  I sing of Mrs. Tomkins-Smythe, And Mrs. Gibson-Brown; Two ladies resident within A square, near Camden Town. Good neighbours they had been, and friends, For twenty years, or more; The Tomkins-Smythes they lived at "6," The Gibson-Browns at "4." 'Twas in that season of the year When drapers' bargain sales Do fascinate the female mind, And vex the married males. An illustrated catalogue Arrived at "Number 4," Which Mrs. Gibson-Brown took in To show her friend next door. "Such bargains! Gracious me! Here's this reduced from two-and-six To one eleven-three! "And those which you remember, dear, We thought so very nice, They're selling off at really an Alarming sacrifice!" "Those remnants—" Mrs. Tomkins-Smythe Remained to hear no more; She jabbed her bonnet on with pins, And hurried to the door. And they were quickly there; And joining in the buzzing crowd Of other ladies fair. They pulled at this, they tugged at that, They turned and tumbled those; And pushed, and crowded with the best, And trod on people's toes. They glared at other buyers, and Forestalled them—when they could; And behaved, indeed, exactly, As at sales all ladies should. Till with heavy parcels laden, Breathless, but with keen delight, They beheld the remnant counter ("Second turning to the right.") And (alas! how small a matter May entirely change life's view) Both in the self-same instant Saw a remnant—Navy blue. "'Tis mine!" they both did cry. "I saw it first, my dearest love." "No, darling, it was I." "My remnant, and I'll buy it!" "Indeed? I think you won't!" "Pooh! madame, I will have it!" "I'll see, ma'am, that you don't!" They quarrelled, nor would stop Until the shopwalker he came And turned them from the shop. * * * They never made the quarrel up, And now, with icy stare, They pass each other in the street With noses in the air.
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