The day arrived, and before nine o'clock in the morning the mercury stood at ninety degrees in the shade. The cook overslept herself, and breakfast was so late that William Henry missed the train into the city, which didn't make it pleasanter for any of us. I had made an especially delicate cake to take with me as my share of the feast, and while we were at breakfast I heard a crash in the direction of the kitchen, and hastening tremblingly to discover the origin of it I found the cake and the plate containing it in one indistinguishable heap on the floor.

"It slipped between me two hands as if it was alive, bad luck to it," said the cook; "and it was meself that saw the heavy crack in the plate before you set the cake onto it, mum!"

I took cookies and boiled eggs to the picnic.

The wreck had hardly been cleared away before my son and heir appeared in the doorway with a hole of unimagined dimensions in his third worst trousers. His second worst were already in the mending basket, so nothing remained for me but to clothe him in his best suit and wonder all day in which part of them I should find the largest hole when I came home.

Lastly, I had just put on my hat, and was preparing to set forth, warm, tired and demoralized, when my youngest, in her anxiety to bid me a sufficiently affectionate farewell, lost her small balance, and came rolling down-stairs after me. No serious harm was done, but it took nearly an hour before I succeeded in soothing and comforting her sufficiently to be able to leave her, with two brown-paper patches on her head and elbow, in the care of the nurse.

When I arrived late, discouraged and with a headache, at the picnic grounds, I found the assembled company sitting vapidly about among mosquitoes and beetles, already looking bored to death, and I soon perceived that it was expected of me to provide amusement and entertainment for the crowd. I tried to rally, therefore, and proposed a few games, which went off in a spiritless manner enough, and apparently in consequence I began to be assailed with questions and remarks of a reproachful character.

"Don't you feel well to-day?" "Has anything happened?" "You don't seem as lively as usual!" No one took the slightest notice of my explanations, until at last, goaded into desperation by one evil-minded old woman, who asked me if it were true that my husband was involved in the failure of Smith, Jones & Co., I launched out and became wildly and disgracefully silly. Nothing seemed too foolish, too senseless to say if it only answered the great purpose of keeping off the attack of personal questions.

Thus the wretched day wore on, until at last it was time to go home, and the first feeling approaching content was stealing into my weary bosom as I gathered up my basket and shawls, when it was rudely dashed by the following conversation, conducted by two ladies to whom I had been introduced that day. They were standing at a little distance from the rest of the company and from me, and evidently thought themselves far enough away to talk quite loud, so that these words were plainly borne to my ears:

"I hate to see people try to make themselves so conspicuous, don't you?"

"Yes, indeed; and to try to be funny when they haven't any fun in them."

"I can't imagine what Maria was thinking about to call her witty!"

"I know it. I should think such people had better keep quiet when they haven't anything to say. I'm glad it's time to go home. Picnics are such stupid things!"

What more was said I do not know, for I left the spot as quickly as possible, making an inward resolution to avoid all picnics in the future till I should arrive at my second childhood.

I cannot refrain from giving one other little instance of my sufferings from this cause. I was again invited out; this time to a lunch party, specially to meet the friend of a friend of mine. The very morning of the day it was to take place I received a telegram stating that my great-aunt had died suddenly in California. Now people don't usually care much about their great-aunts. They can bear to be chastened in this direction very comfortably; but I did care about mine. She had been very kind to me, and though the width of a continent had separated us for the last ten years her memory was still dear to me.

I sat down immediately to write a note excusing myself from my friend's lunch party, when, just as I took the paper, it occurred to me that it was rather a selfish thing to do. My friend's guests were invited, and her arrangements all made; and as the visit of her friend was to be very short the opportunity of our meeting would probably be lost. So I wrote instead a note to the daughter of my great aunt, and when the time came I went to the lunch party with a heavy heart. I had no opportunity of telling my friend of the sad news I had received that morning, and I suppose I may have been quiet; perhaps I even seemed indifferent, though I tried not to be. I could not have been very successful, however, for I was just going up-stairs to put on my "things" to go home, when I heard this little conversation in the dressing-room:

"It's too bad she wasn't more interesting to-day, but you never can tell how it will be. She will do as she likes, and that's the end of it."

"Yes," said another voice, "I think she is rather a moody person anyway; she won't say a word if she doesn't feel like it."

"'Sh—'sh—here she comes," said another, with the tone and look that told me it was I of whom they were talking.

And so I adjure all youthful and hopeful persons, who have a tendency to be funny, to keep it a profound secret from the world. Indulge in your propensities to any extent in your family circle; keep your immediate relatives, if you like, in convulsions of inextinguishable laughter all the time; but when you mingle in society guard your secret with your life. Never make a joke, and, if necessary, never take one; and by so doing you shall peradventure escape that wrath to come to which I have fallen an innocent victim, and which I doubt not will bring me to an untimely end.—The Independent.

* * * * *

And a few pages from Miss Murfree, who has shown such rare power in her short character sketches.

A BLACKSMITH IN LOVE.

BY CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.

The pine-knots flamed and glistened under the great wash-kettle. A tree-toad was persistently calling for rain in the dry distance. The girl, gravely impassive, beat the clothes with the heavy paddle. Her mother shortly ceased to prod the white heaps in the boiling water, and presently took up the thread of her discourse.

"An' 'Vander hev got ter be a mighty suddint man. I hearn tell, when I war down ter M'ria's house ter the quiltin', ez how in that sorter fight an' scrimmage they hed at the mill las' month, he war powerful ill-conducted. Nobody hed thought of hevin' much of a fight—thar hed been jes' a few licks passed atwixt the men thar; but the fust finger ez war laid on this boy, he jes' lit out, an' fit like a catamount. Right an' lef' he lay about him with his fists, an' he drawed his huntin'-knife on some of 'em. The men at the mill war in no wise pleased with him."

"'Pears like ter me ez 'Vander air a peaceable boy enough, ef he ain't jawed at an' air lef' be," drawled Cynthia.

Her mother was embarrassed for a moment. Then, with a look both sly and wise, she made an admission—a qualified admission. "Waal, wimmen—ef—ef—ef they air young an' toler'ble hard-headed yit, air likely ter jaw some, ennyhow. An' a gal oughtn't ter marry a man ez hev sot his heart on bein' lef' in peace. He is apt ter be a mighty sour an' disapp'inted critter."

This sudden turn to the conversation invested all that had been said with new meaning, and revealed a subtle diplomatic intention. The girl seemed deliberately to review it as she paused in her work. Then, with a rising flush: "I ain't studyin' 'bout marryin' nobody," she asserted staidly. "I hev laid off ter live single."

Mrs. Ware had overshot the mark, but she retorted, gallantly reckless: "That's what yer Aunt Malviny useter declar' fur gospel sure, when she war a gal. An' she hev got ten chil'ren, an' hev buried two husbands; an' ef all they say air true, she's tollin' in the third man now. She's a mighty spry, good-featured woman, an' a fust-rate manager, yer Aunt Malviny air, an' both her husbands lef' her suthin—cows, or wagons, or land. An' they war quiet men when they war alive, an' stays whar they air put now that they air dead; not like old Parson Hoodenpyle, what his wife hears stumpin' round the house an' preachin' every night, though she air ez deef ez a post, an' he hev been in glory twenty year—twenty year an' better. Yer Aunt Malviny hed luck, so mebbe 'tain't no killin' complaint fur a gal ter git ter talking like a fool about marryin' an' sech. Leastwise I ain't minded ter sorrow."

She looked at her daughter with a gay grin, which, distorted by her toothless gums and the wreathing steam from the kettle, enhanced her witch-like aspect and was spuriously malevolent. She did not notice the stir of an approach through the brambly tangles of the heights above until it was close at hand; as she turned, she thought only of the mountain cattle and to see the red cow's picturesque head and crumpled horns thrust over the sassafras bushes, or to hear the brindle's clanking bell. It was certainly less unexpected to Cynthia when a young mountaineer, clad in brown jean trousers and a checked homespun shirt, emerged upon the rocky slope. He still wore his blacksmith's leather apron, and his powerful corded hammer-arm was bare beneath his tightly-rolled sleeve. He was tall and heavily built; his sunburned face was square, with a strong lower jaw, and his features were accented by fine lines of charcoal, as if the whole were a clever sketch.

His black eyes held fierce intimations, but there was mobility of expression about them that suggested changing impulses, strong but fleeting. He was like his forge-fire; though the heat might be intense for a time, it fluctuated with the breath of the bellows. Just now he was meekly quailing before the old woman, whom he evidently had not thought to find here. It was as apt an illustration as might be, perhaps, of the inferiority of strength to finesse. She seemed an inconsiderable adversary, as, haggard, lean, and prematurely aged, she swayed on her prodding-stick about the huge kettle; but she was as a veritable David to this big young Goliath, though she, too, flung hardly more than a pebble at him.

"Laws-a-me!" she cried, in shrill, toothless glee; "ef hyar ain't 'Vander Price! What brung ye down hyar along o' we-uns, 'Vander?" she continued, with simulated anxiety. "Hev that thar red heifer o' ourn lept over the fence agin, an' got inter Pete's corn? Waal, sir, ef she ain't the headin'est heifer!"

"I hain't seen none o' yer heifer, ez I knows on," replied the young blacksmith, with gruff, drawling deprecation. Then he tried to regain his natural manner. "I kem down hyar," he remarked, in an off-hand way, "ter git a drink o' water." He glanced furtively at the girl, then looked quickly away at the gallant red-bird, still gayly parading among the leaves.

The old woman grinned with delight. "Now, ef that ain't s'prisin'," she declared. "Ef we hed knowed ez Lost Creek war a-goin' dry over yander a-nigh the shop, so ye an' Pete would hev ter kem hyar thirstin' fur water, we-uns would hev brung suthin' down hyar ter drink out'n. We-uns hain't got no gourd hyar, hev we, Cynthy?"

"'Thout it air the little gourd with the saft-soap in it," said Cynthia, confused and blushing. Her mother broke into a high, loud laugh.

"Ye ain't wantin' ter gin 'Vander the soap-gourd ter drink out'n, Cynthy! Leastwise, I ain't goin' ter gin it ter Pete. Fur I s'pose ef ye hev ter kem a haffen mile ter git a drink, 'Vander, ez surely Pete'll hev ter kem, too. Waal, waal, who would hev b'lieved ez Lost Creek would go dry nigh the shop, an' yit be a-scuttlin' along like that hyarabouts!" and she pointed with her bony finger at the swift flow of the water.

He was forced to abandon his clumsy pretence of thirst. "Lost Creek ain't gone dry nowhar, ez I knows on," he admitted, mechanically rolling the sleeve of his hammer-arm up and down as he talked.

* * * * *

From Miss Woolson's story of "Anne," I give the pen-portrait of the precise

"MISS LOIS."

"Codfish balls for breakfast on Sunday morning, of course," said Miss Lois, "and fried hasty-pudding. On Wednesdays, a boiled dinner. Pies on Tuesdays and Saturdays."

The pins stood in straight rows on her pincushion; three times each week every room in the house was swept, and the floors, as well as the furniture, dusted. Beans were baked in an iron pot on Saturday night, and sweet-cake was made on Thursday. Winter or summer, through scarcity or plenty, Miss Lois never varied her established routine, thereby setting an example, she said, to the idle and shiftless. And certainly she was a faithful guide-post, continually pointing out an industrious and systematic way, which, however, to the end of time, no French-blooded, French-hearted person will ever travel, unless dragged by force. The villagers preferred their lake trout to Miss Lois's salt codfish, their tartines to her corn-meal puddings, and their eau-de-vie to her green tea; they loved their disorder and their comfort; her bar soap and scrubbing-brush were a horror to their eyes. They washed the household clothes two or three times a year. Was not that enough? Of what use the endless labor of this sharp-nosed woman, with glasses over her eyes, at the church-house? Were not, perhaps, the glasses the consequence of such toil? And her figure of a long leanness also?

The element of real heroism, however, came into Miss Lois's life in her persistent effort to employ Indian servants. Through long years had she persisted, through long years would she continue to persist. A succession of Chippewa squaws broke, stole, and skirmished their way through her kitchen, with various degrees of success, generally in the end departing suddenly at night with whatever booty they could lay their hands on. It is but justice to add, however, that this was not much, a rigid system of keys and excellent locks prevailing in the well-watched household. Miss Lois's conscience would not allow her to employ half-breeds, who were sometimes endurable servants; duty required, she said, that she should have full-blooded natives. And she had them. She always began to teach them the alphabet within three days after their arrival, and the spectacle of a tearful, freshly-caught Indian girl, very wretched in her calico dress and white apron, worn out with the ways of the kettles and the brasses, dejected over the fish-balls, and appalled by the pudding, standing confronted by a large alphabet on the well-scoured table, and Miss Lois by her side with a pointer, was frequent and even regular in its occurrence, the only change being in the personality of the learners. No one of them had ever gone through the letters, but Miss Lois was not discouraged.

THE CIRCUS AT DENBY.

BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT.

I cannot truthfully say that it was a good show; it was somewhat dreary, now that I think of it quietly and without excitement. The creatures looked tired, and as if they had been on the road for a great many years. The animals were all old, and there was a shabby great elephant whose look of general discouragement went to my heart, for it seemed as if he were miserably conscious of a misspent life. He stood dejected and motionless at one side of the tent, and it was hard to believe that there was a spark of vitality left in him. A great number of the people had never seen an elephant before, and we heard a thin, little old man, who stood near us, say delightedly: "There's the old creatur', and no mistake, Ann 'Liza. I wanted to see him most of anything. My sakes alive, ain't he big!"

And Ann 'Liza, who was stout and sleepy-looking, droned out: "Ye-es, there's consider'ble of him; but he looks as if he ain't got no animation."

Kate and I turned away and laughed, while Mrs. Kew said, confidentially, as the couple moved away: "She needn't be a reflectin' on the poor beast. That's Mis' Seth Tanner, and there isn't a woman in Deep Haven nor East Parish to be named the same day with her for laziness. I'm glad she didn't catch sight of me; she'd have talked about nothing for a fortnight." There was a picture of a huge snake in Deep Haven, and I was just wondering where he could be, or if there ever had been one, when we heard a boy ask the same question of the man whose thankless task it was to stir up the lions with a stick to make them roar. "The snake's dead," he answered, good-naturedly. "Didn't you have to dig an awful long grave for him?" asked the boy; but the man said he reckoned they curled him up some, and smiled as he turned to his lions, that looked as if they needed a tonic. Everybody lingered longest before the monkeys, that seemed to be the only lively creatures in the whole collection....

Coming out of the great tent was disagreeable enough, and we seemed to have chosen the worst time, for the crowd pushed fiercely, though I suppose nobody was in the least hurry, and we were all severely jammed, while from somewhere underneath came the wails of a deserted dog. We had not meant to see the side shows; but when we came in sight of the picture of the Kentucky giantess, we noticed that Mrs. Kew looked at it wistfully, and we immediately asked if she cared anything about going to see the wonder, whereupon she confessed that she never heard of such a thing as a woman's weighing six hundred and fifty pounds; so we all three went in. There were only two or three persons inside the tent, beside a little boy who played the hand-organ.

The Kentucky giantess sat in two chairs on a platform, and there was a large cage of monkeys just beyond, toward which Kate and I went at once. "Why, she isn't more than two thirds as big as the picture," said Mrs. Kew, in a regretful whisper; "but I guess she's big enough; doesn't she look discouraged, poor creatur'?" Kate and I felt ashamed of ourselves for being there. No matter if she had consented to be carried round for a show, it must have been horrible to be stared at and joked about day after day; and we gravely looked at the monkeys, and in a few minutes turned to see if Mrs. Kew were not ready to come away, when, to our surprise, we saw that she was talking to the giantess with great interest, and we went nearer.

"I thought your face looked natural the minute I set foot inside the door," said Mrs. Kew; "but you've altered some since I saw you, and I couldn't place you till I heard you speak. Why, you used to be spare. I am amazed, Marilly! Where are your folks?"

"I don't wonder you are surprised," said the giantess. "I was a good ways from this when you knew me, wasn't I? But father, he ran through with every cent he had before he died, and 'he' took to drink, and it killed him after a while; and then I begun to grow worse and worse, till I couldn't do nothing to earn a dollar, and everybody was a-coming to see me, till at last I used to ask 'em ten cents apiece, and I scratched along somehow till this man came round and heard of me; and he offered me my keep and good pay to go along with him. He had another giantess before me, but she had begun to fall away considerable, so he paid her off and let her go. This other giantess was an awful expense to him, she was such an eater; now, I don't have no great of an appetite"—this was said plaintively—"and he's raised my pay since I've been with him because we did so well."...

"Have you been living in Kentucky long?" asked Mrs. Kew. "I saw it on the picture outside."

"No," said the giantess; "that was a picture the man bought cheap from another show that broke up last year. It says six hundred and fifty pounds, but I don't weigh more than four hundred. I haven't been weighed for some time past. Between you and me, I don't weigh as much as that, but you mustn't mention it, for it would spoil my reputation and might hinder my getting another engagement."

Then they shook hands in a way that meant a great deal, and when Kate and I said good-afternoon, the giantess looked at us gratefully, and said: "I'm very much obliged to you for coming in, young ladies."

"Walk in! Walk in!" the man was shouting as we came away. "Walk in and see the wonder of the world, ladies and gentlemen—the largest woman ever seen in America—the great Kentucky giantess!"

NEW YORK TO NEWPORT.

A Trip of Trials.

BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

The Jane Moseley was a disappointment—most Janes are. If they had called her Samuel, no doubt she would have behaved better; but they called her Jane, and the natural consequences of our mistakes cannot be averted from ourselves or others. A band was playing wild strains of welcome as we approached. Come and sail with us, it said—it is summer, and the days are long. Care is of the land—here the waves flow, and the winds blow, and captain smiles, and stewardess beguiles, and all is music, music, music. How the wild, exultant strains rose and fell—but everything rose and fell on that boat, as we found out afterward. Just here a spirit of justice falls on me, like the gentle dew from heaven, and forces me to admit that it rained like a young deluge; that it had been raining for two days, and the bosom of the deep was heaving with responsive sympathy; as what bosom would not on which so many tears had been shed? Perhaps responsive sympathy was the secret of the Jane Moseley's behavior; but I would her heart had been less tender. Then, too, the passengers were few; and of course as we had to divide the roll and tumble between us, there was a great deal for each one.

There was a Pretty Girl, and she had a sister who was not pretty. It seemed to me that even the sad sea waves were kinder to the Pretty Girl, such is the influence of youth and beauty. There were various men—heavy swells I should call some of them, only that that would be slang; but heavy swells were the order of the day. Then there was a benevolent old lady who believed in everything—in the music, and the Jane Moseley, and the long days, and the summer. There was another old lady of restless mind, who evidently believed in nothing, hoped for nothing, expected nothing. She tried all the lounges and all the corners, and found each one a separate disappointment. There was a fat, fair one, of friendly face, and beside her her grim guardian, a man so thin that you at once cast him for the part of Starveling in this Midsummer Day's Dream of Delusion.

We put out from shore—quite out of sight of shore, in short—and then the perfidious music ceased. To the people on land it had sung, "Come and make merry with us," but from us, trying in vain to make merry, it withheld its deceitful inspiration. For the exceeding weight of sorrow that presently settled down upon us it had no balm. When you are on a pleasure trip it is unpleasant to be miserable; so I tried hard to shake off the mild melancholy that began to steal over me. I said to myself, I will not affront the great deep with my personal woes. I am but a woman, yet perhaps on this so great occasion magnanimity of soul will be possible even to me. I will consider my neighbors and be wise. At one end of the long saloon a banquet-board was spread. Its hospitality was, like the other attractions of the Jane Moseley, a perfidious pageant. Nobody sought its soup or claimed its clams. One or two sad-eyed young men made their way in that direction from time to time—after their sea-legs, perhaps. From their gait when they came back I inferred they did not find them. The human nature in the saloon became a weariness to me. Even the gentle gambols of the dog Thaddeus, a sportive and spotted pointer in whom I had been interested, failed to soothe my perturbed spirits. De Quincey speaks somewhere of "the awful solitariness of every human soul." No wonder, then, that I should be solitary among the festive few on board the Jane Moseley—no wonder I felt myself darkly, deeply, desperately blue. I thought I would go on deck. I clung to my companion with an ardor which would have been flattering had it been voluntary. My faltering steps were guided to a seat just within the guards. I sat there thinking that I had never nursed a dear gazelle, so I could not be quite sure whether it would have died or not, but I thought it would. I mused on the changing fortunes of this unsteady world, and the ingratitude of man. I thought it would be easier going to the Promised Land if Jordan did not roll between. Rolling had long ceased to be a pleasant figure of speech with me. How frail are all things here below, how false, and yet how fair! My mind is naturally picturesque. In the midst of my sadness the force of nature compelled me to grope after an illustration. I could only think that my own foothold was frail, that the Jane Moseley was false, that the Pretty Girl was fair. A dizziness of brain resulted from this rhetorical effort. I silently confided my sorrows to the sympathizing bosom of the sea. I was soothed by the kindred melancholy of the sad sea waves. If the size of the waves were remarkable, other sighs abounded also, and other things waved—many of them.

True to my purpose of studying my fellow-beings, and learning wisdom by observation, I surveyed the Pretty Girl and her sister, who had by that time come on deck. They were surrounded by a group of audacious male creatures, who surrounded most on the side where the Pretty Girl sat. She did not look feeble. She was like the red, red rose. It was a conundrum to me why so much greater anxiety should be bestowed upon her health than upon her sister's. It needed some moral reflection to make it out; but I concluded that pretty girls were, by some law of nature, more subject to sea-sickness than plain ones; therefore, all these careful cares were quite in order. I saw the two old ladies—the benevolent one who had believed so implicitly in all things, but over whose benign visage doubt had now begun to settle like a cloud; and the other, who had hoped nothing from the first, and therefore over whom no disappointment could prevail—and, seeing, I mildly wondered whether, indeed, 'twere better to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at all.

My thoughts grew solemn. The green shores beyond the swelling flood seemed farther off than ever. The Jane Moseley had promised to land us at Newport pier at seven o'clock. It was already half-past seven; oh, perfidious Jane! Darkness had settled upon the face of the deep. We went inside. The sad-eyed young men had evidently been hunting for their sea-legs again, in the neighborhood of the banqueting-table, where nobody banqueted. Failing to find the secret of correct locomotion, they had laid themselves down to sleep, but in that sleep at sea what dreams did come, and how noisy they were! The dog Thaddeus walked by dejectedly, sniffing at the ghost of some half-forgotten joy. At last there rose a cry—Newport! The sleepers started to their feet. I started to mine, but I discreetly and quietly sat down again. Was it Newport, at last? Not at all. The harbor lights were gleaming from afar; and the cry was of the bandmaster shouting to his emissaries, arousing fiddle and flute and bassoon to their deceitful duty. They had played us out of port—they would play us in again. They had promised us that all should go merry as a marriage-bell, and—I would not be understood to complain, but it had been a sad occasion. Now the deceitful strains rose and fell again upon the salt sea wind. The many lights glowed and twinkled from the near shore. We are all at play, come and play with us, screamed the soft waltz music. It is summer, and the days are long, and trouble is not, and care is banished. If the waves sigh, it is with bliss. Our voyage is ended. It is sad that you did not sail with us, but we will invite you again to-morrow, and the band shall play, and the crowd be gay, and airs beguile, and blue skies smile, and all shall be music, music, music. But I have sailed with you, on a summer day, bland master of a faithless band; and I know how soon your pipes are dumb—I know the tricks and manners of the clouds and the wind, and the swelling sea, and Jane Moseley, the perfidious.

I must, after all, have strong local attachments, for when at last the time came to land I left the ship with lingering reluctance. My feet seemed fastened to the deck where I had made my brief home on the much rolling deep. I had grown used to pain and resigned to fate. I walked the plank unsteadily. I stood on shore amid the rain and the mist. A hackman preyed upon me. I was put into an ancient ark and trundled on through the queer, irresolute, contradictory old streets, beside the lovely bay, all aglow with the lighted yachts, as a Southern swamp is with fire-flies. A torchlight procession met and escorted me. To this hour I am at a loss to know whether this attention was a delicate tribute on the part of the city of Newport to a distinguished guest, or a parting attention from the company who sail the Jane Moseley, and advertise in the Tribune—a final subterfuge to persuade a tortured passenger, by means of this transitory glory, that the sail upon a summer sea had been a pleasure trip.—Letter to New York Tribune.



CHAPTER VIII.

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 aesthetic 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-a-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 entree 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 creme de la creme 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 soiree, 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.

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 him Were 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 thread Got tangled, snarled and twisted; "Have Patience!" cried the artless maid, To him who her assisted.

Good chance was this for tongue-tied churl To 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 White That once was Patience Warner.

THE INVENTOR'S WIFE.

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.



CHAPTER IX.

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 encyclopaedia! This specimen, of vers de societe 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 aesthetic 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.

They all said "No!" As they stood in a row, The poodle, and the parrot, and the little yellow cat, And they looked very solemn, This straight, indignant column, And rolled their eyes, and shook their heads, a-standing on the mat.

Then I took a goodly stick, Very short and very thick, And I said, "Dear friends, you really now shall rue it, For one of you did take That bit of wedding-cake, And so I'm going to whip you all. I honestly will do it."

Then Polly raised her claw! "I never, never saw That stuff. I'd rather have a cracker, And so it would be folly," Said this naughty, naughty Polly, "To punish me; but Pussy, you can whack her."

The cat rolled up her eyes In innocent surprise, And waved each trembling whisker end. "A crumb I have not taken, But Bose ought to be shaken. And then, perhaps, his thieving, awful ways he'll mend."

"I'll begin right here With you, Polly, dear," And my stick I raised with righteous good intent. "Oh, dear!" and "Oh, dear!" The groans that filled my ear. As over head and heels the frightened column went!

The cat flew out of window, The dog flew under bed, And Polly flapped and beat the air, Then settled on my head; When underneath her wing, From feathered corner deep, A bit of wedding-cake fell down, That made poor Polly weep.

The cat raced off to cat-land, and was never seen again, And the dog sneaked out beneath the bed to scud with might and main; While Polly sits upon her roost, and rolls her eyes in fear, And when she sees a bit of cake, she always says, "Oh, dear!"

KITTEN TACTICS.

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.



CHAPTER X.

PARODIES—REVIEWS—CHILDREN'S POEMS—COMEDIES BY WOMEN—A DRAMATIC TRIFLE—A STRING OF FIRECRACKERS.

It is surprising that we have so few comedies from women. Dr. Doran mentions five Englishwomen who wrote successful comedies. Of these, three are now forgotten; one, Aphra Behn, is remembered only to be despised for her vulgarity. She was an undoubted wit, and was never dull, but so wicked and coarse that she forfeited all right to fame.

Susanna Centlivre left nineteen plays full of vivacity and fun and lively incident. The Bold Stroke for a Wife is now considered her best. The Basset Table is also a superior comedy, especially interesting because it anticipates the modern blue-stocking in Valeria, a philosophical girl who supports vivisection, and has also a prophecy of exclusive colleges for women.

There is nothing worthy of quotation in any of these comedies. Some sentences from Mrs. Centlivre's plays are given in magazine articles to prove her wit, but we say so much brighter things in these days that they must be considered stale platitudes, as:

"You may cheat widows, orphans, and tradesmen without a blush, but a debt of honor, sir, must be paid."

"Quarrels, like mushrooms, spring up in a moment."

"Woman is the greatest sovereign power in the world."

Hans Andersen in his Autobiography mentions a Madame von Weissenthurn, who was a successful actress and dramatist. Her comedies are published in fourteen volumes. In our country several comedies written by women, but published anonymously, have been decided hits. Mrs. Verplanck's Sealed Instructions was a marked success, and years ago Fashion, by Anna Cora Mowatt, had a remarkable run. By the way, those roaring farces, Belles of the Kitchen and Fun in a Fog, were written for the Vokes family by an aunt of theirs. And I must not forget to state that Gilbert's Palace of Truth was cribbed almost bodily from Madame de Genlis's "Tales of an Old Castle." Mrs. Julia Schayer, of Washington, has given us a domestic drama in one act, entitled Struggling Genius.

STRUGGLING GENIUS.

Dramatis Personae.

MRS. ANASTASIUS. GIRL OF TEN YEARS. GIRL OF TWO YEARS. MR. ANASTASIUS. GIRL OF EIGHT YEARS. INFANT OF THREE MONTHS.

ACT I.

SCENE I. NURSERY.

[Time, eight o'clock A.M. In the background nurse making bed, etc.; Girl of Two amusing herself surreptitiously with pins, buttons, scissors, etc.; Girl of Eight practising piano in adjoining room; Mrs. A. in foreground performing toilet of infant. Having lain awake half the preceding night wrestling with the plot of a new novel for which rival publishers are waiting with outstretched hands (full of checks), Mrs. A. believes she has hit upon an effective scene, and burns to commit it to paper. Washes infant with feverish haste.]

Mrs. A. (soliloquizing). Let me see! How was it? Oh! "Olga raised her eyes with a sweetly serious expression. Harold gazed moodily at her calm face. It was not the expression that he longed to see there. He would have preferred to see—" Good gracious, Maria! That child's mouth is full of buttons! "He would have preferred—preferred—" (Loudly.) Leonora! That F's to be sharped! There, there, mother's sonny boy! Did mamma drop the soap into his mouth instead of the wash-bowl? There, there! (Sings.) "There's a land that is fairer than this," etc.

[Infant quiet.

Mrs. A. (resuming). "He would have preferred—preferred—" Maria, don't you see that child has got the scissors? "He would have—" There now, let mamma put on its little socks. Now it's all dressed so nice and clean. Don'ty ky! No, don'ty! Leonora! Put more accent on the first beat. "Harold gazed moodily into—" His bottle, Maria! Quick! He'll scream himself into fits!

[Exit nurse. Baby having got both fists into his mouth beguiles himself into quiet.

Mrs. A. Let me see! How was it? Oh! "Harold gazed moodily into her calm, sweet face. It was not the expression he would have liked to find there. He would have preferred—" (Shriek from girl of two.) Oh, dear me! She has shut her darling fingers in the drawer! Come to mamma, precious love, and sit on mamma's lap, and we'll sing about little pussy.

Enter nurse with bottle. Curtain falls.

SCENE II. STUDY.

[Three hours later; infant and Girl of Two asleep; house in order; lunch and dinner arranged; buttons sewed on Girl of Eight's boots, string on Girl of Ten's hood, and both dispatched to school, etc. Enter Mrs. A. Draws a long sigh of relief and seats herself at desk. Reads a page of Dickens and a poem or two to attune herself for work. Seizes pen, scribbles erratically a few seconds and begins to write.]

Mrs. A. (after some moments). I think that is good. Let us hear how it reads. (Reads aloud.) "He would have preferred to find more passion in those deep, dark eyes. Had he then no part in the maiden meditations of this fair, innocent girl—he whom proud beauties of society vied with each other to win? He could not guess. A stray breeze laden with violet and hyacinth perfume stole in at the open window, ruffling the soft waves of auburn hair which shaded her alabaster forehead." It seems to me I have read something similar before, but it is good, anyhow. "Harold could not endure this placid, unruffled calm. His own veins were full of molten lava. With a wild and passionate cry he—"