HUMOROUS POEMS. I will next group a score of poems and doggerel rhymes with their various degrees of humor. THE FIRST NEEDLE. BY LUCRETIA P. HALE. "Have you heard the new invention, my dears,
That a man has invented?" said she.
"It's a stick with an eye
Through which you can tie
A thread so long, it acts like a thong,
And the men have such fun,
To see the thing run!
A firm, strong thread, through that eye at the head,
Is pulled over the edges most craftily,
And makes a beautiful seam to see!"
"What, instead of those wearisome thorns, my dear,
Those wearisome thorns?" cried they.
"The seam we pin
Driving them in,
But where are they by the end of the day,
With dancing, and jumping, and leaps by the sea?
For wintry weather
They won't hold together,
Seal-skins and bear-skins all dropping round
Off from our shoulders down to the ground.
The thorns, the tiresome thorns, will prick,
But none of them ever consented to stick!
Oh, won't the men let us this new thing use?
If we mend their clothes they can't refuse.
Ah, to sew up a seam for them to see—
What a treat, a delightful treat, 'twill be!"
"Yes, a nice thing, too, for the babies, my dears—
But, alas, there is but one!" cried she.
"I saw them passing it round, and then
They said it was fit for only men!
What woman would know
How to make the thing go?
There was not a man so foolish to dream
That any woman could sew up a seam!"
Oh, then there was babbling and scrabbling, my dears!
"At least they might let us do that!" cried they.
"Let them shout and fight
And kill bears all night;
We'll leave them their spears and hatchets of stone
If they'll give us this thing for our very own.
It will be like a joy above all we could scheme,
To sit up all night and sew such a seam."
"Beware! take care!" cried an aged old crone,
"Take care what you promise," said she.
"At first 'twill be fun,
But, in the long run,
You'll wish you had let the thing be.
Through this stick with an eye
I look and espy
That for ages and ages you'll sit and you'll sew,
And longer and longer the seams will grow,
And you'll wish you never had asked to sew.
But naught that I say
Can keep back the day,
For the men will return to their hunting and rowing,
And leave to the women forever the sewing."
Ah, what are the words of an aged crone?
For all have left her muttering alone;
And the needle and thread that they got with such pains,
They forever must keep as dagger and chains.
THE FUNNY STORY. BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD. It was such a funny story! how I wish you could have heard it,
For it set us all a-laughing, from the little to the big;
I'd really like to tell it, but I don't know how to word it,
Though it travels to the music of a very lively jig.
If Sally just began it, then Amelia Jane would giggle,
And Mehetable and Susan try their very broadest grin;
And the infant Zachariah on his mother's lap would wriggle,
And add a lusty chorus to the very merry din.
It was such a funny story, with its cheery snap and crackle,
And Sally always told it with so much dramatic art,
That the chickens in the door-yard would begin to "cackle-cackle,"
As if in such a frolic they were anxious to take part.
It was all about a—ha! ha!—and a—ho! ho! ho!—well really,
It is—he! he! he!—I never could begin to tell you half
Of the nonsense there was in it, for I just remember clearly
It began with—ha! ha! ha! ha! and it ended with a laugh.
But Sally—she could tell it, looking at us so demurely,
With a woe-begone expression that no actress would despise;
And if you'd never heard it, why you would imagine surely
That you'd need your pocket-handkerchief to wipe your weeping eyes.
When age my hair has silvered, and my step has grown unsteady,
And the nearest to my vision are the scenes of long ago,
I shall see the pretty picture, and the tears may come as ready
As the laugh did, when I used to—ha! ha! ha! and—ho! ho! ho!
A SONNET. BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD. Once a poet wrote a sonnet
All about a pretty bonnet,
And a critic sat upon it
(On the sonnet,
Not the bonnet),
Nothing loath.
And as if it were high treason,
He said: "Neither rhyme nor reason
Has it; and it's out of season,"
Which? the sonnet
Or the bonnet?
Maybe both.
"'Tis a feeble imitation
Of a worthier creation;
An Æsthetic innovation!"
Of a sonnet
Or a bonnet?
This was hard.
Both were put together neatly,
Harmonizing very sweetly,
But the critic crushed completely
Not the bonnet,
Or the sonnet,
But the bard.
WANTED, A MINISTER. BY MRS. M.E.W. SKEELS. We've a church, tho' the belfry is leaning,
They are talking I think of repair,
And the bell, oh, pray but excuse us,
'Twas talked of, but never's been there.
Now, "Wanted, a real live minister,"
And to settle the same for life,
We've an organ and some one to play it,
So we don't care a fig for his wife.
We once had a pastor (don't tell it),
But we chanced on a time to discover
That his sermons were writ long ago,
And he had preached them twice over.
How sad this mistake, tho' unmeaning,
Oh, it made such a desperate muss!
Both deacon and laymen were vexed,
And decided, "He's no man for us."
And then the "old nick" was to pay,
"Truth indeed is stranger than fiction,"
His prayers were so tedious and long,
People slept, till the benediction.
And then came another, on trial,
Who actually preached in his gloves,
His manner so awkward and queer,
That we settled him off and he moved.
And then came another so meek,
That his name really ought to 've been Moses;
We almost considered him settled,
When lo! the secret discloses,
He'd attacks of nervous disease,
That unfit him for every-day duty;
His sermons, oh, never can please,
They lack both in force and beauty.
Now, "wanted, a minister," really,
That won't preach his old sermons over,
That will make short prayers while in church,
With no fault that the ear can discover,
That is very forbearing, yes very,
That blesses wherever he moves—
Not too zealous, nor lacking for zeal,
That preaches without any gloves!
Now, "wanted, a minister," really,
"That was born ere nerves came in fashion,"
That never complains of the "headache,"
That never is roused to a passion.
He must add to the wisdom of Solomon
The unwearied patience of Job,
Must be mute in political matters,
Or doff his clerical robe.
If he pray for the present Congress,
He must speak in an undertone;
If he pray for President Johnson,
He needs 'em, why let him go on.
He must touch upon doctrines so lightly,
That no one can take an offence,
Mustn't meddle with predestination—
In short, must preach "common sense."
Now really wanted a minister,
With religion enough to sustain him,
For the salary's exceedingly small,
And faith alone must maintain him.
He must visit the sick and afflicted,
Must mourn with those that mourn,
Must preach the "funeral sermons"
With a very peculiar turn.
He must preach at the north-west school-house
On every Thursday eve,
And things too numerous to mention
He must do, and must believe.
He must be of careful demeanor,
Both graceful and eloquent too,
Must adjust his cravat "a la mode,"
Wear his beaver, decidedly, so.
Now if some one will deign to be shepherd
To this "our peculiar people,"
Will be first to subscribe for a bell,
And help us to right up the steeple,
If correct in doctrinal points
(We've a committee of investigation),
If possessed of these requisite graces,
We'll accept him perhaps on probation.
Then if two-thirds of the church can agree,
We'll settle him here for life;
Now, we advertise, "Wanted, a Minister,"
And not a minister's wife.
THE MIDDY OF 1881. BY MAY CROLY ROPER. I'm the dearest, I'm the sweetest little mid
To be found in journeying from here to Hades,
I am also, nat-u-rally, a prodid-
Gious favorite with all the pretty ladies.
I know nothing, but say a mighty deal;
My elevated nose, likewise, comes handy;
I stalk around, my great importance feel—
In short, I'm a brainless little dandy.
My hair is light, and waves above my brow,
My mustache can just be seen through opera-glasses;
I originate but flee from every row,
And no one knows as well as I what "sass" is!
The officers look down on me with scorn,
The sailors jeer at me—behind my jacket,
But still my heart is not "with anguish torn,"
And life with me is one continued racket.
Whene'er the captain sends me with a boat,
The seamen know an idiot has got 'em;
They make their wills and are prepared to die,
Quite certain they are going to the bottom.
But what care I! For when I go ashore,
In uniform with buttons bright and shining,
The girls all cluster 'round me to adore,
And lots of 'em for love of me are pining.
I strut and dance, and fool my life away;
I'm nautical in past and future tenses!
Long as I know an ocean from a bay,
I'll shy the rest, and take the consequences.
I'm the dearest, I'm the sweetest little mid
That ever graced the tail-end of his classes,
And through a four years' course of study slid,
First am I in the list of Nature's—donkeys!
—Scribner's Magazine Bric-À-Brac, 1881.
INDIGNANT POLLY WOG. BY MARGARET EYTINGE. A tree-toad dressed in apple-green
Sat on a mossy log
Beside a pond, and shrilly sang,
"Come forth, my Polly Wog—
My Pol, my Ly,—my Wog,
My pretty Polly Wog,
I've something very sweet to say,
My slender Polly Wog!
"The air is moist, the moon is hid
Behind a heavy fog;
No stars are out to wink and blink
At you, my Polly Wog—
My Pol, my Ly—my Wog,
My graceful Polly Wog;
Oh, tarry not, beloved one!
My precious Polly Wog!"
Just then away went clouds, and there
A sitting on the log—
The other end I mean—the moon
Showed angry Polly Wog.
Her small eyes flashed, she swelled until
She looked almost a frog;
"How dare you, sir, call me," she asked,
"Your precious Polly Wog?
"Why, one would think you'd spent your life
In some low, muddy bog.
I'd have you know—to strange young men
My name's Miss Mary Wog."
One wild, wild laugh that tree-toad gave,
And tumbled off the log,
And on the ground he kicked and screamed,
"Oh, Mary, Mary Wog.
Oh, May! oh, Ry—oh, Wog!
Oh, proud Miss Mary Wog!
Oh, goodness gracious! what a joke!
Hurrah for Mary Wog!"
"KISS PRETTY POLL!" BY MARY D. BRINE. "Kiss Pretty Poll!" the parrot screamed,
And "Pretty Poll," repeated I,
The while I stole a merry glance
Across the room all on the sly,
Where some one plied her needle fast,
Demurely by the window sitting;
But I beheld upon her cheek
A multitude of blushes flitting.
"Kiss Pretty Poll," the parrot coaxed:
"I would, but dare not try," I said,
And stole another glance to see
How some one drooped her golden head,
And sought for something on the floor
(The loss was only feigned, I knew)—
And still, "Kiss Poll," the parrot screamed,
The very thing I longed to do.
But some one turned to me at last,
"Please, won't you keep that parrot still?"
"Why, yes," said I, "at least—you see
If you will let me, dear, I will."
And so—well, never mind the rest;
But some one said it was a shame
To take advantage just because
A foolish parrot bore her name.
—Harper's Weekly.
THANKSGIVING-DAY (THEN AND NOW). BY MARY D. BRINE. Thanksgiving-day, a year ago,
A bachelor was I,
Free as the winds that whirl and blow,
Or clouds that sail on high:
I smoked my meerschaum blissfully,
And tilted back my chair,
And on the mantel placed my feet,
For who would heed or care?
The fellows gathered in my room
For many an hour of fun,
Or I would meet them at the club
For cards, till night was done.
I came or went as pleased me best,
Myself the first and last.
One year ago! Ah, can it be
That freedom's age is past?
Now, here's a note just come from Fred:
"Old fellow, will you dine
With me to-day? and meet the boys,
A jolly number—nine?"
Ah, Fred is quite as free to-day
As just a year ago,
And ignorant, happily, I may say,
Of things I've learned to know.
I'd like, yes, if the truth were known,
I'd like to join the boys,
But then a Benedick must learn
To cleave to other joys.
So, here's my answer: "Fred, old chum,
I much regret—oh, pshaw!
To tell the truth, I've got to dine
With—my dear mother-in-law!"
—Harper's Weekly.
CONCERNING MOSQUITOES. Feelingly Dedicated to their Discounted Bills. BY MISS ANNA A. GORDON. Skeeters have the reputation
Of continuous application
To their poisonous profession;
Never missing nightly session,
Wearing out your life's existence
By their practical persistence.
Would I had the power to veto
Bills of every mosquito;
Then I'd pass a peaceful summer,
With no small nocturnal hummer
Feasting on my circulation,
For his regular potation.
Oh, that rascally mosquito!
He's a fellow you must see to;
Which you can't do if you're napping,
But must evermore be slapping
Quite promiscuous on your features;
For you'll seldom hit the creatures.
But the thing most aggravating
Is the cool and calculating
Way in which he tunes his harpstring
To the melody of sharp sting;
Then proceeds to serenade you,
And successfully evade you.
When a skeeter gets through stealing,
He sails upward to the ceiling,
Where he sits in deep reflection
How he perched on your complexion,
Filled with solid satisfaction
At results of his extraction.
Would you know, in this connection,
How you may secure protection
For yourself and city cousins
From these bites and from these buzzin's?
Show your sense by quickly getting
For each window—skeeter netting.
THE STILTS OF GOLD. BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR. Mrs. Mackerel sat in her little room,
Back of her husband's grocery store,
Trying to see through the evening gloom,
To finish the baby's pinafore.
She stitched away with a steady hand,
Though her heart was sore, to the very core,
To think of the troublesome little band,
(There were seven, or more),
And the trousers, frocks, and aprons they wore,
Made and mended by her alone.
"Slave, slave!" she said, in a mournful tone;
"And let us slave, and contrive, and fret,
I don't suppose we shall ever get
A little home which is all our own,
With my own front door
Apart from the store,
And the smell of fish and tallow no more."
These words to herself she sadly spoke,
Breaking the thread from the last-set stitch,
When Mackerel into her presence broke—
"Wife, we're—we're—we're, wife, we're—we're rich!"
"We rich! ha, ha! I'd like to see;
I'll pull your hair if you're fooling me."
"Oh, don't, love, don't! the letter is here—
You can read the news for yourself, my dear.
The one who sent you that white crape shawl—
There'll be no end to our gold—he's dead;
You know you always would call him stingy,
Because he didn't invite us to Injy;
And I am his only heir, 'tis said.
A million of pounds, at the very least,
And pearls and diamonds, likely, beside!"
Mrs. Mackerel's spirits rose like yeast—
"How lucky I married you, Mac," she cried.
Then the two broke forth into frantic glee.
A customer hearing the strange commotion,
Peeped into the little back-room, and he
Was seized with the very natural notion
That the Mackerel family had gone insane;
So he ran away with might and main.
Mac shook his partner by both her hands;
They dance, they giggle, they laugh, they stare;
And now on his head the grocer stands,
Dancing a jig with his feet in air—
Remarkable feat for a man of his age,
Who never had danced upon any stage
But the High-Bridge stage, when he set on top,
And whose green-room had been a green-grocer's shop.
But that Mrs. Mac should perform so well
Is not very strange, if the tales they tell
Of her youthful days have any foundation.
But let that pass with her former life—
An opera-girl may make a good wife,
If she happens to get such a nice situation.
A million pounds of solid gold
One would have thought would have crushed them dead;
But dear they bobbed, and courtesied, and rolled
Like a couple of corks to a plummet of lead.
'Twas enough the soberest fancy to tickle
To see the two Mackerels in such a pickle!
It was three o'clock when they got to bed;
Even then through Mrs. Mackerel's head
Such gorgeous dreams went whirling away,
"Like a Catherine-wheel," she declared next day,
"That her brain seemed made of sparkles of fire
Shot off in spokes, with a ruby tire."
Mrs. Mackerel had ever been
One of the upward-tending kind,
Regarded by husband and by kin
As a female of very ambitious mind.
It had fretted her long and fretted her sore
To live in the rear of the grocery-store.
And several times she was heard to say
She would sell her soul for a year and a day
To the King of Brimstone, Fire, and Pitch,
For the power and pleasure of being rich.
Now her ambition had scope to work—
Riches, they say, are a burden at best;
Her onerous burden she did not shirk,
But carried it all with commendable zest;
Leaving her husband with nothing in life
But to smoke, eat, drink, and obey his wife.
She built a house with a double front-door,
A marble house in the modern style,
With silver planks in the entry floor,
And carpets of extra-magnificent pile.
And in the hall, in the usual manner,
"A statue," she said, "of the chased Diana;
Though who it was chased her, or whether they
Caught her or not, she could, really, not say."
A carriage with curtains of yellow satin—
A coat-of-arms with these rare devices:
"A mackerel sky and the starry Pisces—"
And underneath, in the purest fish-latin,
If fishibus flyabus
They may reach the skyabus!
Yet it was not in common affairs like these
She showed her original powers of mind;
Her soul was fired, her ardor inspired,
To stand apart from the rest of mankind;
"To be A No. one," her husband said;
At which she turned very angrily red,
For she couldn't endure the remotest hint
Of the grocery-store, and the mackerels in't.
Weeks and months she plotted and planned
To raise herself from the common level;
Apart from even the few to stand
Who'd hundreds of thousands on which to revel.
Her genius, at last, spread forth its wings—
Stilts, golden stilts, are the very things—
"I'll walk on stilts," Mrs. Mackerel cried,
In the height of her overtowering pride.
Her husband timidly shook his head;
But she did not care—"For why," as she said,
"Should the owner of more than a million pounds
Be going the rounds
On the very same grounds
As those low people, she couldn't tell who,
They might keep a shop, for all she knew."
She had a pair of the articles made,
Of solid gold, gorgeously overlaid
With every color of precious stone
Which ever flashed in the Indian zone.
She privately practised many a day
Before she ventured from home at all;
She had lost her girlish skill, and they say
That she suffered many a fearful fall;
But pride is stubborn, and she was bound
On her golden stilts to go around,
Three feet, at least, from the plebeian ground.
'Twas an exquisite day,
In the month of May,
That the stilts came out for a promenade;
Their first entrÉe
Was made on the shilling side of Broadway;
The carmen whistled, the boys went mad,
The omnibus-drivers their horses stopped.
The chestnut-roaster his chestnuts dropped,
The popper of corn no longer popped;
The daintiest dandies deigned to stare,
And even the heads of women fair
Were turned by the vision meeting them there.
The stilts they sparkled and flashed and shone
Like the tremulous lights of the frigid zone,
Crimson and yellow and sapphire and green,
Bright as the rainbows in summer seen;
While the lady she strode along between
With a majesty too supremely serene
For anything but an American queen.
A lady with jewels superb as those,
And wearing such very expensive clothes,
Might certainly do whatever she chose!
And thus, in despite of the jeering noise,
And the frantic delight of the little boys,
The stilts were a very decided success.
The crÊme de la crÊme paid profoundest attention,
The merchants' clerks bowed in such wild excess,
When she entered their shops, that they strained their spines,
And afterward went into rapid declines.
The papers, next day, gave her flattering mention;
"The wife of our highly-esteemed fellow-citizen,
A Mackerel, of Codfish Square, in this city,
Scorning French fashions, herself has hit on one
So very piquant and stylish and pretty,
We trust our fair friends will consider it treason
Not to walk upon stilts, by the close of the season."
Mrs. Mackerel, now, was never seen
Out of her chamber, day or night,
Unless her stilts were along—her mien
Was very imposing from such a height,
It imposed upon many a dazzled wight,
Who snuffed the perfume floating down
From the rustling folds of her gorgeous gown,
But never could smell through these bouquets
The fishy odor of former days.
She went on her golden stilts to pray,
Which never became her better than then,
When her murmuring lips were heard to say,
"Thank God, I am not as my fellow-men!"
Her pastor loved as a pastor might—
His house that was built on a golden rock;
He pointed it out as a shining light
To the lesser lambs of his fleecy flock.
The stilts were a help to the church, no doubt,
They kindled its self-expiring embers,
So that before the season was out
It gained a dozen excellent members.
Mrs. Mackerel gave a superb soirÉe,
Standing on stilts to receive her guests;
The gas-lights mimicked the glowing day
So well, that the birds, in their flowery nests,
Almost burst their beautiful breasts,
Trilling away their musical stories
In Mrs. Mackerel's conservatories.
She received on stilts; a distant bow
Was all the loftiest could attain—
Though some of her friends she did allow
To kiss the hem of her jewelled train.
One gentleman screamed himself quite hoarse
Requesting her to dance; which, of course,
Couldn't be done on stilts, as she
Halloed down to him rather scornfully.
The fact is, when Mackerel kept a shop,
His wife was very fond of a hop,
And now, as the music swelled and rose,
She felt a tingling in her toes,
A restless, tickling, funny sensation
Which didn't agree with her exaltation.
When the maddened music was at its height,
And the waltz was wildest—behold, a sight!
The stilts began to hop and twirl
Like the saucy feet of a ballet-girl.
And their haughty owner, through the air,
Was spin, spin, spinning everywhere.
Everybody got out of the way
To give the dangerous stilts fair play.
In every corner, at every door,
With faces looking like unfilled blanks,
They watched the stilts at their airy pranks,
Giving them, unrequested, the floor.
They never had glittered so bright before;
The light it flew in flashing splinters
Away from those burning, revolving centres;
While the gems on the lady's flying skirts
Gave out their light in jets and spirts.
Poor Mackerel gazed in mute dismay
At this unprecedented display.
"Oh, stop, love, stop!" he cried at last;
But she only flew more wild and fast,
While the flutes and fiddles, bugle and drum,
Followed as if their time had come.
She went at such a bewildering pace
Nobody saw the lady's face,
But only a ring of emerald light
From the crown she wore on that fatal night.
Whether the stilts were propelling her,
Or she the stilts, none could aver.
Around and around the magnificent hall
Mrs. Mackerel danced at her own grand ball.
"As the twig is bent the tree's inclined;"
This must have been a case in kind.
"What's in the blood will sometimes show—"
'Round and around the wild stilts go.
It had been whispered many a time
That when poor Mack was in his prime
Keeping that little retail store,
He had fallen in love with a ballet-girl,
Who gave up fame's entrancing whirl
To be his own, and the world's no more.
She made him a faithful, prudent wife—
Ambitious, however, all her life.
Could it be that the soft, alluring waltz
Had carried her back to a former age,
Making her memory play her false,
Till she dreamed herself on the gaudy stage?
Her crown a tinsel crown—her guests
The pit that gazes with praise and jests?
"Pride," they say, "must have a fall—"
Mrs. Mackerel was very proud—
And now she danced at her own grand ball,
While the music swelled more fast and loud.
The gazers shuddered with mute affright,
For the stilts burned now with a bluish light,
While a glimmering, phosphorescent glow
Did out of the lady's garments flow.
And what was that very peculiar smell?
Fish, or brimstone? no one could tell.
Stronger and stronger the odor grew,
And the stilts and the lady burned more blue;
'Round and around the long saloon,
While Mackerel gazed in a partial swoon,
She approached the throng, or circled from it,
With a flaming train like the last great comet;
Till at length the crowd
All groaned aloud.
For her exit she made from her own grand ball
Out of the window, stilts and all.
None of the guests can really say
How she looked when she vanished away.
Some declare that she carried sail
On a flying fish with a lambent tail;
And some are sure she went out of the room
Riding her stilts like a witch a broom,
While a phosphorent odor followed her track:
Be this as it may, she never came back.
Since then, her friends of the gold-fish fry
Are in a state of unpleasant suspense,
Afraid, that unless they unselfishly try
To make better use of their dollars and sense
To chasten their pride, and their manners mend,
They may meet a similar shocking end.
—Cosmopolitan Art Journal.
JUST SO. BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR. 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 said
That 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 night
A-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?
AN UNRUFFLED BOSOM. (Story of an old Woman who knew Washington.) BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY. An aged negress at her door
Is 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 tight
Is stretched her wrinkled skin.
Her dress is scant and mean; yet still
About her ebon face
There flows a soft and creamy frill
Of costly Mechlin lace.
What means the contrast strange and wide?
Its like is seldom seen—
A pauper's aged face beside
The laces of a queen.
Her mien is stately, proud, and high,
And yet her look is kind,
And the calm light within her eye
Speaks an unruffled mind.
"Dar comes anodder ob dem tramps,"
She mumbles low in wrath,
"I know dose sleek Centennial chaps
Quick as dey mounts de path."
A-axing ob a lady's age
I tink is impolite,
And when dey gins to interview
I disremembers quite.
Dar was dat spruce photometer
Dat 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 Washington
And likewise General Greene.
I tole him all de generals' names
Dar ebber was, I guess,
From General Lee and La Fayette
To General Distress.
Den dar's dem high-flown ladies
My old tings came to see;
Wanted to buy dem some heirlooms
Of real Aunt Tiquity.
Says I, "Dat isn't dis chile's name,
Dey calls me Auntie Scraggs,"
And den I axed dem, by de pound
How much dey gabe for rags?
De missionary had de mose
Insurance 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 I
Approached my latter end.
Now how he knew dat story I
Should mightily like to know.
I 'clar to goodness, Massa Guy,
If dat ain't really you!
You say dat in your wash I sent
You only one white vest;
And as you'se passin' by you t'ought
You'd call and get de rest.
Now, Massa Guy, about your shirts,
At least, it seems to me
Dat you is more particular
Dan what you used to be.
Your family pride is stiff as starch,
Your blood is mighty blue—
I nebber spares de indigo
To make your shirts so, too.
I uses candle ends, and wax,
And satin-gloss and paints,
Until your wristbands shine like to
De pathway ob de saints.
But when a gemman sends to me
Eight 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's
A 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 off
By axing 'bout my cap;
You didn't use to know nice lace,
And never cared a snap
What 'twas a lady wore. But folks
Wid teaching learn a lot,
And dey do say Miss Bella buys
De best dat's to be got.
But if you really want to know,
I don't mind telling you
Jus' how I come by dis yere lace—
It's cur'us, but it's true.
My mother washed for Washington
When I warn't more'n dat tall;
I cut one of his shirt-frills off
To dress my corn-cob doll;
And when de General saw de shirt,
He jus' was mad enough
To tink he got to hold review
Widout his best Dutch ruff.
Ma'am said she 'lowed it was de calf
Dat 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 home
She stretched me 'cross her lap,
Den took de lace away from me
An' sewed it on her cap.
And when I dies I hope dat dey
Wid 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, like
De General's Sunday shirt.
HAT, ULSTER AND ALL. 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 lurch
Upon a change of creed.
Joining my friend on going out,
Conjecture soon was put to rout
By 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 way
To 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.
AUCTION EXTRAORDINARY. 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 made
That 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.
A APELE FOR ARE TO THE SEXTANT. BY ARABELLA WILSON. O Sextant of the meetinouse which sweeps
And 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 dies
To 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, and
Kindlin' fiers when the wether is as cold
As 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 kermodity
Wuth 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 no
What on airth to do with itself, but flize about
Scatterin 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 children
Speshily 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 teeth
And sum haint none, and sum aint over clean;
But evry one of em brethes in and out and in
Say 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 down
At least ten times and let it up agin, and what's more,
The same individible doant have the privilege
Of breathin his own are and no one else,
Each one must take wotever comes to him,
O Sextant! doant you know our lungs is belluses
To blo the fier of life and keep it from
Going 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 dye
Its only coz we cant brethe no more—that's all.
And now O Sextant? let me beg of you
To 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 up
And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps
And yorns and fijits as effectool
As wind on the dry boans the Profit tels of.
—Christian Weekly.
|
  |
