Till at last 'twas done The greatest invention under the sun! "An' now," says Darius, "hooray fur some fun!" 'Twas the Fourth of July, And the weather was dry, And not a cloud was on all the sky, Save a few light fleeces, which here and there, Like foam on the ocean went floating by- But Darius said, "No! Shouldn't wonder 'f you might see me, though, 'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head." For all the while to himself he said : He crept from his bed; And, seeing the others were gone, he said, "I'm gittin' over the cold 'n my head.” And away he sped, To open the wonderful box in the shed. His brothers had walked but a little way, Ef he hedn't got some machine to try." An' pay him fur tellin' us that yarn!" "Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back, Along by the fences, behind the stack, And one by one, through a hole in the wall, In under the dusty barn they crawl, And Reuben slid The fastenings back, and the door undid. "Keep dark!" said he, "While I squint an' see what the' is to see." As knights of old put on their mail- Iron jacket and iron boot, And under the chin the bail, (I believe they called the thing a helm,) Then sallied forth to overwhelm The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm— So this modern knight Prepared for flight, Put on his wings and strapped them tight; "Hush!" Reuben said, "He's up in the shed! He's opened the winder-I see his head! Guess he don' o' who's hid in here! He's a climbin' out now—Of all the things! Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. To see The dragon! he's goin' to fly! To the ground with a thump! As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, So fell Darius. Upon his crown, In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down, And what was that? Did the gosling laugh? Darius just turned and looked that way, He said; "but the' ain't such a thunderin' sight I just have room for the MORAL here: ક JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. ES-he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 'twas Polly Fingham,) she says I never found it out till after he died, but that's the consarndest lie that ever was told, though it's jest a piece with everything else she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his memory, nobody wouldn't think I dident set store by bun. Want to hear it? Well, I'll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin's; I'll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry? How you talk! used to make lots on't; haint so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin' great cheeze, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. It says: Teach him for to proclaim Salvation to the folks; No occasion give for any blame, Nor wicked people's jokes. And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say the rest on't now, seein' there's seven and forty verses. Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it; used to sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made in relation to husband; it begins as follers : He never jawed in all his life, He never was onkind And (tho' I say it that was his wife) Such men you seldom find. (That's as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh word.) I never changed my single lot I thought 'twould be a sin (Though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 'tain't for me to say whether I ever hud a numerous number o' chances or not, but there's them livin' that might tell if they wos a mind to; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three years after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows what was the nature o' Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her "Jack at a pinch"-seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get-but I goes on to say I never changed my single lot, I thought 'twould be a sin For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott, I never got married agin. If ever a hasty word he spoke, His anger dident last, But vanished like tobacker smoke And since it was my lot to be If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in That's a fact-he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now only jest think-widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his seldom went to confrence meetin, and when he wa'n't life, and he had an awful high temper-used to swear there, who was ther' pray tell, that knowed enough to like all possest when he got mad—and I've heard my take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Ke- husband say, (and he wa'n,t a man that ever said anynipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no in- thing that wa'n't true)—I've heard him say Bill Jinkclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Bedott-and ins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! "His widder know; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he to console "-ther ain't but one more verse, tain't a continued to go to confrence meetin'; why, I've very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely says to me, says he "What did you stop so soon crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back. for?"—but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to I'd better a' stopt afore I'd begun-she's a purty critkeep his talents hid up in a napkin-so you see 'twas ter to talk so, I must say. I'd like to see some poitry from a sense o' duty he went when I was sick, what-o' hern-I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and ever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' truth in was I? Oh! If I was sick a single jot, He called the doctor in I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott A wonderful tender heart he had, That felt for all mankind It made him feel amazin' bad To see the world so blind. Whiskey and rum he tasted not That's as true as the Scripturs,—but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house, how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever! Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth-beside she always had a pertikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin'-distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See-where had I got to? Oh, I remember now Whiskey and rum he tasted not He thought it was a sin I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott I never got married agin. But now he's dead! the thought is killin', My grief I can't control He never left a single shillin' His widder to console. But that wa'n't his fault-he was so out o' health for a number o' year afore he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin'-however, it dident give him no great oneasiness-he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back-begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his house! did you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbor's husbands. He was a the hull on't-said I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on't. I conclude as follers: I'll never change my single lot I think 't would be a sin The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott Excuse my cryin'—my feelin's always overcomes me FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER. PAT'S CRITICISM. 'HERE'S a story that's old, But good if twice told, Who cured beast and man On his portal of pine And a lake where a sprite, Was sporting in sweet dishabille. Pat McCarty one day, As he sauntered that way, Saying, "Pat, how is that for a sign?" "There's wan thing," says Pat, But, to make it complate, "Ah! indeed! pray then, tell, To make it look well, What bird do you think it may lack?" Says Pat, "Of the same I've forgotten the name, But the song that he sings is 'Quack! quack!'" CHARLES F. ADAMS. SOCRATES SNOOKS. ISTER Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation, Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand, To ward off the blows which descended like rain- At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, bed?" "Hah! hah!" she exclaimed, “Mr. Socrates Snooks, "My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches?" THE RETORT. LD Birch, who taught the village school, And simple Katie sadly missed him; She shyly stole, and fondly kissed him ; And white his face alternate grew: GEORGE PERKINS MORRIS. MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT 'HERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's just like you; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows! Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, weren't you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought to by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that. It's a pity you haven't something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-and-thread in my hand; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my shirt-what do you say "ah" at? I say once, Mr., thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your Caudle; or twice, or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons then? Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's 1 how you men always will have all the talk to your- turned to me with, "Now, you little rascal, you've selves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. played truant; be off to school, or you'll rue it !" A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's "Alas!" thought I, "it is hard enough to turn a nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A grindstone, but now to be called a little rascal, is too pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if much." It sank deep into my mind, and often have poor women only knew what they had to go through! I thought of it since. When I see a merchant over What with buttons, and one thing and another! They'd polite to his customers, methinks, "That man has an never tie themselves to the best man in the world, I'm | ax to grind.” sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle?-Why, do much better without you, I'm certain. And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything! All I know is, it's very odd the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd. However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and shan't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back. Douglas Jerrold. AN AX TO GRIND. HEN I was a little boy, I remember, one cold winter morning I was accosted by a smiling man with an ax on his shoulder. "My pretty boy," said he, "has your father a grindstone?" "Yes, sir." said I. "You are a fine little fellow," said he; "will you let me grind my ax on it?" Pleased with the compliment of "fine little fellow," "Oh, yes, sir," I answered; "it is down in the shop." "And will you, my man," said he, patting me on the head, "get me a little hot water ?" How could I refuse? I ran and soon brought a kettleful. "I am sure," continued he, “you are one of the finest lads that ever I have seen; will you just turn a few minutes for me?" Pleased with the flattery, I went to work; and I toiled and tugged till I was almost tired to death. The school-bell rang, and I could not get away; my hands were blistered, and the ax was not half ground. At length, however, it was sharpened; and the man When I see a man, who is in private life a tyrant, flattering the people, and making great professions of attachment to liberty, methinks, "Look out, good people! that fellow would set you turning grind stones!" BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. KRIS KRINGLE'S SURPRISE. ITH heavy pack upon his back, W And smiles upon his face, Kris Kringle waded through the snow, His sack that made him sweat and tug Not long before, within one door, On Christmas eve he asked for leave The woolen stockings he had worn, The cunning boy, on Christmas joy He thought he'd never get them full, HENRY DAVEnport. |