«Остроумие женщин»

As the laugh did, when I used to—ha! ha! ha! and—ho! ho! ho!

СОНЕТ.

ЖОЗЕФИНЫ ПОЛЛАРД.

Once a poet wrote a sonnet

All about a pretty bonnet,

And a critic sat upon it

(On the sonnet,

Not the bonnet),

Nothing loath.

And as if it were high treason,

He said: "Neither rhyme nor reason

Has it; and it's out of season,"

Which? the sonnet

Or the bonnet?

Maybe both.

"'Tis a feeble imitation

Of a worthier creation;

An æsthetic innovation!"

Of a sonnet

Or a bonnet?

This was hard.

Both were put together neatly,

Harmonizing very sweetly,

But the critic crushed completely

Not the bonnet,

Or the sonnet,

But the bard.

ТРЕБУЕТСЯ СВЯЩЕННИК.

МИССИС М.Э.У. СКИЛС.

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.

МИДДИ 1881 ГОДА.

МЭЙ КРОЛИ РОПЕР.

I'm the dearest, I'm the sweetest little mid

To be found in journeying from here to Hades,

I am also, nat-u-rally, a prodid-

Gious favorite with all the pretty ladies.

I know nothing, but say a mighty deal;

My elevated nose, likewise, comes handy;

I stalk around, my great importance feel—

In short, I'm a brainless little dandy.

My hair is light, and waves above my brow,

My mustache can just be seen through opera-glasses;

I originate but flee from every row,

And no one knows as well as I what "sass" is!

The officers look down on me with scorn,

The sailors jeer at me—behind my jacket,

But still my heart is not "with anguish torn,"

And life with me is one continued racket.

Whene'er the captain sends me with a boat,

The seamen know an idiot has got 'em;

They make their wills and are prepared to die,

Quite certain they are going to the bottom.

But what care I! For when I go ashore,

In uniform with buttons bright and shining,

The girls all cluster 'round me to adore,

And lots of 'em for love of me are pining.

I strut and dance, and fool my life away;

I'm nautical in past and future tenses!

Long as I know an ocean from a bay,

I'll shy the rest, and take the consequences.

I'm the dearest, I'm the sweetest little mid

That ever graced the tail-end of his classes,

And through a four years' course of study slid,

First am I in the list of Nature's—donkeys!

—Scribner's Magazine Bric-à-Brac, 1881.

ВОЗМУЩЕННЫЙ ГОЛОВАСТИК.

МАРГАРЕТ ЭЙТИНГ.

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!"

«ПОЦЕЛУЙ КРАСОТКУ ПОЛЛИ!»

МЭРИ Д. БРАЙН.

"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.

ДЕНЬ БЛАГОДАРЕНИЯ (ТОГДА И СЕЙЧАС).

МЭРИ Д. БРАЙН.

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.

О КОМАРАХ.

С чувством посвящается их неоплаченным счетам.

МИСС АННЫ А. ГОРДОН.

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.

ЗОЛОТЫЕ ХОДУЛИ.

МЕТТЫ ВИКТОРИИ ВИКТОР.

Mrs. Mackerel sat in her little room,

Back of her husband's grocery store,

Trying to see through the evening gloom,

To finish the baby's pinafore.

She stitched away with a steady hand,

Though her heart was sore, to the very core,

To think of the troublesome little band,

(There were seven, or more),

And the trousers, frocks, and aprons they wore,

Made and mended by her alone.

"Slave, slave!" she said, in a mournful tone;

"And let us slave, and contrive, and fret,

I don't suppose we shall ever get

A little home which is all our own,

With my own front door

Apart from the store,

And the smell of fish and tallow no more."

These words to herself she sadly spoke,

Breaking the thread from the last-set stitch,

When Mackerel into her presence broke—

"Wife, we're—we're—we're, wife, we're—we're rich!"

"We rich! ha, ha! I'd like to see;

I'll pull your hair if you're fooling me."

"Oh, don't, love, don't! the letter is here—

You can read the news for yourself, my dear.

The one who sent you that white crape shawl—

There'll be no end to our gold—he's dead;

You know you always would call him stingy,

Because he didn't invite us to Injy;

And I am his only heir, 'tis said.

A million of pounds, at the very least,

And pearls and diamonds, likely, beside!"

Mrs. Mackerel's spirits rose like yeast—

"How lucky I married you, Mac," she cried.

Then the two broke forth into frantic glee.

A customer hearing the strange commotion,

Peeped into the little back-room, and he

Was seized with the very natural notion

That the Mackerel family had gone insane;

So he ran away with might and main.

Mac shook his partner by both her hands;

They dance, they giggle, they laugh, they stare;

And now on his head the grocer stands,

Dancing a jig with his feet in air—

Remarkable feat for a man of his age,

Who never had danced upon any stage

But the High-Bridge stage, when he set on top,

And whose green-room had been a green-grocer's shop.

But that Mrs. Mac should perform so well

Is not very strange, if the tales they tell

Of her youthful days have any foundation.

But let that pass with her former life—

An opera-girl may make a good wife,

If she happens to get such a nice situation.

A million pounds of solid gold

One would have thought would have crushed them dead;

But dear they bobbed, and courtesied, and rolled

Like a couple of corks to a plummet of lead.

'Twas enough the soberest fancy to tickle

To see the two Mackerels in such a pickle!

It was three o'clock when they got to bed;

Even then through Mrs. Mackerel's head

Such gorgeous dreams went whirling away,

"Like a Catherine-wheel," she declared next day,

"That her brain seemed made of sparkles of fire

Shot off in spokes, with a ruby tire."

Mrs. Mackerel had ever been

One of the upward-tending kind,

Regarded by husband and by kin

As a female of very ambitious mind.

It had fretted her long and fretted her sore

To live in the rear of the grocery-store.

And several times she was heard to say

She would sell her soul for a year and a day

To the King of Brimstone, Fire, and Pitch,

For the power and pleasure of being rich.

Now her ambition had scope to work—

Riches, they say, are a burden at best;

Her onerous burden she did not shirk,

But carried it all with commendable zest;

Leaving her husband with nothing in life

But to smoke, eat, drink, and obey his wife.

She built a house with a double front-door,

A marble house in the modern style,

With silver planks in the entry floor,

And carpets of extra-magnificent pile.

And in the hall, in the usual manner,

"A statue," she said, "of the chased Diana;

Though who it was chased her, or whether they

Caught her or not, she could, really, not say."

A carriage with curtains of yellow satin—

A coat-of-arms with these rare devices:

"A mackerel sky and the starry Pisces—"

And underneath, in the purest fish-latin,

If fishibus flyabus

They may reach the skyabus!

Yet it was not in common affairs like these

She showed her original powers of mind;

Her soul was fired, her ardor inspired,

To stand apart from the rest of mankind;

"To be A No. one," her husband said;

At which she turned very angrily red,

For she couldn't endure the remotest hint

Of the grocery-store, and the mackerels in't.

Weeks and months she plotted and planned

To raise herself from the common level;

Apart from even the few to stand

Who'd hundreds of thousands on which to revel.

Her genius, at last, spread forth its wings—

Stilts, golden stilts, are the very things—

"I'll walk on stilts," Mrs. Mackerel cried,

In the height of her overtowering pride.

Her husband timidly shook his head;

But she did not care—"For why," as she said,

"Should the owner of more than a million pounds

Be going the rounds

On the very same grounds

As those low people, she couldn't tell who,

They might keep a shop, for all she knew."

She had a pair of the articles made,

Of solid gold, gorgeously overlaid

With every color of precious stone

Which ever flashed in the Indian zone.

She privately practised many a day

Before she ventured from home at all;

She had lost her girlish skill, and they say

That she suffered many a fearful fall;

But pride is stubborn, and she was bound

On her golden stilts to go around,

Three feet, at least, from the plebeian ground.

'Twas an exquisite day,

In the month of May,

That the stilts came out for a promenade;

Their first entrée

Was made on the shilling side of Broadway;

The carmen whistled, the boys went mad,

The omnibus-drivers their horses stopped.

The chestnut-roaster his chestnuts dropped,

The popper of corn no longer popped;

The daintiest dandies deigned to stare,

And even the heads of women fair

Were turned by the vision meeting them there.

The stilts they sparkled and flashed and shone

Like the tremulous lights of the frigid zone,

Crimson and yellow and sapphire and green,

Bright as the rainbows in summer seen;

While the lady she strode along between

With a majesty too supremely serene

For anything but an American queen.

A lady with jewels superb as those,

And wearing such very expensive clothes,

Might certainly do whatever she chose!

And thus, in despite of the jeering noise,

And the frantic delight of the little boys,

The stilts were a very decided success.

The crême de la crême paid profoundest attention,

The merchants' clerks bowed in such wild excess,

When she entered their shops, that they strained their spines,

And afterward went into rapid declines.

The papers, next day, gave her flattering mention;

"The wife of our highly-esteemed fellow-citizen,

A Mackerel, of Codfish Square, in this city,

Scorning French fashions, herself has hit on one

So very piquant and stylish and pretty,

We trust our fair friends will consider it treason

Not to walk upon stilts, by the close of the season."

Mrs. Mackerel, now, was never seen

Out of her chamber, day or night,

Unless her stilts were along—her mien

Was very imposing from such a height,

It imposed upon many a dazzled wight,

Who snuffed the perfume floating down

From the rustling folds of her gorgeous gown,

But never could smell through these bouquets

The fishy odor of former days.

She went on her golden stilts to pray,

Which never became her better than then,

When her murmuring lips were heard to say,

"Thank God, I am not as my fellow-men!"

Her pastor loved as a pastor might—

His house that was built on a golden rock;

He pointed it out as a shining light

To the lesser lambs of his fleecy flock.

The stilts were a help to the church, no doubt,

They kindled its self-expiring embers,

So that before the season was out

It gained a dozen excellent members.

Mrs. Mackerel gave a superb soirée,

Standing on stilts to receive her guests;

The gas-lights mimicked the glowing day

So well, that the birds, in their flowery nests,

Almost burst their beautiful breasts,

Trilling away their musical stories

In Mrs. Mackerel's conservatories.

She received on stilts; a distant bow

Was all the loftiest could attain—

Though some of her friends she did allow

To kiss the hem of her jewelled train.

One gentleman screamed himself quite hoarse

Requesting her to dance; which, of course,

Couldn't be done on stilts, as she

Halloed down to him rather scornfully.

The fact is, when Mackerel kept a shop,

His wife was very fond of a hop,

And now, as the music swelled and rose,

She felt a tingling in her toes,

A restless, tickling, funny sensation

Which didn't agree with her exaltation.

When the maddened music was at its height,

And the waltz was wildest—behold, a sight!

The stilts began to hop and twirl

Like the saucy feet of a ballet-girl.

And their haughty owner, through the air,

Was spin, spin, spinning everywhere.

Everybody got out of the way

To give the dangerous stilts fair play.

In every corner, at every door,

With faces looking like unfilled blanks,

They watched the stilts at their airy pranks,

Giving them, unrequested, the floor.

They never had glittered so bright before;

The light it flew in flashing splinters

Away from those burning, revolving centres;

While the gems on the lady's flying skirts

Gave out their light in jets and spirts.

Poor Mackerel gazed in mute dismay

At this unprecedented display.

"Oh, stop, love, stop!" he cried at last;

But she only flew more wild and fast,

While the flutes and fiddles, bugle and drum,

Followed as if their time had come.

She went at such a bewildering pace

Nobody saw the lady's face,

But only a ring of emerald light

From the crown she wore on that fatal night.

Whether the stilts were propelling her,

Or she the stilts, none could aver.

Around and around the magnificent hall

Mrs. Mackerel danced at her own grand ball.

"As the twig is bent the tree's inclined;"

This must have been a case in kind.

"What's in the blood will sometimes show—"

'Round and around the wild stilts go.

It had been whispered many a time

That when poor Mack was in his prime

Keeping that little retail store,

He had fallen in love with a ballet-girl,

Who gave up fame's entrancing whirl

To be his own, and the world's no more.

She made him a faithful, prudent wife—

Ambitious, however, all her life.

Could it be that the soft, alluring waltz

Had carried her back to a former age,

Making her memory play her false,

Till she dreamed herself on the gaudy stage?

Her crown a tinsel crown—her guests

The pit that gazes with praise and jests?

"Pride," they say, "must have a fall—"

Mrs. Mackerel was very proud—

And now she danced at her own grand ball,

While the music swelled more fast and loud.

The gazers shuddered with mute affright,

For the stilts burned now with a bluish light,

While a glimmering, phosphorescent glow

Did out of the lady's garments flow.

And what was that very peculiar smell?

Fish, or brimstone? no one could tell.

Stronger and stronger the odor grew,

And the stilts and the lady burned more blue;

'Round and around the long saloon,

While Mackerel gazed in a partial swoon,

She approached the throng, or circled from it,

With a flaming train like the last great comet;

Till at length the crowd

All groaned aloud.

For her exit she made from her own grand ball

Out of the window, stilts and all.

None of the guests can really say

How she looked when she vanished away.

Some declare that she carried sail

On a flying fish with a lambent tail;

And some are sure she went out of the room

Riding her stilts like a witch a broom,

While a phosphorent odor followed her track:

Be this as it may, she never came back.

Since then, her friends of the gold-fish fry

Are in a state of unpleasant suspense,

Afraid, that unless they unselfishly try

To make better use of their dollars and sense

To chasten their pride, and their manners mend,

They may meet a similar shocking end.

—Cosmopolitan Art Journal.

ИМЕННО ТАК.

МЕТТЫ ВИКТОРИИ ВИКТОР.

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.

ЖЕНА ИЗОБРЕТАТЕЛЯ.

Э.Т. КОРБЕТТ.

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?

НЕВОЗМУТИМОЕ ЛОНО.

(История старушки, которая знала Вашингтона.)

ЛИЗЗИ У. ЧЕМПНИ.

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.

ШЛЯПА, ОЛЬСТЕР И ВСЕ ОСТАЛЬНОЕ.

ШАРЛОТТЫ ФИСК БЕЙТС.

Опыт Джона Верити.

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.

НЕОБЫКНОВЕННЫЙ АУКЦИОН.

ЛУКРЕЦИИ ДЭВИДСОН.

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.

ОБРАЩЕНИЕ К СЕКСТАНТУ.

АРАБЕЛЛЫ УИЛСОН.

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.

ГЛАВА IX.

ДОБРОДУШНАЯ САТИРА.

Женщины проявляют свое чувство юмора, высмеивая слабости собственного пола, как мисс Карлотта Перри, видящая опасность «высшего образования», или Хелен Грей Коун, смеющаяся над преувеличенными бреднями и стонами девушки, помешанной на театре, или над весьма однобокой проповедью сентиментальной гусыни.

СОВРЕМЕННАЯ МИНЕРВА.

КАРЛОТТЫ ПЕРРИ.

'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.

БАЛЛАДА О КАССАНДРЕ БРАУН.

ХЕЛЕН ГРЕЙ КОУН.

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!

НЕЖНОЕ СЕРДЦЕ.

ХЕЛЕН ГРЕЙ КОУН.

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.

Дюжину других, столь же хороших, придется приберечь для той энциклопедии! Этот образец светской поэзии соперничает с Локером или Бейкером:

ПОМОЛВЛЕНЫ: 1874 ГОД ОТ РОЖДЕСТВА ХРИСТОВА.

ЭЛИС УИЛЬЯМС.

"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.

Женщины часто бывают чрезвычайно остроумны в своих газетных письмах, преуспевая в этом жанре. Как критики они склонны к сатире. Никто из тех, кто читал их в то время, никогда не забудет рецензию миссис Ранкл на «Сент-Эльмо» или критику Гейл Гамильтон на «Историю Авис», в то время как миссис Роллинс в «Критике» часто использует ятаган вместо пера, хотя улыбка всегда смягчает строгость. Так она обезглавливает поэта-недоучку, который сообщает публике, что его «торжественная песня» —

"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."

«Его «торжественная песня», безусловно, очень торжественна для песни с такой жизнерадостной целью. Мы редко читали, в самом деле, книгу с такой большой долей несчастных слов. Замерзшие саваны, души, озябшие от агонии, вещи бледные и серые, ледяные демоны, хлещущие ивовые ветви, насыпанные снегом курганы, черные и морозные ночи, чаши скорби, осушенные до дна, и т. д. представлены в таком изобилии, что пробиваться сквозь «темную бездну» в поисках «луча надежды» — это все равно что выпить чашу яда, чтобы узнать сладость его противоядия. Мистер —— в одной из своих строф приглашает свою душу «прийти и погулять» с ним. Если бы он когда-нибудь нашел возможным погулять без своей души, этот факт стоило бы зафиксировать; но если правда, что он лишь желает, чтобы его душа была с ним время от времени, мы посоветовали бы ему гулять в одиночестве, а свою душу приглашать посидеть рядом в часы, которые он посвящает сочинительству».

Затем юмор проявляется в превосходных пародиях женщин — как подражания Грейс Гринвуд различным авторам, написанные в молодые годы, но вполне равные «Клубу Эхо» Бэйарда Тейлора. Как совершенно ее подражание миссис Сигурни!

ФРАГМЕНТ.

Л.Г.С.

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."

Пародию Фиби Кэри на «Мод Мюллер» я никогда не любила; кажется почти грехом пародировать что-то столь совершенное. Но на «Трех рыбаков» Кингсли было сделано так много пародий, что теперь я могу насладиться действительно хорошей, как эта от мисс Лилиан Уайтинг из бостонского «Дейли Трэвелер», известного корреспондента различных западных газет:

ТРИ ПОЭТА.

По Кингсли.

ЛИЛИАН УАЙТИНГ.

Three poets went sailing down Boston streets,

All into the East as the sun went down,

Each felt that the editor loved him best

And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town.

For poets must write tho' the editors frown,

Their æsthetic natures will not be put down,

While the harbor bar is moaning!

Three editors climbed to the highest tower

That they could find in all Boston town,

And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour,

Till the sun or the poets had both gone down.

For Spring poets must write, though the editors rage,

The artistic spirit must thus be engaged—

Though the editors all were groaning.

Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand,

Just after the first spring sun went down,

And the Press sat down to a banquet grand,

In honor of poets no more in the town.

For poets will write while editors sleep,

Though they've nothing to earn and no one to keep;

And the harbor bar keeps moaning.

Юмор женщин постоянно виден в их стихах для детей, таких как «Мертвая кукла» Маргарет Вандергрифт и «Осиротевшие индюшата» Мэриан Дуглас. Вот несколько менее известных:

ВРЕМЯ СНА.

НЕЛЛИ К. КЕЛЛОГГ.

'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.

МАЛИНОВКА И ЦЫПЛЕНОК.

ГРЕЙС Ф. КУЛИДЖ.

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.

Харриет У. Лотроп, жена популярного издателя — более известная под своим литературным псевдонимом «Маргарет Сидни» — сделала многое в юмористическом ключе, чтобы развлечь и поучить малышей. У нее много тихого юмора.

ПОЧЕМУ ПОЛЛИ НЕ ЛЮБИТ ТОРТ!

МАРГАРЕТ СИДНИ.

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!"

КОТЯЧЬЯ ТАКТИКА.

АДЕЛАИДЫ СИЛЛИ УОЛДРОН.

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!"

ОБЕ СТОРОНЫ.

ГЕЙЛ ГАМИЛЬТОН.

"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.

ГЛАВА X.

ПАРОДИИ — РЕЦЕНЗИИ — ДЕТСКИЕ СТИХИ — КОМЕДИИ ЖЕНЩИН — ДРАМАТИЧЕСКАЯ БАГАЖЕЛЬ — СВЯЗКА ПЕТАРД.

Удивительно, что у нас так мало комедий от женщин. Доктор Доран упоминает пять англичанок, которые написали успешные комедии. Из них три сейчас забыты; одна, Афра Бен, вспоминается лишь для того, чтобы ее презирали за вульгарность. Она была несомненно остроумна и никогда не была скучной, но настолько порочной и грубой, что утратила всякое право на славу.