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. A MODERN MINERVA. 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 Thwing
It 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 yellow
With jealousy, and wished himself that moment in my place.
As the turtle soup we tasted, like a gallant man I hasted
To 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 dinner
Did 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 Tariff
Or the Eastern Question settled by such a pair of lips.
Never saw I a dainty maiden so remarkably o'erladen
From 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.
THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA BROWN. 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 understand
That 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 soul
Wades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs in frenzy roll:
What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me grievous pain
When 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 come
She 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 polonaise
I 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: "Curfew SHALL not 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!
THE TENDER HEART. BY HELEN GRAY CONE. She gazed upon the burnished brace
Of plump, ruffed grouse he showed with pride,
Angelic grief was in her face:
"How could you 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 in
Some 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" he
Began to feel his will benumbed;
At Browning's "Donald" utterly
His 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 gained
And 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, of vers de sociÉtÉ rivals Locker or Baker: PLIGHTED: A.D. 1874. BY ALICE WILLIAMS. "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—
Such an 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's prime.
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 time
I'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 so
Some two years back. Fact, my dear!
But two seasons kill romance,
Leave one's views of life quite clear.
Why, if Will Latrobe had asked
When he left two years ago,
I'd have thrown up all and gone
Out to Kansas, do you know?
Fancy me a settler's wife!
Blest escape, dear, was it not?
Yes; it's hardly in my line
To 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 thinks
Every girl should marry young—
On that theme my whole life long
I 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 turn
Green with envy and despair.
Her's ain't half so nice, you see.
Did I write you, Belle, about
How she tried for Charley, till
I 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 last
I'll be off his hands for good;
Cost a fortune two years past.
My trousseau shall outdo Maud's,
I've carte blanche from Pa, you know—
Mean to have my dress from Worth!
Won't she be just raving though!
—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 the Critic, 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 hope
To pierce the dark abysms of thought, to guide
Its dim ghosts o'er the towering crags of Doubt
Unto 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! A FRAGMENT. BY L.H.S. How hardly doth the cold and careless world
Requite 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 toiled
From early girlhood, e'en till she became
An olden maid.
Worn with intensest thought,
She sunk at last, just at the "finis" sunk!
And closed her eyes forever! The soul-gem
Had fretted through its casket!
As I stood
Beside her tomb, I made a solemn vow
To 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 more
In sorrow than in anger."
Phoebe 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 Boston Daily Traveller, the well-known correspondent of various Western papers: THE THREE POETS. 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 best
And 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 tower
That 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: BEDTIME. BY NELLIE K. KELLOGG. 'Twas sunset-time, when grandma called
To 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 right
That he should go so early, when
Some folks sat up all night."
Then grandma said, in pleading tone,
"The little chickens go
To bed at sunset ev'ry night,
All summer long, you know."
Then Freddie laughed, and turned to her
His eyes of roguish blue,
"Oh, yes, I know," he said; "but then,
Old hen goes with them, too."
—Good Cheer.
THE ROBIN AND THE CHICKEN. BY GRACE F. COOLIDGE. A plump little robin flew down from a tree,
To hunt for a worm, which he happened to see;
A frisky young chicken came scampering by,
And gazed at the robin with wondering eye.
Said the chick, "What a queer-looking chicken is that!
Its wings are so long and its body so fat!"
While the robin remarked, loud enough to be heard:
"Dear me! an exceedingly strange-looking bird!"
"Can you sing?" robin asked, and the chicken said "No;"
But asked in its turn if the robin could crow.
So the bird sought a tree and the chicken a wall,
And each thought the other knew nothing at all.
—St. Nicholas.
Harriette W. Lothrop, wife of the popular publisher—better known by her pen name of "Margaret Sidney"—has done much in a humorous way to amuse and instruct little folks. She has much quiet humor. WHY POLLY DOESN'T LOVE CAKE! BY MARGARET SIDNEY. BY ADELAIDE CILLEY WALDRON. Four little kittens in a heap,
One wide awake and three asleep.
Open-eyes crowded, pushed the rest over,
While the gray mother-cat went playing rover.
Three little kittens stretched and mewed;
Cried out, "Open-eyes, you're too rude!"
Open-eyes, winking, purred so demurely,
All the rest stared at him, thinking "surely
We were the ones that were so rude,
We were the ones that cried and mewed;
Let us lie here like good little kittens;
We cannot sleep, so we'll wash our mittens."
Four little kittens, very sleek,
Purred so demurely, looked so meek,
When the gray mother came home from roving—
"What good kittens!" said she; "and how loving!"
BOTH SIDES. BY GAIL HAMILTON. "Kitty, Kitty, you mischievous elf,
What have you, pray, to say for yourself?"
But Kitty was now
Asleep on the mow,
And only drawled dreamily, "Ma-e-ow!"
"Kitty, Kitty, come here to me,—
The naughtiest Kitty I ever did see!
I know very well what you've been about;
Don't try to conceal it, murder will out.
Why do you lie so lazily there?"
"Oh, I have had a breakfast rare!"
"Why don't you go and hunt for a mouse?"
"Oh, there's nothing fit to eat in the house."
"Dear me! Miss Kitty,
This is a pity;
But I guess the cause of your change of ditty.
What has become of the beautiful thrush
That built her nest in the heap of brush?
A brace of young robins as good as the best;
A round little, brown little, snug little nest;
Four little eggs all green and gay,
Four little birds all bare and gray,
And Papa Robin went foraging round,
Aloft on the trees, and alight on the ground.
North wind or south wind, he cared not a groat,
So he popped a fat worm down each wide-open throat;
And Mamma Robin through sun and storm
Hugged them up close, and kept them all warm;
And me, I watched the dear little things
Till the feathers pricked out on their pretty wings,
And their eyes peeped up o'er the rim of the nest.
Kitty, Kitty, you know the rest.
The nest is empty, and silent and lone;
Where are the four little robins gone?
Oh, puss, you have done a cruel deed!
Your eyes, do they weep? your heart, does it bleed?
Do you not feel your bold cheeks turning pale?
Not you! you are chasing your wicked tail.
Or you just cuddle down in the hay and purr,
Curl up in a ball, and refuse to stir,
But you need not try to look good and wise:
I see little robins, old puss, in your eyes.
And this morning, just as the clock struck four,
There was some one opening the kitchen door,
And caught you creeping the wood-pile over,—
Make a clean breast of it, Kitty Clover!"
Then Kitty arose,
Rubbed up her nose,
And looked very much as if coming to blows;
Rounded her back,
Leaped from the stack,
On her feet, at my feet, came down with a whack,
Then, fairly awake, she stretched out her paws,
Smoothed down her whiskers, and unsheathed her claws,
Winked her green eyes
With an air of surprise,
And spoke rather plainly for one of her size.
"Killed a few robins; well, what of that?
What's virtue in man can't be vice in a cat.
There's a thing or two I should like to know,—
Who killed the chicken a week ago,
For nothing at all that I could spy,
But to make an overgrown chicken-pie?
'Twixt you and me,
'Tis plain to see,
The odds is, you like fricassee,
While my brave maw
Owns no such law,
Content with viands a la raw.
"Who killed the robins? Oh, yes! oh, yes!
I would get the cat now into a mess!
Who was it put
An old stocking-foot,
Tied up with strings
And such shabby things,
On to the end of a sharp, slender pole,
Dipped it in oil and set fire to the whole,
And burnt all the way from here to the miller's
The nests of the sweet young caterpillars?
Grilled fowl, indeed!
Why, as I read,
You had not even the plea of need;
For all you boast
Such wholesome roast,
I saw no sign at tea or roast,
Of even a caterpillar's ghost.
"Who killed the robins? Well, I should think!
Hadn't somebody better wink
At my peccadillos, if houses of glass
Won't do to throw stones from at those who pass?
I had four little kittens a month ago—
Black, and Malta, and white as snow;
And not a very long while before
I could have shown you three kittens more.
And so in batches of fours and threes,
Looking back as long as you please,
You would find, if you read my story all,
There were kittens from time immemorial.
"But what am I now? A cat bereft,
Of all my kittens, but one is left.
I make no charges, but this I ask,—
What made such a splurge in the waste-water cask?
You are quite tender-hearted. Oh, not a doubt!
But only suppose old Black Pond could speak out.
Oh, bother! don't mutter excuses to me:
Qui facit per alium facit per se."
"Well, Kitty, I think full enough has been said,
And the best thing for you is go straight back to bed.
A very fine pass
Things have come to, my lass,
If men must be meek
While pussy-cats speak
Great moral reflections in Latin and Greek!"
—Our Young Folks.
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