must write, though the editors rage,The artistic spirit must thus be engaged—Though the editors all were groaning.
Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand,Just after the first spring sun went down,And the Press sat down to a banquet grand,In honor of poets no more in the town.For poets will write while editors sleep,Though they've nothing to earn and no one to keep;And the harbor bar keeps moaning.
The humor of women is constantly seen in their poems for children, such as "The Dead Doll," by Margaret Vandergrift, and the "Motherless Turkeys," by Marian Douglas. Here are some less known:
BY NELLIE K. KELLOGG.
'Twas sunset-time, when grandma calledTo lively little Fred:"Come, dearie, put your toys away,It's time to go to bed."But Fred demurred. "He wasn't tired,He didn't think 'twas rightThat he should go so early, whenSome folks sat up all night."Then grandma said, in pleading tone,"The little chickens goTo bed at sunset ev'ry night,All summer long, you know."Then Freddie laughed, and turned to herHis eyes of roguish blue,"Oh, yes, I know," he said; "but then,Old hen goes with them, too."—Good Cheer.
'Twas sunset-time, when grandma calledTo lively little Fred:"Come, dearie, put your toys away,It's time to go to bed."
But Fred demurred. "He wasn't tired,He didn't think 'twas rightThat he should go so early, whenSome folks sat up all night."
Then grandma said, in pleading tone,"The little chickens goTo bed at sunset ev'ry night,All summer long, you know."
Then Freddie laughed, and turned to herHis eyes of roguish blue,"Oh, yes, I know," he said; "but then,Old hen goes with them, too."
—Good Cheer.
BY GRACE F. COOLIDGE.