MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG.
“My sister’ll be down in a minute, and says you’re to wait, if you please;
And says I might stay till she came, if I’d promise her never to tease,
Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that’s nonsense; for how would you know
What she told me to say, if I didn’t? Don’t you really and truly think so?
“And then you’d feel strange here alone. And you wouldn’t know just where to sit;
For that chair isn’t strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit:
We keep it to match with the sofa; but Jack says it would be like you
To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock out the very last screw.
“Suppose you try! I won’t tell. You’re afraid to! Oh! you’re afraid they would think it was mean!
Well, then, there’s the album: that’s pretty, if you’re sure that your fingers are clean.
For sister says sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when she’s cross.
There’s her picture. You know it? It’s like her; but she ain’t as good-looking, of course.
“This is me. It’s the best of ’em all. Now, tell me, you’d never have thought
That once I was little as that? It’s the only one that could be bought;
For that was the message to pa from the photograph-man where I sat—
That he wouldn’t print off any more till he first got his money for that.
“What? Maybe you’re tired of waiting. Why, often she’s longer than this.
There’s all her back hair to do up, and all of her front curls to friz.
But it’s nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me!
Do you think you’ll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don’t come like Tom Lee—
“Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness! he used to be here day and night,
Till the folks thought he’d be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright;
You won’t run away then, as he did? for you’re not a rich man, they say.
Pa says you’re poor as a church-mouse. Now, are you? and how poor are they?
“Ain’t you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now your hair isn’t red;
But what there is left of it’s mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said.
But there! I must go; sister’s coming! But I wish I could wait, just to see
If she ran up to you, and she kissed you in the way she used to kiss Lee.”
THE MAN WHO HAS ALL DISEASES AT ONCE.
Imitate the cough. Put your hands on different parts of your body in
describing your aches and pains. Wear a long dismal face. Bend forward
and limp as you change your position.
Good Morning, Doctor; how do
you do? I hain’t quite as well as
I have been; but I think I’m some
better than I was. I don’t think that last
medicine that you gin me did me much
good. I had a terrible time with the earache
last night; my wife got up and drapt a
few draps of walnut sap into it, and that relieved
it some; but I didn’t get a wink of
sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a
week, Doctor, I’ve had the worst kind of a
narvous headache; it has been so bad sometimes
that I thought my head would bust
open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I’m
the most afflictedest human that ever lived.
Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome
cough, that I have had every winter
for the last fifteen years, has began to pester
me agin. (Coughs.) Doctor, do you think
you can give me any thing that will relieve
this desprit pain I have in my side?
Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of
my neck, so that I can’t turn my head without
turning the hull of my body. (Coughs.)
Oh, dear! What shall I do? I have consulted
almost every doctor in the country,
but they don’t any of them seem to understand
my case. I have tried everything that
I could think of; but I can’t find anything
that does me the least good. (Coughs.)
Oh, this cough—it will be the death of me
yet! You know I had my right hip put out
last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones’ saw-mill;
it’s getting to be very troublesome just
before we have a change of weather. Then
I’ve got the sciatica in my right knee, and
sometimes I’m so crippled up that I can
hardly crawl round in any fashion.
What do you think that old white mare of
ours did while I was out plowing last week?
Why, the weaked old critter, she kept a backing
and backing, ontil she backed me right
up agin the colter, and knock’d a piece of
skin off my shin nearly so big. (Coughs.)
But I had a worse misfortune than that the
other day, Doctor. You see it was washing-day—and
my wife wanted me to go out and
bring in a little stove-wood—you know we lost
our help lately, and my wife has to wash and
tend to everything about the house herself.
I knew it wouldn’t be safe for me to go
out—as it was raining at the time—but I
thought I’d risk it anyhow. So I went out,
picked up a few chunks of stove-wood, and
was a coming up the steps into the house,
when my feet slipped from under me, and I
fell down as sudden as if I’d been shot.
Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke
down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper
lip, and knocked out three of my front teeth.
I suffered dreadfully on account of it, as you
may suppose, and my face ain’t well enough
yet to make me fit to be seen, ’specially by
the women folks. (Coughs.) Oh, dear! but
that ain’t all, Doctor; I’ve got fifteen corns
on my toes—and I’m afeard I’m going to
have the “yaller janders.” (Coughs.)
Dr. Valentine.
THE SCHOOL-MA’AM’S COURTING.
When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay
I was glad, fer I like ter see a gal makin’ her honest way.
I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin’ high,
Tew high fer busy farmer folks with chores ter dew ter fly.
But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontel
She come in her reg’lar boardin’ raound ter visit with us a spell.
My Jake an’ her had been cronies ever since they could walk,
An’ it tuk me aback ter hear her kerrectin’ him in his talk.
Jake ain’t no hand at grammar, though he hain’t his beat for work;
But I sez ter myself, “Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin’ with a Turk!”
Jake bore it wonderful patient, an’ said in a mournful way,
He p’sumed he was behindhand with the doin’s at Injun Bay.
I remember once he was askin’ for some o’ my Injun buns,
An’ she said he should allus say, “them air,” stid o’ “them is” the ones.
Wal, Mary Ann kep’ at him stiddy mornin’ an’ evenin’ long,
Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o’ talkin’ wrong.
One day I was pickin’ currants daown by the old quince tree,
When I heerd Jake’s voice a-sayin’: “Be ye willin’ ter marry me?”
An’ Mary Ann kerrectin’, “Air ye willin’, yeou sh’d say.”
Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum, decided way,
“No wimmen-folks is a-goin’ ter be re-arrangin’ me.
Hereafter I says ‘craps,’ ‘them is,’ ‘I calk’late,’ an’ ‘I be.’
Ef folks don’t like my talk they needn’t hark ter what I say;
But I ain’t a-goin’ to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay.
I ask you free an’ final: Be ye goin’ ter marry me?”
An’ Mary Ann sez, tremblin’, yet anxious-like, “I be.”
THE DUTCHMAN’S SNAKE.
Near the town of Reading, in Berks
County, Pennsylvania, there formerly
lived a well-to-do Dutch
farmer named Peter Van Riper. His only
son was a strapping lad of seventeen, also
named Peter, and upon old Peter and young
Peter devolved the principal cares of the old
man’s farm, now and then assisted by an ancient
Dutchman named Jake Sweighoffer,
who lived in the neighborhood, and went out
to work by the day.
One warm day in haying time this trio
were hard at work in a meadow near the
farm-house, when suddenly Peter the elder
dropped his scythe and called out:
“Oh! mine gracious, Peter! Peter!”
“What’s de matter, fader?” answered the
son, straightening up and looking at his
sire.
“Oh! mine Peter! Peter!” again cried the
old man, “do come here, right off! Der
schnake pite mine leg!”
If anything in particular could disturb the
nerves of young Peter, it was snakes; for he
had once been chased by a black one and
frightened nearly out of his wits. At the
word snake, therefore, young Van Riper fell
back, nimbly as a wire-drawer, and called
out in turn: “Where is der shnake, fader?”
“Here, up mine preeches!—Oh! my! my!
my!”
“Vy don’t you kill him, fader?” exclaimed
Peter, junior, keeping at a safe distance from
his suffering sire.
“I can’t get at der little sinner, Peter; you
come dake off my drowsis, or he’ll kill me
mit his pites.”
But the fears of Peter, the younger, overcame
his filial affection, and lent strength to
his legs, for he started off like a scared two-year-old
toward the old man Jake, to call him
to the assistance of his unhappy father. A
few moments after, the two came bounding
toward the old man, and as they passed a
haycock where their garments had been laid
when they began work, Jake grabbed the
vest which he supposed belonged to his employer.
During this time old Peter had
managed to keep on his feet, although he
was quaking and trembling like an aspen
leaf in a June gale of wind.
“Oh! come quick, Yacob!” exclaimed he,
“he pite like sixty, here, on mine leg.”
Old Jake was not particularly sensitive to
fear, but few people, young or old, are free
from alarm when a “pizenous” reptile is
about. He seized a small pitchfork, and,
telling the unhappy Van Riper to stand
steady, promised to stun the reptile by a rap
or two, even if he didn’t kill it outright. The
frightened old man did not long hesitate between
the risk of a broken leg or being bitten
to death by a snake, but promptly indicated
the place where Jake should strike.
Whack went the pitchfork, and down tumbled
Peter, exclaiming, “Oh! my! my! my;
I pleeve you’ve proke mine leg! but den der
shnake’s gone.”
“Vere! vere’s he gone to?” says old
Sweighoffer, looking sharply about on the
ground he stood upon.
“Never mind der shnake now, Yacob,”
says Van Riper, “come and help me up, and
I’ll go home.”
“Here, I’ve got your shacket—put it on,”
says Jacob, lifting up the old man, and
slipping his arms into the armholes of the
vest.
The moment old Peter made the effort to
get the garment on his shoulders, he grew
livid in the face—his hair stood on end—he
shivered and shook—his teeth chattered, and
his knees knocked an accompaniment. “O
Yacob!” exclaimed he, “help me to go home—I’m
dead! I’m dead!”
“Vat’s dat you say? Ish dere nodder
shnake in your preeches?” inquired the intrepid
Jacob.
“Not dat—I don’t mean dat,” says the
farmer, “but shust you look on me—I’m
shwelt all up, pigger as an ox! my shacket
won’t go on my pack. I’m dying mit de
pizen. Oh! oh! oh! help me home quick.”
The hired man came to the same conclusion;
and with might and main he hurried
old Peter along toward the farm-house.
Meantime young Peter had run home, and so
alarmed the women folks that they were in a
high state of excitement when they saw the
approach of the good old man and his
assistant.
Old man Peter was carried into the house,
laid on a bed, and began to lament his sad
misfortune in a most grievous manner, when
the old lady, his frow, came forward and
proposed to examine the bitten leg. The
unhappy man opened his eyes and feebly
pointed out the place of the bite. She carefully
ripped up his pantaloons, and out fell—a
thistle-top! and at the same time a considerable
scratch was made visible.
“Call dis a shnake? Bah!” says the old
lady, holding up the thistle.
“Oh! but I’m pizened to death, Katreen!—see,
I’m all pizen!—mine shacket!—Oh!
dear, mine shacket not come over mine
pody!”
“Haw! haw! you crazy fellow,” roars the
frow, “dat’s not your shacket—dat’s Peter’s
shacket! ha! ha! ha!”
“Vat! dat Peter’s shacket?” says old
Peter, shaking off death’s icy fetters at one
surge, and jumping up: “Bosh! Jacob, vat
an old fool you must be to say I vas shnake-pite!
Go ’pout your pusiness, gals. Peter,
give me mine pipe.”
NO KISS.
“Kiss me, Will,” sang Marguerite,
To a pretty little tune,
Holding up her dainty mouth,
Sweet as roses born in June.
Will was ten years old that day,
And he pulled her golden curls
Teasingly, and answer made—
“I’m too old—I don’t kiss girls.”
Ten years pass, and Marguerite
Smiles as Will kneels at her feet,
Gazing fondly in her eyes,
Praying, “Won’t you kiss me, sweet?”
’Rite is seventeen to-day,
With her birthday ring she toys
For a moment, then replies:
“I’m too old—I don’t kiss boys.”
THE LISPING LOVER.
Oh! thtay one moment, love implorth,
Ere yet we break thith happy thpell!
For to the thoul my thoul adorth
It ith tho hard to thay farewell.
And yet how thad to be tho weak,
To think forever, night or day,
The thententheth my heart would thpeak
Thethe lipth can never truly thay.
How mournful, too, while thuth I kneel,
With nervouthneth my blith to mar,
And dream each moment that I feel
The boot-toe of thy thtern papa.
Or yet to fanthy that I hear
A thudden order to decamp,
Ath dithagreeably thevere
Ath—“Get out you infernal thcamp!”
Yet recklethly I pauthe by thee,
To lithp my hopeth, my fearth, my careth,
Though any moment I may be
Turning a thomerthet down the thtairth!
LARRIE O’DEE.
Now the widow McGee,
And Larrie O’Dee,
Had two little cottages out on the green,
With just room enough for two pig-pens between.
The widow was young and the widow was fair,
With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair;
And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn
With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn.
And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand,
In the pen of the widow were certain to land.
One morning said he:
“Och! Misthress McGee,
It’s a waste, of good lumber, this runnin’ two rigs,
Wid a fancy petition betwane our two pigs!”
“Indade sur, it is!” answered Widow McGee,
With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O’Dee.
“And thin, it looks kind o’ hard-hearted and mane,
Kapin’ two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near
That whiniver one grunts the other can hear,
And yit kape a cruel petition betwane.”
“Shwate Widow McGee,”
Answered Larrie O’Dee,
“If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs,
Ain’t we mane to ourselves to be runnin’ two rigs?
Och! it made me heart ache whin I paped through the cracks
Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin’ yer axe;
An’ a bobbin’ yer head an’ a shtompin’ yer fate,
Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate,
A-sphlittin’ yer kindlin’-wood out in the shtorm,
When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!”
“Now, piggy,” said she;
“Larrie’s courtin’ o’ me,
Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you,
So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do;
For, if I’m to say yez, shtir the swill wid yer snout;
But if I’m to say no, ye must kape yer nose out.
Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin’ a pig
By a-tossin’ a handful of corn in its shwig!”
“Me darlint, the piggy says yes,” answered he.
And that was the courtship of Larrie O’Dee.
HOW PADEREWSKI PLAYS THE PIANO.
First a soft and gentle tinkle,
Gentle as the rain-drop’s sprinkle,
Then a stop,
Fingers drop.
Now begins a merry trill,
Like a cricket in a mill;
Now a short, uneasy motion,
Like a ripple on the ocean.
See the fingers dance about,
Hear the notes come tripping out;
How they mingle in the tingle
Of the everlasting jingle,
Like to hailstones on a shingle,
Or the ding-dong, dangle-dingle
Of a sheep-bell! Double, single,
Now they come in wilder gushes,
Up and down the player rushes,
Quick as squirrels, sweet as thrushes.
Now the keys begin to clatter
Like the music of a platter
When the maid is stirring batter.
O’er the music comes a change,
Every tone is wild and strange;
Listen to the lofty tumbling,
Hear the mumbling, fumbling, jumbling,
Like the rumbling and the grumbling
Of the thunder from its slumbering
Just awaking. Now it’s taking
To the quaking, like a fever-and-ague shaking;
Heads are aching, something’s breaking—
Goodness gracious! it is wondrous,
Rolling round, above, and under us,
Like old Vulcan’s stroke so thunderous.
Now ’tis louder, but the powder
Will be all exploded soon;
For the only way to do,
When the music’s nearly through,
Is to muster all your muscle for a bang,
Striking twenty notes together with a clang:
Hit the treble with a twang,
Give the bass an awful whang,
And close the whole performance
With a slam—bang—whang!
THE FRECKLE-FACED GIRL.
“Ma’s up stairs changing her dress,”
said the freckled-faced little
girl, tying her doll’s bonnet
strings and casting her eye about for a tidy
large enough to serve as a shawl for that
double-jointed young person.
“Oh, your mother needn’t dress up for
me,” replied the female agent of the missionary
society, taking a self-satisfied view
of herself in the mirror. “Run up and tell
her to come down just as she is in her everyday
clothes, and not stand on ceremony.”
“Oh, but she hasn’t got on her everyday
clothes. Ma was all dressed up in her new
brown silk dress, ’cause she expected Miss
Dimmond to-day. Miss Dimmond always
comes over here to show off her nice things,
and ma doesn’t mean to get left. When ma
saw you coming she said, ‘the dickens!’ and
I guess she was mad about something. Ma
said if you saw her new dress, she’d have to
hear all about the poor heathen, who don’t
have silk, and you’d ask her for money to
buy hymn books to send ’em. Say, do the
nigger ladies use hymn-book leaves to do
their hair up on and make it frizzy? Ma
says she guesses that’s all the good the books
do ’em, if they ever get any books. I wish
my doll was a heathen.”
“Why, you wicked little girl! what do
you want of a heathen doll?” inquired the
missionary lady, taking a mental inventory
of the new things in the parlor to get material
for a homily on worldly extravagance.
“So folks would send her lots of nice things
to wear, and feel sorry to have her going
about naked. Then she’d have her hair to
frizz, and I want a doll with truly hair and
eyes that roll up like Deacon Silderback’s
when he says amen on Sunday. I ain’t a
wicked girl, either, ’cause Uncle Dick—you
know Uncle Dick, he’s been out West and
swears awful and smokes in the house—he
says I’m a holy terror, and he hopes I’ll be
an angel pretty soon. Ma’ll be down in a
minute, so you needn’t take your cloak off.
She said she’d box my ears if I asked you to.
“Ma’s putting on that old dress she had
last year, ’cause she didn’t want you to
think she was able to give much this time,
and she needed a muff worse than the queen
of the cannon-ball islands needed ’ligion.
Uncle Dick says you oughter get to the
islands, ’cause you’d be safe there, and the
natives would be sorry they was such sinners
anybody would send you to ’em. He
says he never seen a heathen hungry enough
to eat you, ’less it was a blind one, an’ you’d
set a blind pagan’s teeth on edge so he’d
never hanker after any more missionary.
Uncle Dick’s awful funny, and makes ma
and pa die laughing sometimes.”
“Your Uncle Richard is a bad, depraved
wretch, and ought to have remained out
West, where his style is appreciated. He sets
a horrid example for little girls like you.”
“Oh, I think he’s nice. He showed me
how to slide down the banisters, and he’s
teaching me to whistle when ma ain’t around.
That’s a pretty cloak you’ve got, ain’t it?
Do you buy all your clothes with missionary
money? Ma says you do.”
Just then the freckle-faced little girl’s ma
came into the parlor and kissed the missionary
lady on the cheek and said she was delighted
to see her, and they proceeded to
have a real sociable chat. The little girl’s
ma cannot understand why a person who
professes to be so charitable as the missionary
agent does should go right over to Miss
Dimmond’s and say such ill-natured things
as she did, and she thinks the missionary is
a double-faced gossip. The little girl understands
it better than her ma does.
WHEN GIRLS WORE CALICO.
There was a time, betwixt the days
Of linsey woolsey, straight and prim,
And these when mode, with despot ways,
Leads woman captive at its whim,
Yet not a hundred years ago,
When girls wore simple calico.
Within the barn, by lantern light,
Through many a reel, with flying feet,
The boys and maidens danced at night
To fiddled measures, shrilly sweet;
And merry revels were they, though
The girls were gowned in calico.
Across the flooring rough and gray
The gold of scattered chaff was spread,
And long festoons of clover hay
That straggled from the loft o’erhead,
Swung scented fringes to and fro
O’er pretty girls in calico.
They used to go a-Maying then,
The blossoms of the spring to seek
In sunny glade and sheltered glen,
Unweighed by fashion’s latest freak;
And Robin fell in love, I know,
With Phyllis in her calico.
A tuck, a frill, a bias fold,
A hat curved over gipsy-wise,
And beads of coral and of gold,
And rosy cheeks and merry eyes,
Made lassies in that long ago
Look charming in their calico.
The modern knight who loves a maid
Of gracious air and gentle grace,
And finds her oftentimes arrayed
In shining silk and priceless lace,
Would love her just as well, I know,
In pink and lilac calico.
A WINNING COMPANY.
Ef gran’paw was a soldier now
He’d show ’em what to do;
You ought to come and lisen how
He talks to me and Sue.
He tells us all about the days
He led his gallant men,
And all about the different ways
He won the battles then.
An’ ev’ry night when paw comes in
An’ says the fight’s begun,
He tells what they could do to win
Er what they ought to done.
An’ paw he laugh and looks at me
An’ says we’d surely win it
If gran’paw led a company
An’ Sue an’ me was in it.
THE BRAVEST SAILOR OF ALL.
This graceful tribute to the martial spirit of the little tots should be
recited in a slightly bombastic style. The little one considers himself
quite a hero and should be described accordingly.
I know a naval officer, the bravest fighting man;
He wears a jaunty sailor suit, his cap says “Puritan.”
And all day long he sails a ship between our land and Spain,
And he avenges, every hour, the martyrs of the “Maine.”
His warship is six inches square, a wash-tub serves for ocean;
But never yet, on any coast, was seen such dire commotion.
With one skilled move his boat is sent from Cuba to midsea,
And just as quickly back it comes to set Havana free.
He fights with Dewey; plants his flag upon each island’s shore,
Then off with Sampson’s fleet he goes to shed the Spanish gore.
He comes to guard New England’s coast, but ere his anchor falls,
He hurries off in frightful speed, to shell Manila’s walls.
The Philippines so frequently have yielded to his power,
There’s very little left of them, I’m certain, at this hour;
And when at last he falls asleep, it is to wake again
And hasten into troubled seas and go and conquer Spain.
HOW SHE WAS CONSOLED.
Out in the field in the red o’ the rain
That crimsoned the breasts that the battle had slain,
He lay in the shadow—the captain—at rest,
With a lock of gold hair round a face on his breast.
Out in the darkness, all pallid and dumb,
A woman waits long for the captain to come;
And she kisses his portrait. O, pitiful pain!
She shall kiss not the lips of the captain again!
But a woman’s a woman, though loyal and brave,
Love fareth but ill in the gloom of a grave.
The captain lies mute ’neath the stars and the snow,
And the woman he loved—well, she’s married you know!
THAT HIRED GIRL.
When she came to work for the family
on Congress street, the lady of
the house sat down and told her
that agents, picture-sellers, peddlers, ragmen,
and all that class of people must be met
at the front door and coldly repulsed, and
Sarah said she’d repulse them if she had to
break every broomstick in town.
And she did. She threw the door open
wide, bluffed right up at ’em, and when she
got through talking, the cheekiest agent was
only too glad to leave. It got so after a
while that peddlers marked that house, and
the door-bell never rang except for company.
The other day, as the girl of the house was
wiping off the spoons, the bell rang. She
hastened to the door, expecting to see a lady,
but her eyes encountered a slim man, dressed
in black and wearing a white necktie. He
was the new minister, and was going around
to get acquainted with the members of his
flock, but Sarah wasn’t expected to know
this.
“Ah—um—is—Mrs.—ah!”
“Git!” exclaimed Sarah, pointing to the
gate.
“Beg pardon, but I would like to see—see—!”
“Meander!” she shouted, looking around
for a weapon; “we don’t want any flour-sifters
here!”
“You’re mistaken,” he replied, smiling
blandly. “I called to—”
“Don’t want anything to keep moths
away—fly!” exclaimed Sarah, getting red in
the face.
“Is the lady in?” he inquired, trying to
look over Sarah’s head.
“Yes, the lady is in, and I’m in, and you
are out!” she snapped; “and now I don’t
want to stand here talking to a fly-trap agent
any longer! Come lift your boots!”
“I’m not an agent,” he said, trying to
smile. “I’m the new—”
“Yes, I know you—you are the new man
with the patent flat-iron, but we don’t want any,
and you’d better go before I call the dog!”
“Will you give the lady my card, and say
that I called?”
“No, I won’t; we are bored to death with
cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I
can’t stand here all day.”
“Didn’t know that I was a minister?” he
asked, as he backed off.
“No, nor I don’t know it now; you look
like the man who sold the woman next door
a ten cent chromo for two dollars.”
“But here is my card.”
“I don’t care for cards, I tell you! If you
leave that gate open, I will have to fling a
flower-pot at you!”
“I will call again,” he said, as he went
through the gate.
“It won’t do any good!” she shouted
after him; “we don’t want no prepared food
for infants—no piano music—no stuffed
birds! I know the policeman on this beat,
and if you come around here again, he’ll soon
find out whether you are a confidence man
or vagrant!”
And she took unusual care to lock the door.
WHAT SAMBO SAYS.
Now, in dese busy wukin’ days, dey’s changed de Scripter fashions,
An’ you needn’t look to mirakuls to furnish you wid rations;
Now, when you’s wantin’ loaves o’ bread, you got to go and fetch ’em,
An’ ef you’s wantin’ fishes, you mus’ dig your wums an’ ketch ’em;
For you kin put it down as sartin dat the time is long gone by,
When sassages an’ ’taters use to rain fum out de sky!
I nebber likes de cullud man dat thinks too much o’ eatin’;
But frolics froo de wukin’ days, and snoozes at de meetin’;
Dat jines de Temp’ance ’Ciety, an’ keeps a gettin’ tight,
An’ pulls his water-millions in de middle ob de night!
Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in deir han’s,
Perradin’ froo de city to de music ob de ban’s,
Had better drop deir guns, an’ go to marchin’ wid deir hoes
An’ git a honest libbin’ as dey chop de cotton-rows,
Or de State may put ’em arter while to drillin’ in de ditches,
Wid more’n a single stripe a-runnin’ ’cross deir breeches.
Well, you think dat doin’ nuffin’ ’tall is mighty sort o’ nice,
But it busted up de renters in de lubly Paradise!
You see, dey bofe was human bein’s jes’ like me an’ you,
An’ dey couldn’t reggerlate deirselves wid not a thing to do;
Wid plenty wuk befo’ ’em, an’ a cotton crop to make,
Dey’d nebber thought o’ loafin’ roun’ an’ chattin’ wid de snake.
THE IRISH SLEIGH RIDE.
O don’t go way until you hear
A story, though it may seem queer,
Of a family known both near and far
By the funny name of Ump Ha Ha.
Mr. Ump Ha Ha, one day,
Thought he would like to take a sleigh
And ride upon the frozen snow;
And Mrs. Ump Ha Ha said she would go,
Taking all the family, of course,
Including, too, the family horse.
He was a mule, and a thin one, too;
You could see his ribs where the hay stuck through.
They hitched him up to an old-time bob.
Then you ought to have seen the mob!
There were Patrick, Mary Ump Ha Ha,
Grace and Carrie Ump Ha Ha,
Mike and Freddie Ump Ha Ha,
Willie and Eddie Ump Ha Ha,
Tim and Juley Ump Ha Ha,
Rose and Peggy Ump Ha Ha,
Lizzie and Mayme Ump Ha Ha,
Big fat Jammie Ump Ha Ha.
Fifteen people in one sleigh
Started out to spend the day.
The way they packed and jammed them in,
It made the family horse look thin.
As luck will have it, as it will,
They started from the top of a hill.
The hill was slippery; down they flew.
How fast they went they never knew.
The time they made it can’t be beat.
The old mule had no use for his feet;
He went like a bird or ships on sail;
He flew with his ears and steered with his tail.
It was a mile to the bottom and the bottom was mud,
And they went down with a sickening thud.
Mary Ump Ha Ha was dazed,
Patrick Ump Ha Ha was crazed,
Little Willie bumped his nose,
Big fat Jammie she got froze.
Fourteen doctors came at once.
The old mule was buried in the ground.
Did you ever see a dead mule laying around?
It took four drays to get them home,
And when they found they broke no bones,
They all sat down and thanked their stars,
And then they laughed out, Ump Ha Ha.
JANE JONES.
Jane Jones keeps a-whisperin’ to me all the time,
An’ says: “Why don’t you make it a rule
To study your lessons, an’ work hard an’ learn,
An’ never be absent from school?
Remember the story of Elihu Burritt,
How he clumb up to the top;
Got all the knowledge ’at he ever had
Down in the blacksmithin’ shop.”
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so;
Mebby he did—I dunno;
’Course, what’s a-keepin’ me ’way from the top
Is not never havin’ no blacksmithin’ shop.
She said ’at Ben Franklin was awfully poor,
But full o’ ambition and brains,
An’ studied philosophy all ’is hull life—
An’ see what he got for his pains.
He brought electricity out of the sky
With a kite an’ the lightnin’ an’ key,
So we’re owin’ him more’n any one else
For all the bright lights ’at we see.
Jane Jones she actually said it was so.
Mebby he did—I dunno;
’Course, what’s allers been hinderin’ me
In not havin’ any kite, lightnin’ or key.
Jane Jones said Columbus was out at the knees
When he first thought up his big scheme;
An’ all of the Spaniards an’ Italians, too,
They laughed an’ just said ’twas a dream;
But Queen Isabella she listened to him,
An’ pawned all her jewels o’ worth,
An’ bought ’im the “Santa Marier” ’n said:
“Go hunt up the rest of the earth.”
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so;
Mebby he did—I dunno;
’Course, that may all be, but you must allow
They ain’t any land to discover just now.
