The Wit of Women Part 21

"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 n.o.body 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, phosph.o.r.escent 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 phosph.o.r.ent odor followed her track: Be this as it may, she never came back.

Since then, her friends of the gold-fish fry Are in a state of unpleasant suspense, Afraid, that unless they unselfishly try To make better use of their dollars and sense To chasten their pride, and their manners mend, They may meet a similar shocking end.

--_Cosmopolitan Art Journal._

JUST SO.

BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR.

A youth and maid, one winter night, Were sitting in the corner; His name, we're told, was Joshua White, And hers was Patience Warner.

Not much the pretty maiden said, Beside the young man sitting; Her cheeks were flushed a rosy red, Her eyes bent on her knitting.

Nor could he guess what thoughts of him Were to her bosom flocking, As her fair fingers, swift and slim, Flew round and round the stocking.

While, as for Joshua, bashful youth, His words grew few and fewer; Though all the time, to tell the truth, His chair edged nearer to her.

Meantime her ball of yarn gave out, She knit so fast and steady; And he must give his aid, no doubt, To get another ready.

He held the skein; of course the thread Got tangled, snarled and twisted; "Have Patience!" cried the artless maid, To him who her a.s.sisted.

Good chance was this for tongue-tied churl To shorten all palaver; "Have Patience!" cried he, "dearest girl!

And may I really have her?"

The deed was done; no more, that night, Clicked needles in the corner:-- And she is Mrs. Joshua White That once was Patience Warner.

THE INVENTOR'S WIFE.

BY E.T. CORBETT.

It's easy to talk of the patience of Job. Humph! Job had nothin'

to try him; Ef he'd been married to 'Bijah Brown, folks wouldn't have dared come nigh him.

Trials, indeed! Now I'll tell you what--ef you want to be sick of your life, Jest come and change places with me a spell, for I'm an inventor's wife.

And sech inventions! I'm never sure when I take up my coffee-pot, That 'Bijah hain't been "improvin'" it, and it mayn't go off like a shot.

Why, didn't he make me a cradle once that would keep itself a-rockin', And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin'?

And there was his "patent peeler," too, a wonderful thing I'll say; But it hed one fault--it never stopped till the apple was peeled away.

As for locks and clocks, and mowin' machines, and reapers, and all such trash, Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of them, but they don't bring in no cash!

Law! that don't worry him--not at all; he's the aggravatinest man-- He'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle and think and plan, Inventin' a Jews harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn, While the children's goin' barefoot to school, and the weeds is chokin' our corn.

When 'Bijah and me kep' company, he wasn't like this, you know; Our folks all thought he was dreadful smart--but that was years ago.

He was handsome as any pictur' then, and he had such a glib, bright way-- I never thought that a time would come when I'd rue my weddin'-day; But when I've been forced to chop the wood, and tend to the farm beside, And look at 'Bijah a-settin' there, I've jest dropped down and cried.

We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gun, But I counted it one of my marcies when it bust before 'twas done.

So he turned it into a "burglar alarm." It ought to give thieves a fright-- 'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night.

Sometimes I wonder ef 'Bijah's crazy, he does such curious things.

Have I told you about his bedstead yit? 'Twas full of wheels and springs; It hed a key to wind it up, and a clock-face at the head; All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor, And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more.

Wa'al, 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five, But he hadn't more 'n got into it, when--dear me! sakes alive!

Them wheels began to whizz and whirr! I heard a fearful snap, And there was that bedstead with 'Bijah inside shet up jest like a trap!

I screamed, of course, but 'twant no use. Then I worked that hull long night A-tryin' to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright: I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin', So I took a crowbar and smashed it in. There was 'Bijah peacefully lyin', Inventin' a way to git out agin. That was all very well to say, But I don't believe he'd have found it out if I'd left him in all day.

Now, since I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm tired of life, Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's wife?

AN UNRUFFLED BOSOM.

(_Story of an old Woman who knew Washington._)

BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.

An aged negress at her door Is sitting in the sun; Her day of work is almost o'er, Her day of rest begun.

Her face is black as darkest night, Her form is bent and thin, And o'er her bony visage tight Is stretched her wrinkled skin.

Her dress is scant and mean; yet still About her ebon face There flows a soft and creamy frill Of costly Mechlin lace.

What means the contrast strange and wide?

Its like is seldom seen-- A pauper's aged face beside The laces of a queen.

Her mien is stately, proud, and high, And yet her look is kind, And the calm light within her eye Speaks an unruffled mind.

"Dar comes anodder ob dem tramps,"

She mumbles low in wrath, "I know dose sleek Centennial chaps Quick as dey mounts de path."

A-axing ob a lady's age I tink is impolite, And when dey gins to interview I disremembers quite.

Dar was dat spruce photometer Dat tried to take my head, And Mr. Squibbs, de porterer, Wrote down each word I said.

Six hundred years I t'ought it was, Or else it was sixteen-- Yes; I'd shook hands wid Washington And likewise General Greene.

I tole him all de generals' names Dar ebber was, I guess, From General Lee and La Fayette To General Distress.

Den dar's dem high-flown ladies My _old_ tings came to see; Wanted to buy dem some heirlooms Of real Aunt Tiquity.

Says I, "Dat isn't dis chile's name, Dey calls me Auntie Scraggs,"

And den I axed dem, by de pound How much dey gabe for rags?

De missionary had de mose Insurance of dem all; He tole me I was ole, and said, Leabes had dar time to fall.