Wit of Women — Chapter VIII, part 1
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.
