A recitation that has a touch of humor,
one that is quaint and droll, one that has
comical situations, or one that hits off any
popular absurdity, is sure to be well received
by your audience. A school exhibition or an
evening’s entertainment without something of
this kind would be pronounced dull and dry.
Some readers are especially adapted to recitals
of this description. They have an innate
sense of the ludicrous and are able to
convey it by voice and manner. Those who
are not favored with the very desirable gift
of humor should confine themselves to selections
of a graver character. The department
of Wit and Humor here presented is large
and complete, containing a great variety of
readings that cannot fail to be enthusiastically
received when properly rendered.
BILL’S IN TROUBLE!
I’ve got a letter, parson, from my son away out West,
An’ my ol’ heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast,
To think the boy whose futur’ I had once so proudly planned
Should wander from the path o’ right an’ come to sich an end!
Bill made a faithful promise to be keerful, an’ allowed
He’d build a reputation that’d make us mighty proud,
But it seems as how my counsel sort o’ faded from his mind,
An’ now the boy’s in trouble o’ the very wustest kind!
His letters came so seldom that I somehow sort o’ knowed
That Billy was a-trampin’ on a mighty rocky road,
But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame,
An’ in the dust’d waller his ol’ daddy’s honored name.
He writes from out in Denver, an’ the story’s mighty short;
I just can’t tell his mother; it’ll crush her poor ol’ heart!
An’ so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her—
Bill’s in the Legislatur, but he doesn’t say what fur.
“’SPACIALLY JIM.”
I wus mighty good-lookin’ when I was young,
Peert an’ black-eyed an’ slim,
With fellers a courtin’ me Sunday nights,
’Spacially Jim.
The likeliest one of ’em all was he,
Chipper an’ han’som’ an’ trim,
But I tossed up my head an’ made fun o’ the crowd,
’Spacially Jim!
I said I hadn’t no ’pinion o’ men,
An’ I wouldn’t take stock in him!
But they kep’ up a-comin’ in spite o’ my talk,
’Spacially Jim!
I got so tired o’ havin’ ’em roun’
(’Spacially Jim!)
I made up my mind I’d settle down
An’ take up with him.
So we was married one Sunday in church,
’Twas crowded full to the brim;
’Twas the only way to get rid of ’em all,
’Spacially Jim.
THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY.
Be careful, in all dialect recitations, to enunciate as the piece
requires. A good part of the humor is brought out in the accent, and you
should study this until you are master of it.
You promise now, you goot man dere,
Vot shtunds upon de floor,
To take dis woman for your vrow,
And luff her efermore;
You’ll feed her well on sauerkraut,
Beans, buttermilk and cheese,
And in all dings to lend your aid
Vot vill promote her ease?
Yes, and you, good voman, too—
Do you pledge your vord dis day
Dat you vill take dis husband here
And mit him alvays shtay?
Dat you vill bet and board mit him,
Vash, iron and mend his clothes;
Laugh when he schmiles, veep when he sighs
Und share his joys and voes?
Vel, den, mitin these sacred halls,
Mit joy and not mit grief,
I do bronounce you man and vife;
Von name, von home, von beef!
I publish now dese sacred bonts,
Dese matrimonial dies,
Pefore mine Got, mine vrow, minezelf
Und all dese gazing eyes.
Und now, you pridegroom standing dere,
I’ll not let go yoz collar
Undil you dell me one ding more,
Dat ish: vere ish mine tollar?
BLASTED HOPES.
We said good-bye! My lips to hers were pressed.
We looked into each other’s eyes and sighed;
I pressed the maiden fondly to my breast,
And went my way across the foamy tide.
I stood upon the spot where Cæsar fell,
I mused beside the great Napoleon’s tomb;
I loitered where dark-visaged houris dwell,
And saw the fabled lotus land abloom.
I heard Parisian revelers, and so
Forgot the maiden who had wept for me;
I saw my face reflected in the Po,
And saw Italian suns sink in the sea.
Aweary of it all, at last, I turned
My face back to my glorious native land;
I thought of her again—my bosom burned—
And joyfully I left the ancient strand.
At last, I held her little hand again,
But, oh, the seasons had kept rolling on,
I did not stroke her head or kiss her then—
Another had appeared while I was gone.
I’d brought her trinkets from across the sea—
Ah, well! she shall not have them now, of course;
Alas! the only thing that’s left for me
Is to give her little boy a hobby horse!
TIM MURPHY MAKES A FEW REMARKS.
A good specimen of the Irish brogue and wit.
I saw Teddy Reagan the other day; he
told me he had been dealing in hogs.
“Is business good?” says I. “Yis,”
says he. “Talking about hogs, Teddy, how
do you find yourself?” sez I. I wint to buy
a clock the other day, to make a present to
Mary Jane. “Will you have a Frinch clock?”
says the jeweler. “The deuce take your
Frinch clock,” sez I. “I want a clock that
my sister can understand when it strikes.”
“I have a Dutch clock,” sez he, “an’ you
kin put that on the shtairs.” “It might run
down if I put it there,” sez I. “Well,” sez
he, “here’s a Yankee clock, with a lookin’-glass
in the front, so that you can see yourself,”
sez he. “It’s too ugly,” sez I. “Thin
I’ll take the lookin’-glass out, an’ whin you
look at it you’ll not find it so ugly,” sez
he.
I wint to Chatham Sthreet to buy a shirt,
for the one I had on was a thrifle soiled. The
Jew who kept the sthore looked at my bosom,
an’ said: “So hellup me gracious! how long
do you vear a shirt?” “Twinty-eight inches,”
sez I. “Have you any fine shirts?” sez I.
“Yis,” sez he. “Are they clane?” says I.
“Yis,” sez he. “Thin you had better put
one on,” sez I.
You may talk about bringin’ up childer in
the way they should go, but I believe in
bringing them up by the hair of the head.
Talking about bringing up childer—I hear
my childer’s prayers every night. The other
night I let thim up to bed without thim. I
skipped and sthood behind the door. I heard
the big boy say: “Give us this day our daily
bread.” The little fellow said: “Sthrike him
for pie, Johnny.” I have one of the most
economical boys in the Citty of New York;
he hasn’t spint one cint for the last two years.
I am expecting him down from Sing Sing
prison next week.
Talking about boys, I have a nephew who,
five years ago, couldn’t write a word. Last
week he wrote his name for $10,000; he’ll
git tin years in the pinatintiary. I can’t
write, but I threw a brick at a policeman
and made my mark.
They had a fight at Tim Owen’s wake last
week. Mary Jane was there. She says, barrin’
herself, there was only one whole nose left in
the party, an’ that belonged to the tay-kettle.
PASSING OF THE HORSE.
I drove my old horse, Dobbin, full slowly toward the town,
One beautiful spring morning. The rising sun looked down
And saw us slowly jogging and drinking in the balm
Of honeyed breath of clover fields. We lissed, in Nature’s calm,
To chirping squirrel, and whistling bird, the robin and the wren;
The sound of life and love and peace came o’er the fields again.
’Way back behind the wagon there came a tandem bike,
A pedaling ’long to beat the wind, I never saw the like.
They started by—the road was wide, old Dobbin feeling good,
The quiet calmness of the morn had livened up his mood,
And stretching out adown the road he chased these cyclers two,
And Dobbin in his younger days was distanced by but few.
We sped along about a mile, it was a merry chase,
But Dobbin gave it up at last, and, dropping from the race,
He looked at me, as if to say: “Old man, I’m in disgrace.
The horse is surely passing by, the bike has got his place”
And all that day, while in the town, old Dobbin’s spirits fell;
His stout old pride was broken sure; the reason I could tell.
But when that night we trotted back from town, below the hill
We met two weary cyclers who waved at us a bill
That had a big V on it, and said it would be mine
If I would let them ride with us and put their bike behind,
And so I whistled softly; and Dobbin winked at me,
“I guess the horse will stay, old man; he’s puncture proof—you see?”
A SCHOOL-DAY.
Don’t overdo the whimpering and crying, but make the facial expressions
and imitate the sobbing of one in tears. Make use of a handkerchief to
render the imitation more effective.
“Now, John,” the district teacher says
With frown that scarce can hide
The dimpling smiles around her mouth,
Where Cupid’s hosts abide,
“What have you done to Mary Ann,
That she is crying so?
Don’t say ’twas ‘nothing’—don’t, I say,
For, John, that can’t be so;
“For Mary Ann would never cry
At nothing, I am sure;
And if you’ve wounded justice, John,
You know the only cure
Is punishment! So, come, stand up;
Transgression must abide
The pain attendant on the scheme
That makes it justified.”
So John steps forth with sun-burnt face,
And hair all in a tumble,
His laughing eyes a contrast to
His drooping mouth so humble.
“Now, Mary, you must tell me all—
I see that John will not,
And if he’s been unkind or rude,
I’ll whip him on the spot.”
“W—we were p—playin’ p—pris’ner’s b—base,
An’ h—he is s—such a t—tease,
An’ w—when I w—wasn’t l—lookin’, m—ma’am’
H—he k—kissed me—if you please.”
Upon the teacher’s face the smiles
Have triumphed o’er the frown,
A pleasant thought runs through her mind
The stick comes harmless down.
But outraged law must be avenged!
Begone, ye smiles, begone!
Away, ye little dreams of love,
Come on, ye frowns, come on!
“I think I’ll have to whip you, John,
Such conduct breaks the rule;
No boy, except a naughty one,
Would kiss a girl—at school.”
Again the teacher’s rod is raised,
A Nemesis she stands—
A premium were put on sin,
If punished by such hands!
As when the bee explores the rose
We see the petals tremble,
So trembled Mary’s rosebud lips—
Her heart would not dissemble.
“I wouldn’t whip him very hard”—
The stick stops in its fall—
“It wasn’t right to do it, but—
It didn’t hurt at all!”
“What made you cry, then, Mary Ann?”
The school’s noise makes a pause,
And out upon the listening air,
From Mary comes—“Because!”
THE BICYCLE AND THE PUP.
’Tis a bicycle man, over his broken wheel,
That grieveth himself full sore,
For the joy of its newness his heart shall feel,
Alack and alas! no more.
When the bright sun tippeth the hills with gold,
That rider upriseth gay,
And with hat all beribboned and heart that is bold,
Pursueth his jaunty way.
He gazeth at folks in the lowly crowd
With a most superior air.
He thinketh ha! ha! and he smileth aloud
As he masheth the maiden fair.
Oh, he masheth her much in his nice new clothes,
Nor seeth the cheerful pup,
Till he roots up the road with his proud, proud nose,
While the little wheel tilteth up.
Oh, that youth on his knees—though he doth not pray—
Is a pitiful sight to see,
For his pants in their utterest part give way,
While merrily laugheth she.
And that bicycle man in his heart doth feel
That the worst of unsanctified jokes
Is the small dog that sniffeth anon at his wheel,
But getteth mixed up in the spokes.
THE PUZZLED CENSUS TAKER.
Before reciting this state to your audience that “nein” is the German for
“no.”
“Got any boys?” the marshal said,
To a lady from over the Rhine;
And the lady shook her flaxen head.
And civilly answered “nein!”
“Got any girls?” the marshal said,
To that lady from over the Rhine;
And again the lady shook her head,
And civilly answered “nein!”
“But some are dead,” the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again the lady shook her head,
And civilly answered “nein!”
“Husband, of course?” the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again she shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered “nein!”
“The duce you have!” the marshal said
To the lady from over the Rhine;
And again she shook her flaxen head,
And civilly answered “nein!”
“Now what do you mean by shaking your head
And always answering “nein?”
“Ich kann nicht Englisch,” civilly said
The lady from over the Rhine.
IT MADE A DIFFERENCE.
“Now, then,” said the short and fat
and anxious-looking man as he
sat down in the street car and
unfolded a map he had just
bought of a fakir. “I want to know how
this old thing works. Let me first find the
Philippine Islands and Manila. Here I am,
and here is Ca-vitt.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the man on
his left, “but that name is pronounced Kah-vee-tay.”
“Then why ain’t it spelled that way?”
demanded the short and fat man. “No
wonder Dooye has been left there a whole
month without reinforcements when they
mix up things that way.”
“You mean Dewey,” corrected the man
on his right.
“I heard it called Dooye, sir.”
“But it isn’t right.”
“Then why don’t this map give it right?
Is it the plan of our map-makers to bamboozle
the American patriot? Let us turn
to Cuba. Ah! here is that San Jew-an they
are talking so much about.”
“Will you allow me to say that the name
is pronounced San Wan?” softly observed
the man on the left.
“By whom, sir?”
“By everybody.”
“I deny it, sir!” exclaimed the fat man.
“If J-u-a-n don’t spell ‘Juan’ then I can’t
read. If I am wrong then why don’t this
map set me right? Is it the idea to mix up
the American patriot until he can’t tell
whether he’s in Cuba or the United States?”
“Where is that Ci-en-fue-gos I’ve read
about?”
“Do you wish for the correct pronunciation
of that name?” asked a man on the
other side of the car.
“Haven’t I got it?”
“Not exactly, sir.”
“Then let her slide. The men who got
out this map ought to be indicted for swindling.
Maybe I’m wrong in calling it Ma-tan-zas?”
“It is hardly correct, sir.”
“And I’m off on Por-to Ri-co?”
“Just a little off.”
“That settles it, sir—that settles it!” said
the short man as he folded up the map and
tossed it away on the street. “I had a
grandfather in the Revolutionary War, a
father in the war with Mexico, and two
brothers in the late Civil War, and I was
going to offer my services to Uncle Sam in
this emergency; but it’s off, sir—all off.”
“But what difference does the pronunciation
make?” protested the man on the right.
“All the difference in the world, sir. My
wife is tongue-tied and my only child has
got a hare-lip, and if I should get killed
neither one of them would be able to ever
make any one understand whether I poured
out my blood in a battle in Cuba or was run
over by an ice-wagon in front of my own
house!”
BRIDGET O’FLANNAGAN ON CHRISTIAN SCIENCE AND
COCKROACHES.
Och, Mollie Moriarty, I’ve been havin’
the quare iksparyincis since yiz hurrud
from me, an’ if I’d known how
it wud be whin I lift ould Oireland, I’d nivir
have sit fut intil this coonthry befoor landin’.
Me prisint misthriss that I had befoor the
lasht wan is a discoiple av a new koind av
relijun called Christian Soience. She’s been
afthur takin’ a sooccission av coorsis av coolchur
(I belave that’s fwhat they call it), an’
she knows all aboot this Christian Soience.
I’ve hurrud her talkin’ wid the other ladies
about moind an’ matther, an’ as will as I can
undherstand, Christian Soience manes that
iverything is all moind an’ no matther, or all
matther an’ nivir moind, an’ that ivery wan’s
nobody, an’ iverything’s nothing ilse. The
misthriss ses there’s no disase nor trooble,
an’ no nade av physic; nivirthiliss, whin she
dishcoovered cockroaches intil the panthry,
she sint me out wid the money to buy an
iksterminatin’ powdher.
Thinks I to mesilf, “I’ll give thim roaches
a dose av Christian Soience, or fwhat the
ladies call an ‘absint thratemint.’” So I
fixed the powers av me moind on the middlesoom
craythers an’ shpint the money till
me own binifit. Afther a few days the misthriss
goes intil the panthry, an’ foinds thim
roaches roonin’ ’round as if they’d nivir been
kilt at all. I throied to iksplain, but wid the
inconsishtency av her six she wouldn’t listhin
till a worrud, but ses I was addin’ impertinince
to desaving’. So I’m afther lookin’
fur a place, an’ if yiz know av any lady widout
notions that do be bewildherin’ to me
moind, address,
Miss Bridget O’Flannagan,
Post Office, Ameriky.
M. Bourchier.
CONVERSATIONAL
“How’s your father?” Came the whisper,
Bashful Ned the silence breaking;
“Oh, he’s nicely,” Annie murmured,
Smilingly the question taking.
Conversation flagged a moment,
Hopeless, Ned essayed another:
“Annie, I—I,” then a coughing,
And the question, “How’s your mother!”
“Mother? Oh, she’s doing nicely!”
Fleeting fast was all forbearance,
When in low, despairing accents
Came the climax, “How’s your parents?”
WANTED, A MINISTER’S WIFE.
Wanted, a perfect lady,
Delicate, gentle, refined,
With every beauty of person
And every endowment of mind;
Fitted by early culture
To move in a fashionable life.
Please notice our advertisement:
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”
Wanted, a thoroughbred worker,
Who well to her household looks
(Shall we see our money wasted
By extravagant, stupid cooks?)
Who cuts the daily expenses
With economy as sharp as a knife,
And washes and scrubs in the kitchen.
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”
A very domestic person.
To “callers” she must not be “out;”
It has such a bad appearance
For her to be gadding about.
Only to visit the parish
Every day of her life,
And attend the funerals and weddings.
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”
Conduct the ladies’ meeting,
The sewing-circle attend,
And when we work for the needy,
Her ready assistance to lend.
To clothe the destitute children
Where sorrow and want are rife;
To hunt up Sunday-school scholars.
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”
Careful to entertain strangers,
Traveling agents, and “such;”
Of this kind of “angel visits”
The leaders have had so much
As to prove a perfect nuisance,
And “hope these plagues of their life
Can soon be sent to their parson’s.”
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”
A perfect pattern of prudence
To all others, spending less,
But never disgracing the parish
By looking shabby in dress.
Playing the organ on Sunday
Would aid our laudable strife
To save the society’s money.
“Wanted, a minister’s wife.”
HOW A MARRIED MAN SEWS ON A BUTTON.
It is bad enough to see a bachelor sew
on a button, but he is the embodiment
of grace alongside a married man.
Necessity has compelled experience in the
case of the former, but the latter has depended
upon some one else for this service,
and fortunately for the sake of society, it is
rarely he is obliged to resort to the needle himself.
Sometimes the patient wife scalds her
right hand, or runs a sliver under the nail of
the index finger of that hand, and it is then the
man clutches the needle around the neck,
and, forgetting to tie a knot on the thread,
commences to put on the button.
It is always in the morning, and from five
to twenty minutes after this he is expected
to be down street. He lays the button on
exactly the site of its predecessor, and pushes
the needle through one eye, and carefully
draws the thread after, leaving about three
inches of it sticking up for leeway. He says
to himself, “Well, if women don’t have the
easiest time I ever see.”
Then he comes back the other way and
gets the needle through the cloth easy
enough, and lays himself out to find the eye,
but, in spite of a great deal of patient jabbing,
the needle point persists in bucking against
the solid parts of the button, and finally,
when he loses patience, his fingers catch the
thread, and that three inches he has left to
hold the button slips through the eye in a
twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely
across the floor. He picks it up without a
single remark, out of respect for his children,
and makes another attempt to fasten it.
This time, when coming back with the
needle, he keeps both the thread and button
from slipping, by covering them with his
thumb; and it is out of regard for that part
of him that he feels around for the eye in a
very careful and judicious manner, but eventually
losing his philosophy as the search
becomes more and more hopeless, he falls to
jabbing about in a loose and savage manner,
and it is just then the needle finds the opening
and comes up the button and part way
through his thumb with a celerity that no
human ingenuity can guard against. Then
he lays down the things with a few familiar
quotations, and presses the injured hand between
his knees, and then holds it under the
other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth,
and all the while he prances and calls upon
heaven and earth to witness that there has
never been anything like it since the world
was created, and howls, and whistles, and
moans and sobs. After a while he calms
down and puts on his pants and fastens them
together with a stick, and goes to his business
a changed man.
J. M. Bailey.
THE DUTCHMAN’S SERENADE.
You do not need any set tune for the words to be sung. It will be more
amusing to have none, but to extemporize as you go along. Stop singing
when you come to the words in parenthesis and speak them. To complete the
impersonation, you should have a violin. Do not recite German dialect
pieces too rapidly; the words should be pronounced very distinctly.
Vake up, my schveet! Vake up, my lofe!
Der moon dot can’t been seen abofe.
Vake oud your eyes, und dough it’s late,
I’ll make you oud a serenate.
Der shtreet dot’s kinder dampy vet,
Und dhere vas no goot blace to set;
My fiddle’s getting oud of dune,
So blease get vakey wery soon.
O my lofe! my lofely lofe!
Am you avake ub dhere abofe,
Feeling sad und nice to hear
Schneider’s fiddle schrabin near?
Vell, anyvay, obe loose your ear,
Und try to saw if you kin hear
From dem bedclose vat you’m among,
Der little song I’m going to sung:
O lady! vake! Get vake!
Und hear der tale I’ll tell;
O you vot’s schleebin’ sound ub dhere,
I like you pooty vell!
Your plack eyes dhem don’t shine
When you’m ashleep—so vake!
(Yes, hurry upp, and voke up quick,
For gootness gracious sake!)
My schveet imbatience, lofe,
I hope you vill excuse;
I’m singing schveetly (dhere, py Jinks!
Dhere goes a shtring proke loose!)
O putiful, schveet maid!
O vill she ever voke?
Der moon is mooning—(Jimminy! dhere
Anoder shtring vent proke!)
I say, you schleeby, vake!
Vake oud! Vake loose! Vake ub!
Fire! Murder! Police! Vatch!
O cracious! do vake ub!
Dot girl she schleebed—dot rain it rained
Und I looked shtoopid like a fool,
Vhen mit my fiddle I shneaked off
So vet und shlobby like a mool!
BIDDY’S TROUBLES.
If this selection were recited in the costume of a housemaid, with apron,
sunbonnet and bare arms, the effect would be intensified. Place the hands
on the hips except when gesticulating.
“It’s thru for me, Katy, that I never seed
the like of this people afore. It’s a
time I’ve been having since coming
to this house, twelve months agone this week
Thursday. Yer know, honey, that my fourth
coosin, Ann Macarthy, recommended me to
Mrs. Whaler, and told the lady that I knew
about genteel housework and the likes; while
at the same time I had niver seed inter an
American lady’s kitchen.
“So she engaged me, and my heart was
jist ready to burst wid grief for the story that
Ann had told, for Mrs. Whaler was a swate-spoken
lady, and never looked cross-like in
her life; that I knew by her smooth, kind
face. Well, jist the first thing she told me to
do, after I dressed the children, was to dress
the ducks for dinner. I stood looking at the
lady for a couple of minutes, before I could
make out any maneing at all to her words.
“Thin I went searching after clothes for the
ducks; and such a time as I had, to be sure.
High and low I went till at last my mistress
axed me for what I was looking; and
I told her the clothes for the ducks, to be sure.
Och, how she scramed and laughed, till my
face was as rid as the sun wid shame, and she
showed me in her kind swate way what her
maneing was. Thin she told me how to air
the beds; and it was a day for me, indade, when
I could go up chamber alone and clare up the
rooms. One day Mrs. Whaler said to me:
“‘Biddy, an’ ye may give the baby an
airin’, if yees will.’
“What should I do—and it’s thru what I
am saying this blessed minute—but go upstairs
wid the child, and shake it, and then
howld it out of the winder. Such a scraming
and kicking as the baby gave—but I hild on
the harder. Everybody thin in the strate’
looked at me; at last misthress came up to
see what for was so much noise.
“‘I am thrying to air the baby,’ I said,
‘but it kicks and scrames dridfully.’
“There was company down below; and
whin Mrs. Whaler told them what I had been
after doing, I thought they would scare the
folks in the strate wid scraming.
“And then I was told I must do up Mr.
Whaler’s sharts one day when my mistress
was out shopping. She told me repeatedly
to do them up nice, for master was going
away, so I takes the sharts and did them all
up in some paper that I was after bringing
from the ould country wid me, and tied some
nice pink ribbon around the bundle.
“‘Where are the sharts, Biddy?’ axed
Mrs. Whaler, when she comed home.
“‘I have been doing them up in a quair
nice way,’ I said, bringing her the bundle.
“‘Will you iver be done wid your graneness!’
she axed me with a loud scrame.
“I can’t for the life of me be tellin’ what
their talkin’ manes. At home we call the
likes of this fine work starching; and a deal
of it I have done, too. Och! and may the
blessed Vargin pity me, for I never’ll be
cured of my graneness!”
THE INVENTOR’S WIFE.
It’s easy to talk of the patience of Job. Humph! Job hed 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 sech trash,
Why, ’Bijah’s invented heaps of em, but they don’t bring in no cash.
Law! that don’t worry him—not at all; he’s the aggravatin’est man—
He’ll set in his little workship there, and whistle, and think, and plan.
Inventin’ a jew’s-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 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 cur’ous things.
Hev I told you about his bedstead yit?—’Twas full of wheels and springs;
It had 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 whiz and whir! I heerd a fearful snap!
And there was that bedstead, with ’Bijah inside, shet up jest like a trap!
I screamed, of course, but ’twan’t 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 crow-bar and smashed it in.—There was ’Bijah, peacefully lyin’,
Inventin’ a way to git out again. That was all very well to say,
But I don’t b’lieve he’d have found it out if I’d left him in all day.
Now, sence 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?
