807-73 
 6909 
 
 Sanborn 
 
 Wit of women
 
 \G* ,V
 
 "The Wit of Women," by Miss Kate Sanborn, [Fu\.k 
 & Wagnalls,] proves that the authoress is one of those 
 rare women who are gifted with a sense of humor. For- 
 tunately for her, the female sense of humor, when it does 
 exist, is not affected by such trifles as " chestnuts." There- 
 fore, women will read with pleasure Miss Sanborn's 
 choice collection of these dainties. There are, however, 
 many new anecdotes in Miss Sanborn's collection, and, 
 taken as a whole, it may fairly be said to establish the 
 fact that there have been feminine wits not inferior to the 
 best of the opposite sex.
 
 
 THE WIT OF WOMEN 
 
 FO UR TH EDITION 
 
 NEW YORK (04 D \ \J 
 
 FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY 
 
 LONDON AND TORONTO 
 
 1895
 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by 
 
 FUNK & WAGNALLS, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C.
 
 Miss Addie Boyd, of the Cincinnati 
 "Commercial," and Miss Anna M. T. 
 Rossiter, alias Lilla M. Cushman, of the 
 Meriden "Recorder," will probably rep- 
 resent the gentler sex in the convention 
 of paragraphers which meets next month. 
 Tney are a pair o' graphic writers and 
 equal to the best in the profession. 
 [Waterloo Observer. 
 
 INTEODUOTIOK 
 
 IT is refreshing to find an unworked field all ready for 
 harvesting. 
 
 While the wit of men, as a subject for admiration and 
 discussion, is now threadbare, the wit of women has been 
 almost utterly ignored and unrecognized. 
 
 With the joy and honest pride of a discoverer, I present 
 the results of a summer's gleaning. 
 
 And I feel a cheerful and Colonel Sellers-y confidence in 
 the success of the book, for every woman will want to own 
 it, as a matter of pride and interest, and many men will 
 buy it just to see what women think they can do in this 
 line. In fact, I expect a call for a second volume ! 
 
 KATE SANBOKN. 
 HANOVEK, N. EL, August, 1885.
 
 MY thanks are due to so many publishers, magazine 
 editors, and personal friends for material for this book, 
 that a formal note of acknowledgment seems meagre and 
 unsatisfactory. Proper credit, however, has been given 
 all through the volume, and with special indebtedness to 
 Messrs. Harper & Brothers and Charles Scribner's Sons of 
 New York, and Houghton, Mifflin & Co. of Boston. 
 I add sincere gratitude to all who have so generously 
 contributed whatever was requested.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE MELANCHOLY TONE OF WOMEN'S POETRY PUNS, GOOD 
 AND BAD EPIGRAMS AND LACONICS CYNICISM OF FRENCH 
 WOMEN SENTENCES CRISP AND SPARKLING 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 HUMOR OF LITERARY ENGLISHWOMEN 32 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 FROM ANNE BRAUSTREET TO MRS. STOWE 47 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 " SAMPLES" HERE AND THERE 67 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN 85 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 GINGER-SNAPS 103 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY 122 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 HUMOROUS POEMS 150 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 GOOD-NATURED SATIRE 179 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 PARODIES REVIEWS CHILDREN'S POEMS COMEDIES BY WOMEN 
 
 A DRAMXTIC TRTFF,E A STRING OF FIRECRACKERS.. . 195
 
 TO 
 
 G. W. B. 
 In (grateful
 
 " There was in her soul a sense of delicacy mingled with that rarest of 
 qualities in woman a sense of humor," writes Richard Grant White in 
 " The Fate of Mansfield Humphreys.' 1 '' I hate noticed that when a 
 novelist sets out to portray an uncommonly fine type of heroine, he inva- 
 riably adds to her other intellectual and moral graces the above-mentioned 
 lt rarest of qualities.' 11 I may be over-sanguine, but I anticipate that 
 some sagacious genius will discover that woman as well as man has been 
 endowed with this excellent gift from the gods, and that the gift pertains 
 to the large, generous, sympathetic nature, quite irrespective of the indi- 
 vidual's sex. In any case, having heard so repeatedly that woman has no 
 sense of humor, it would be refreshing to haw a contrariety of opinion on 
 that subject. THE CRITIC.
 
 PROEM.* 
 
 WE are coming to the rescue, 
 
 Just a hundred strong ; 
 "With fun and pun and epigram, 
 
 And laughter, wit, and song ; 
 
 With badinage and repartee, 
 
 And humor quaint or bold, 
 And stories that are stories, 
 
 Not several asons old ; 
 
 With parody and nondescript, 
 
 Burlesque and satire keen, 
 And irony and playful jest, 
 
 So that it may be seen 
 
 That women are not quite so dull : 
 
 We come a merry throng ; 
 Yes, we're coming to the rescue, 
 
 And just a hundred strong. 
 
 KATE SANBOBN. 
 * Not Poem !
 
 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE MELANCHOLY TONE OF WOMEN'S POETRY PUNS, GOOD 
 
 AND BAD EPIGRAMS AND LACONICS CYNICISM OF FRENCH 
 WOMEN SENTENCES CRISP AND SPARKLING. 
 
 To begin a deliberate search for wit seems almost like 
 trying to be witty : a task quite certain to brush the bloom 
 from even the most fruitful results. But the statement of 
 Richard Grant White, that humor is the " rarest of qualities 
 in woman," roused such a host of brilliant recollections that 
 it was a temptation to try to materialize the ghosts that 
 M'ere haunting me ; to lay forever the suspicion that they did 
 not exist. Two articles by Alice Wellington Rollins in the 
 Critic* on " Woman's Sense of Humor" and " The Humor 
 of Women," convinced me that the deliberate task might 
 not be impossible to carry out, although I felt, as she did, 
 that the humor and wit of women are difficult to analyze, 
 and select examples, precisely because they possess in the 
 highest degree that almost essential quality of wit, the un- 
 premeditated glow which exists only with the occasion that 
 calls its forth. Even from the humor of women found in 
 books it is hard to quote not because there is so little, but 
 because there is so much.
 
 14 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 The encouragement to attempt this novel enterprise of 
 proving (" by their fruits ye shall know them") that women 
 are not deficient in either wit or humor has not been great. 
 Wise librarians have, with a smile, regretted the paucity of 
 proper material ; literary men have predicted rather a thin 
 volume ; in short, the general opinion of men is condensed 
 in the sly question of a peddler who comes to our door, 
 summer and winter, his stock varying with the season : 
 sage-cheese and home-made socks, suspenders and cheap 
 note-paper, early-rose potatoes and the solid pearmain. 
 This shrewd old fellow remarked roguishly : " You're 
 gittin' up a book, I see, 'baout women's wit. 'T won't be 
 no great of an undertakin', will it ?" The outlook at first 
 was certainly discouraging. In Parton's "Collection of 
 Humorous Poetry" there was not one woman's name, nor 
 in Dodd's large volume of epigrams of all ages, nor in 
 any of the humorous departments of volumes of selected 
 poetry. 
 
 Griswold's " Female Poets of America" was next exam- 
 ined. The genera] air of gloom hopeless gloom was de- 
 pressing. Such mawkish sentimentality and despair ; such 
 inane and mortifying confessions ; such longings for a lover 
 to come ; such sighings over a lover departed ; such crav- 
 ings for " only" " only" a grave in some dark, dank soli- 
 tude. As Mrs. Dodge puts it, " Pegasus generally feels 
 inclined to pace toward a graveyard the moment he feels a 
 side-saddle on his back." 
 
 The subjects of their lucubrations suggest Lady Mon- 
 tagu's famous speech : " There was only one reason she 
 was glad she was a woman : she should never have to marry 
 one."
 
 THE MELANCHOLY TONE OF WOMEN'S POETKY. 15 
 
 From the " Female Poets" 1 copy this " Song," repre- 
 senting the average woman's versifying as regards buoyancy 
 and an optimistic view of this " Wale of Tears": 
 
 " Ask not from me the sportive jest, 
 
 The mirthful jibe, the gay reflection ; 
 These social baubles fly the breast 
 
 That owns the sway of pale Dejection. 
 
 " Ask not from me the changing smile, 
 
 Hope's sunny glow, Joy's glittering token ; 
 It cannot now my griefs beguile- 
 My soul is dark, my heart is broken ! 
 
 *' Wit cannot cheat my heart of woe, 
 
 Flattery wakes no exultation ; 
 And Fancy's flash but serves to show 
 The darkness of my desolation ! 
 
 " By me no more in masking guise 
 
 Shall thoughtless repartee be spoken ; 
 My mind a hopeless ruin lies 
 
 My soul is dark, my heart is broken !" 
 
 In recalling the witty women of the world, I must surely 
 go back, familiar as is the story, to the Grecian dame who, 
 when given some choice old wine in a tiny glass by her 
 miserly host, who boasted of the years since it had been 
 bottled, inquired, " Isn't it very small of its age ?" 
 
 This ancient story is too much in the style of the male 
 story- monger you all know him who repeats with undi- 
 minished gusto for the forty-ninth time a story that was 
 tottering in senile imbecility when Methuselah was teeth- 
 ing, and is now in a sad condition of anecdotage. 
 
 It is affirmed that " women seldom repeat an anecdote." 
 That is well, and no proof of their lack of wit. The disci-
 
 16 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 pline of life would be largely increased if they did insist on 
 being "reminded" constantly of anecdotes as familiar as 
 the hand-organ repertoire of " Captain Jinks" and " Beau- 
 tiful Spring." Their sense of humor is too keen to allow 
 them to aid these aged wanderers in their endless migra- 
 tions. It is sufficiently trying to their sense of the ludi- 
 crous to be obliged to listen with an admiring, rapt expres- 
 sion to some anecdote heard in childhood, and restrain the 
 laugh until the oft-repeated crisis has been duly reached. 
 Still, I know several women who, as brilliant raconteurs, 
 have fully equalled the efforts of celebrated after-dinner 
 wits. 
 
 It is also affirmed that " women cannot make a pun," 
 which, if true, would be greatly to their honor. But, alas ! 
 their puns are almost as frequent and quite as execrable as 
 are ever perpetrated. It was Queen Elizabeth who said : 
 " Though ye be burly, my Lord Burleigh, ye make less stir 
 than my Lord Leicester." 
 
 Lady Morgan, the Irish novelist, witty and captivating, 
 who wrote " Kate Kearney" and the " Wild Irish Girl," 
 made several good puns. Some one, speaking of the laxity 
 of a certain bishop in regard to Lenten fasting, said : " I 
 believe he would eat a horse on Aeh Wednesday." " And 
 very proper diet," said her ladyship, "if it were a. fast 
 horse. " 
 
 Her special enemy, Croker, had declared that Welling, 
 ton's success at Waterloo was only a fortunate accident, and 
 intimated that he could have done better himself, under 
 similar circumstances. "Oh, yes," exclaimed her lady- 
 ship, " he had his secret for winning the battle. He had 
 only to put his notes on Boswell's Johnson in front of the
 
 PUNS. 17 
 
 British lines, and all tlie Bonapartes that ever existed could 
 never get through them !" 
 
 " Grace Greenwood " has probably made more puns in 
 print than any other woman, and her conversation is full of 
 them. It was Grace Greenwood who, at a tea-drinking at 
 the Woman's Club in Boston, was begged to tell one more 
 story, but excused herself in this way : " No, I cannot get 
 more than one story high on a cup of tea !' ' 
 
 You see puns are allowed at that rarely intellectual assem- 
 blage indeed, they are sometimes very bad ; as when the 
 question was brought up whether better speeches could be 
 made after simple tea and toast, or under the influence of 
 champagne and oysters. Miss Mary Wadsworth replied 
 that it would depend entirely upon whether the oysters 
 were cooked or raw ; and seeing all look blank, she ex- 
 plained : " Because, if raw, we should be sure to have a 
 raw-oyster-ing time. " 
 
 Louisa Alcott's puns deserve "honorable mention." I 
 will quote one. " Query If steamers are named the Asia, 
 the Russia, and the Scotia, why not call one the Nausea f' 
 
 At a Chicago dinner-party a physician received a menu 
 card with the device of a mushroom, and showing it to the 
 lady next him, said : " I hope nothing invidious is in- 
 tended." " Oh, no," was tli3 answer, " it only alludes to 
 the fact that you spring up in the night." 
 
 A gentleman, noticeable on the porch of the sanctuary as 
 the pretty girls came in on Sabbath mornings, but not 
 regarded as a devout attendant on the services within, 
 declared that he was one of the " pillars of the church !" 
 " Pillar-sham, I am inclined to think," was the retort of a 
 lady friend.
 
 18 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 To a lady who, in reply to a gentleman's assertion that 
 women sometimes made a good pun, but required time to 
 think about it, had said that she could make a pun as 
 quickly as any man, the gentleman threw down this chal- 
 lenge : " Make a pun, then, on horse-shoe." " If you talk 
 until you're horse-shoe can't convince me," was the instant 
 answer. 
 
 The best punning poem from a woman's pen was written 
 by Miss Caroline B. Le Row, of Brooklyn, N. Y., a teacher 
 of elocution, and the writer of many charming stories and 
 verses. It was suggested by a study in butter of " The 
 Dreaming lolanthe,' ' moulded by Caroline S. Brooks on a 
 kitchen-table, and exhibited at the Centennial in Philadel- 
 phia. I do not remember any other poem in the language 
 that rings so many changes on a single word. It was pub- 
 lished first in Baldwin's Monthly, but ran the rounds of 
 the papers all over the country. 
 
 I. 
 
 " One of the Centennial buildings 
 
 Shows us many a wondrous thing 
 Which the women of our country. 
 
 From their homes were proud to bring. 
 In a little corner, guarded 
 
 By Policeman Twenty-eight, 
 Stands a crowd, all eyes and elbows, 
 
 Seeing butter butter-plate 
 
 II. 
 
 " "Tis not ' butter faded flower ' 
 
 That the people throng to see, 
 Butter crowd comes every hour, 
 Nothing butter crowd we see.
 
 PUNS. 19 
 
 Butter little pushing brings us 
 Where we find, to our surprise, 
 
 That within the crowded corner 
 Butter dreaming woman lies. 
 
 III. 
 " Though she lies, she don't deceive us, 
 
 As it might at first be thought ; 
 This fair maid is made of butter, 
 
 On a kitchen-table wrought. 
 Nothing butter butter-paddle, 
 
 Sticks and straws were used to bring 
 Out of just nine pounds of butter 
 Butter fascinating thing. 
 
 IV. 
 " Butter maid or made of butter, 
 
 She is butter wonder rare ; 
 Butter sweet eyes closed in slumber, 
 
 Butter soft and yellow hair, 
 Were the work of butter woman 
 
 Just two thousand miles away ; 
 Butter fortune's in the features 
 That she made in butter stay. 
 
 V. 
 " Maid of all work, maid of honor, 
 
 'Whatsoever she may be, 
 She is butter wondrous worker, 
 As the crowd can plainly see. 
 And 'tis butter woman shows us 
 What with butter can be done, 
 Nothing butter hands producing 
 Something new beneath the sun. 
 
 VI. 
 " Butter line we add in closing, 
 
 Which none butter could refuse : 
 May her work be butter pleasure* 
 Nothing butter butter use ;
 
 20 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 May she never need for butter, 
 
 Though she'll often knead for bread, 
 
 And may every churning bring her 
 Butter blessing on her head." 
 
 The second and last example is much more common in its 
 form, but is just as good as most of the verses of this style 
 in Parton's " Humorous Poetry." I don't pretend that it is 
 remarkable, but it is equally worthy of presentation with 
 many efforts of this sort from men with a reputation for 
 wit. 
 
 THE VEGETABLE GIKL. 
 
 BY MAY TAYLOR. 
 
 Behind a market-stall installed, 
 
 I mark it every day, 
 Stands at her stand the fairest girl 
 
 I've met within the bay ; 
 Her two lips are of cherry red, 
 
 Her hands a pretty pair, 
 With such a charming turn-up nose, 
 
 And lovely reddish hair. 
 
 'Tis there she stands from morn till night, 
 
 Her customers to please, 
 And to appease their appetite 
 
 She sells them beans and peas. 
 Attracted by the glances from 
 
 The apple of her eye, 
 And by her Chili apples, too, 
 
 Each passer-by will buy. 
 
 She stands upon her little feet 
 
 Throughout the livelong day, 
 And sells her celery and things 
 
 A big feat, by the way.
 
 EPIGRAMS AND LACONICS. 21 
 
 She changes off her stock for change, 
 
 Attending to each call ; 
 And when she has but one beet left, 
 
 She says, " Now, that beats all." 
 
 As to puns in conversation, my only fear is that they are 
 too generally indulged in. Only one of this sort can be 
 allowed, and that from the highest lady in the land, who is 
 distinguished for culture and good sense, as well as wit. A 
 friend said to her as she was leaving Buffalo for Washing- 
 ton : " I hope you will hail from Buffalo." 
 
 ' ' Oh, I see you expect me to hail from Buffalo and reign 
 in Washington," said the quick-witted sister of our Presi- 
 dent. 
 
 In epigrams there is little to offer. But as it is stated 
 that "women cannot achieve a well-rounded epigram," a 
 few specimens must be produced. 
 
 Jane Austen has left two on record. The first was sug- 
 gested by reading in a newspaper the marriage of a Mr. 
 Gell to Miss Gill, of Eastborne. 
 
 "At Eastborne, Mr. Gell, from being perfectly well, 
 Became dreadfully ill for love of Miss Gill ; 
 So he said, with some sighs, 'I'm the slave of your iis ; 
 Oh, restore, if you please, by accepting my ees.' " 
 
 The second is on the marriage of a middle-aged flirt with 
 a Mr. Wake, whom gossips averred she would have scorned 
 in her prime. 
 
 " Maria, good-humored and handsome and tall, 
 
 For a husband was at her last stake ; 
 And having in vain danced at many a ball, 
 Is now happy to jump at a Wake."
 
 22 THE \VIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 It was Lady Tovvnsend who said that the human race was 
 divided into men, women, and Herveys. This epigram has 
 been borrowed in our day, substituting for Herveys the 
 Beecher family. 
 
 When some one said of a lady she must be in spirits, for 
 she lives with Mr. Walpole, " Yes," replied Lady Town- 
 send, " spirits of hartshorn." 
 
 Walpole, caustic and critical, regarded this lady as unde- 
 niably witty. 
 
 It was Hannah More who said : i ' There are but two bad 
 things in this world sin and bile." 
 
 Miss Thackeray quotes several epigrammatic definitions 
 from her friend Miss Evans, as : 
 
 " A privileged person : one who is so much a savage 
 when thwarted that civilized persons avoid thwarting him." 
 
 "A musical woman : one who has strength enough to 
 make much noise and obtuseness enough not to mind it." 
 
 " Ouida" has given us some excellent examples of epi- 
 gram, as : 
 
 " A pipe is a pocket philosopher, a truer one than Socrates, 
 for it never asks questions. Socrates must have been very 
 tiresome, when one thinks of it." 
 
 " Dinna ye meddle, Tarn ; it's niver no good a threshin' 
 other folks' corn ; ye allays gits the flail agin' i' yer own 
 .eye somehow." 
 
 " Epigrams are the salts of life ; but they wither up the 
 .grasses of foolishness, and naturally the grasses hate to be 
 sprinkled therewith. ' ' 
 
 " A man never is so honest as when he speaks well of him- 
 self. Men are always optimists when they look inward, 
 arid pessimists when they look round them. "
 
 CYNICISM OF FRENCH WOMEN. 23 
 
 " Nothing is so pleasant as to display your worldly wisdom 
 in epigram and dissertation, but it is a trifle tedious to hear 
 another person display theirs." 
 
 " When you talk yourself you think how witty, how orig- 
 inal, how acute you are ; but when another does so, you are 
 very apt to think only, ' What a crib from Rochefou- 
 cauld !'" 
 
 ' ' Boredom is the ill-natured pebble that always will get in 
 the golden slipper of the pilgrim of pleasure." 
 
 " It makes all the difference in life whether hope is left 
 or left out !" 
 
 ' ' A frog that dwelt in a ditch spat at a worm that bore a 
 lamp. 
 
 " ' Why do you do that ? ' said the glow-worm. 
 
 " ' Why do you shine ? ' said the frog." 
 
 ' ' Calumny is the homage of our contemporaries, as some 
 South Sea Islanders spit on those they honor." 
 
 " Hived bees get sugar because they will give back honey. 
 All existence is a series of equivalents." 
 
 "'Men are always like Horace,' said the Princess. 
 ' They admire rural life, but they remain, for all that, with 
 Augustus.' ' 
 
 " If the Venus de Medici could be animated into life, 
 women would only remark that her waist was large." 
 
 The brilliant Frenchwomen whose very names seem 
 to sparkle as we write them, yet of whose wit so little 
 has been preserved, had an especial facility for condensed 
 cynicism. 
 
 Think of Madame du Deffand, sceptical, sarcastic ; feared 
 and hated even in her blind old age for her scathing criti-
 
 2 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 cisms. When the celebrated work of Helvetius appeared 
 he was blamed in her presence for having made selfishness 
 the great motive of human action. 
 
 " Bah !" said she, " he has only revealed every one's 
 secret." 
 
 And listen to this trio of laconics, with their saddening 
 knowledge of human frailty and their bitter Voltaireish 
 flavor : 
 
 We shall all be perfectly virtuous when there is no longer 
 any flesh on our bones. Marguerite de Valois. 
 
 We like to know the weakness of eminent persons ; it 
 consoles us for our inferiority. Mme. de Lambert. 
 
 Women give themselves to God when the devil wants 
 nothing more to do with them. Sophie Arnould. 
 
 Madame de Sevigne's letters present detached thoughts 
 worthy of Rochefoucauld without his cynicism. She writes : 
 " One loves so much to talk of one's self that one never tires 
 of a tete-a-tete with a lover for years. That is the reason 
 that a devotee likes to be with her confessor. It is for the 
 pleasure of talking of one's self even though speaking evil. " 
 And she remarks to a lady who amused her friends by always 
 going into mourning for some prince, or duke, or member of 
 some royal family, and who at last appeared in bright colors, 
 " Madame, I congratulate myself on the health of Europe." 
 
 1 find, too, many fine aphorisms from " Carmen Sylva" 
 (Queen of Roumania) : 
 
 " 11 vaut mieux avoir pour confesseur un medecin qu'un 
 pretre. Vous dites au pretre que vous detestez les hommes, 
 il vous reponds que vous n'etes pas chretien. Le medecin 
 vous donne de la rhubarbe, et voila que vous aimez votre 
 semblable."
 
 SOME WITTY ENGLISHWOMEN. 25 
 
 " Vous dites an pretre que vous etes fatigue de vivre ; il 
 vous reponds que le suicide est un crime. Le medecin vous 
 donne un stimulant, et voila que vous trouvez la vie suppor- 
 table." 
 
 " La contradiction anime la conversation ; voila pourquoi 
 les cours sont si ennuyeuses. " 
 
 " Quand on veut affirmer quelqne chose, on appelle tou- 
 jours Dieu a temoin, parce qu'il m 1 contredit jamais." 
 
 " On ne peut jamais etre fatigue de la vie, on n'est fatigue 
 que de soi-meme. " 
 
 " II faut etre on tres-pieux on tres-philosophe ! il faut 
 dire : Seigneur, que ta volonte soit faite ! ou : Mature, 
 j'admets tes lois, ineme lorsqu'elles m ecrasent. " 
 
 " L'homme est un violon. Ce n'est qne lorsque sa 
 derniere corde se brise qu'il devient un morceau de bois." 
 
 In the recently published sketch of Madame Mohl there 
 are several sentences which show trenchant wit, as : "Na- 
 tions squint in looking at one another ; we must discount 
 what Germany and France say of each other." 
 
 Several Englishwomen can be recalled who were noted 
 for their epigrammatic wit : as Harriet, Lady Ashburton. 
 On some one saying that liars generally speak good-nat- 
 uredly of others, she replied : " Why, if you don't speak a 
 word of truth, it is not so difficult to speak well of your 
 neighbor." 
 
 " Don't speak so hardly of , " some one said to her ; 
 
 " he lives on your good graces.' ' 
 
 " That accounts," she answered, " for his being so thin." 
 
 Again : " I don't mind the canvas of a man's mind being 
 good, if only it is completely hidden by the worsted and 
 floss."
 
 26 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Or : " She never speaks to any one, which is, of course, 
 a great advantage to any one." 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle was an epigram herself small, sweet, yet 
 possessing a sting and her letters give us many sharp and 
 original sayings. 
 
 She speaks in one place of " Mrs. , an insupport- 
 able bore ; her neck and arms were as naked as if she had 
 never eaten of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil." 
 
 And what a comical phrase is hers when she writes to her 
 "Dearest" "I take time by the pig-tail and write at 
 night, after post- hours 1 ' that growling, surly "dearest," 
 of whom she said, " The amount of bile that he brings 
 home is awfully grand." 
 
 For a veritable epigram from an American woman's pen 
 we must rely on Hannah F. Gould, who wrote many verses 
 that were rather graceful and arch than witty. But her 
 epitaph on her friend, the active and aggressive Caleb 
 Gushing, is as good as any made by Saxe. 
 
 " Lay aside, all ye dead, 
 For in the next bed 
 
 Reposes the body of Gushing ; 
 He has crowded his way 
 Through the world, they say, 
 
 And even though dead will be pushing." 
 
 Such a hit from a bright woman is refreshing. 
 
 Our literary foremothers seemed to prefer to be pedantic, 
 didactic, and tedious on the printed page. 
 
 Catharine Sedgwick dealt somewhat in epigram, as when 
 she says : " He was not one of those convenient single peo- 
 ple who are used, as we use straw and cotton in packing, to 
 fill up vacant places."
 
 EPIGRAMMATIC SENTENCES. 27 
 
 Eliza Leslie (famed for her cook-books and her satiric 
 sketches), when speaking of people silent from stupidity, 
 supposed kindly to be full of reserved power, says : " We 
 cannot help thinking that when a head is full of ideas some 
 of them must involuntarily ooze out. " 
 
 And is not this epigrammatic advice ? " Avoid giving 
 invitations to bores they will come without." 
 
 Some of our later literary women prefer the epigrammatic 
 form in sentences, crisp and laconic ; short sayings full of 
 pith, of which I have made a collection. 
 
 Gail Hamilton's books fairly bristle with epigrams in 
 condensed style, and Kate Field has many a good thought 
 in this shape, as : " Judge no one by his relations, whatever 
 criticism you pass upon his companions. Relations, like 
 features, are thrust upon us ; companions, like clothes, are 
 more or less our own selection." 
 
 Miss Jewett's style is less epigrammatic, but just as full of 
 humor. Speaking of a person who was always complaining, 
 she says : " Xothing ever suits her. She ain't had no more 
 troubles to bear than the rest of us ; but you never see her 
 that she didn't have a chapter to lay before ye. I've got 's 
 much feelin' as the next one, but when folks drives in their 
 spiggits and wants to draw a bucketful o' compassion every 
 day right straight along, there does come times when it 
 seems as if the bar'l was getting low." 
 
 " The captain, whose eyes were not much better than his 
 ears, always refused to go forth after nightfall without his 
 lantern. The old couple steered slowly down the uneven 
 sidewalk toward their cousin's house. The captain walked 
 with a solemn, rolling gait, learned in his many long years 
 at sea, and his wife, who was also short and stout, had
 
 28 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 caught the habit from him. If they kept step all went 
 well ; but on this occasion, as sometimes happened, they 
 did not take the first step out into the world together, so 
 they swayed apart, and then bumped against each other as 
 they went along. To see the lantern coming through the 
 mist you might have thought it the light of a small craft at 
 sea in heavy weather." 
 
 " Deaf people hear more things that are worth listening 
 to than people with better ears ; one likes to have some- 
 thing worth telling in talking to a person who misses most 
 of the world's talk." 
 
 " Emory Ann," a creation of Mrs. Whitney's, often spoke 
 in epigrams, as : " Good looks are a snare ; especially to 
 them that haven't got 'em." While Mrs. Walker's creed, 
 "I believe in the total depravity of inanimate things," is 
 more than an epigram it is an inspiration. 
 
 Charlotte Fiske Bates, who compiled the u Cambridge 
 Book of Poetry," and has given us a charming volume of 
 her own verses, which no one runs any " Risk" in buying, 
 in spite of the title of the book, has done a good deal 
 in this direction, and is fond of giving an epigrammatic 
 turn to a bright thought, as in the following couplet : 
 
 " "Would you sketch in two words a coquette and deceiver ? 
 Name two Irish geniuses, Lover and Lever !" 
 
 She also succeeds with the quatrain : 
 
 ON BEING CALLED A GOOSE. 
 
 A signal name is this, upon my word ! 
 
 Great Juno's geese saved Rome her citadel. 
 Another drowsy Manlius may be stirred 
 
 And the State saved, if I but cackle well.
 
 EPIGRAMS FROM AMERICAN WOMEN. 29 
 
 I recall a charming jeu d" 1 esprit from Mrs. Barrows, the 
 beloved " Aunt Fanny," who writes equally well for chil- 
 dren and grown folks, and whose big heart ranges from 
 earnest philanthropy to the perpetration of exquisite non- 
 sense. 
 
 It is but a trifle, sent with a couple of peanut-owls to a 
 niece of Bryant's. The aged poet was greatly amused. 
 
 " When great Minerva chose the Owl, 
 
 That bird of solemn phiz, 
 That truly awful-looking fowl, 
 
 To represent her wis- 
 Doin, little recked the goddess of 
 
 The time when she would howl 
 To see a Peanut set on end, 
 
 And called Minerva's Owl." 
 
 Miss Phelps has given us some sentences which convey 
 an epigram in a keen and delicate fashion, as : 
 
 " All forms of self-pity, like Prussian blue, should be 
 sparingly used." 
 
 " As a rule, a man can't cultivate his mustache and his 
 talents impartially." 
 
 " As happy as a kind-hearted old lady with a funeral to 
 go to." 
 
 " No men are so fussy about what they eat as those who 
 think their brains the biggest part of them." 
 
 " The professor's sister, a homeless widow, of excellent 
 Vermont intentions and high ideals in cup-cake." 
 
 And this longer extract has the same characteristics : 
 
 ' ' You know how it is with people, Avis ; some take to 
 zoology, and some take to religion. That's the way it is 
 with places. It may be the Lancers, and it may be prayer-
 
 30 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 meetings. Once I went to see my grandmother in the 
 country, and everybody had a candy-pull ; there were 
 twenty-five candy-pulls and taffy- bakes in that town that 
 winter. John Rose says, in the Connecticut Valley, where 
 he came from, it was missionary barrels ; and I heard of a 
 place where it was cold coffee. In Harmouth it's improv- 
 ing your mind. And so," added Goy, " we run to read- 
 ing clubs, and we all go fierce, winter after winter, to see 
 who'll get the ' severest. ' There's a set outside of the 
 faculty that descends to charades and music and inconceiv- 
 ably low intellectual depths ; and some of our girls sneak 
 off and get in there once in a while, like the little girl that 
 wanted to go from heaven to hell to play Saturday after- 
 noons, just as you and I used to do, Avis, when we dared. 
 But I find I've got too old for that," said Coy, sadly. 
 " When you're fairly past the college- boys, and as far along 
 as the law students " 
 
 " Or the theologues ?" interposed Avis. 
 
 " Yes, or the theologues, or even the medical depart- 
 ment ; then there positively is nothing for it but to im- 
 prove your mind." 
 
 Listen to Lavinia, one of Mrs. Rose Terry Cooke's sensi- 
 ble Yankee women : 
 
 " Land ! if you want to know folks, just hire out to 'em. 
 They take their wigs off afore the help, so to speak, seem- 
 ingly." 
 
 " Marryin' a man ain't like settin' alongside of him 
 nights and hearin' him talk pretty ; that's the fust prayer. 
 There's lots an' lots o' meetin' after that !" 
 
 And what an amount of sense, as well as wit, in Sam 
 Lawson's sayings in " Old Town Folks." As this book is
 
 EPIGRAMS FROM AMERICAN WOMEN. 31 
 
 not to be as large as Worcester's Unabridged Dictionary, I 
 can only give room to one. 
 
 " We don't none of us like to have our sins set in order 
 afore us. There was David, now, he was crank as could 
 be when he thought Nathan was a talkin' about other peo- 
 ple's sins. Says David : ' The man that did that shall 
 surely die. ' But come to set it home and say, ' Thou art the 
 man ! ' David caved right in. ' Lordy massy, bless your 
 soul and body, Xathan ! ' says he, ' I don't want to die. ' ' 
 
 And Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney must not be forgotten. " As 
 Emory Ann said once about thoughts : ' You can't hinder 
 'em any more than you can the birds that fly in the air ; but 
 you needn't let 'em light and make a nest in your hair.' : 
 
 And what a capital hit on the hypocritical apologies of 
 conceited housekeepers is this bit from Mrs. Whicher 
 (" Widow Bedott") : " A person that didn't know how 
 wimmin always go on at such a place would a thought that 
 Miss Gipson had tried to have everything the miserablest 
 she possibly could, and that the rest on 'em never had any- 
 thing to hum but what was miserabler yet." 
 
 And Marietta Holley, who has caused a tidal-wave of 
 laughter by her " Josiah Allen's Wife" series, shall have 
 her say. 
 
 " We, too, are posterity, though mebby we don't realize 
 it as we ort to. ' ' 
 
 "She didn't seem to sense anything, only ruffles and 
 such like. Her mind all seemed to be narrowed down and 
 puckered up, just like trimmin'." 
 
 But 1 must have convinced the most sceptical of woman's 
 wit in epigrammatic form, and will now return to an older 
 generation, who claim a fair share of attention.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HUMOR OF LITERAEY ENGLISHWOMEN. 
 
 IN reviewing the Ion-mots of Stella, whom Swift pro- 
 nounced the most witty woman he had ever known, it 
 seems that we are improving. I will give but two of her 
 sayings, which were so carefully preserved by her friend. 
 
 When she was extremely ill her physician said, 
 " Madam, you are near the bottom of the hill, but we will 
 endeavor to get you up again ;" she answered : " Doctor, I 
 fear I shall be out of breath before I get up to the top." 
 
 After she had been eating some sweet thing a little of it 
 happened to stick on her lips. A gentleman told her of it, 
 and offered to lick it off. She said : " No, sir, I thank 
 you ; I have a tongue of my own." 
 
 Compare these with the wit of George Eliot or the irony 
 of Miss Phelps. 
 
 Some of Jane Taylor's stories and poems were formerly 
 regarded as humorous ; for instance, the " Discontented 
 Pendulum" and the "Philosopher's Scales." They do 
 not now raise the faintest smile. 
 
 Fanny Burney's novels were considered immensely 
 humorous and diverting in their day. Burke complimented 
 her on " her natural vein of humor," and another eminent 
 critic speaks of " her sarcasm, drollery, and humor ;" but 
 it would be almost impossible to find a passage for quota-
 
 HUMOR OF LITERARY ENGLISHWOMEN. 33 
 
 tion that would now satisfy on these points. Even Jane 
 Austen's novels, which strangely retain their hold on the 
 public taste, are tedious to those who dare to think for 
 themselves and forget Macaulay's verdict. 
 
 Mrs. Barbauld, in her poem on " Washing Day," shows 
 a capacity seldom exercised for seeing the humorous side of 
 every-day miseries. 
 
 " Woe to the friend 
 
 Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim 
 On such a day the hospitable rites ! 
 Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy 
 Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes 
 With dinner of roast chicken, savory pie, 
 Or tart, or pudding ; pudding he nor tart 
 That day shall eat ; nor, though the husband try 
 Mending what can't be helped to kindle mirth 
 From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow 
 Cheer up propitious ; the unlucky guest 
 In silence dines, and early slinks away." 
 
 But her style is too stiff and stately for every day. 
 
 There were many literary Englishwomen who had un- 
 doubted humor. Hannah More did get unendurably poky, 
 narrow, and solemn in her last days, and not a little sancti- 
 monious ; and we naturally think of her as an aged spinster 
 with black mitts, corkscrew curls, and a mob cap, always 
 writing or presenting a tedious tract, forgetting her brilliant 
 youth, when she was quite good enough, and lively, too. 
 She was a perennial favorite in London, meeting all the 
 notables ; the special pet of Dr. Johnson, Davy Garrick, 
 and Horace Walpole, who called her his " holy Hannah," 
 but admired and honored her, corresponding with her 
 through a long life. She was then full of spirit and humor
 
 34: THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 and versatile talent. An extract from her sisters lively 
 letter shows that Hannah could hold her own with the Ursa 
 Major of literature : 
 
 " Tuesday evening we drank tea at Sir Joshua's with 
 Dr. Johnson. Hannah is certainly a great favorite. She 
 was placed next him, and they had the entire conversation 
 to themselves. They were both in remarkably high spirits. 
 It was certainly her lucky night. I never heard her say so 
 many good things. The old genius was extremely jocular, 
 and the young one very pleasant. You would have imagined 
 we had been at some comedy had you heard our peals of 
 laughter. They, indeed, tried which could pepper the high- 
 est, and it is not clear to me that the lexicographer was really 
 the highest seasoner. ' ' 
 
 And how deliciously does she set out the absurdity then 
 prevailing, and seen now in editions of Shakespeare and 
 Chaucer, of writing books, the bulk of which consists of 
 notes, with only a line or two at the top of each page of the 
 original text. 
 
 It seems that a merry party at Dr. Kennicott's had each 
 adopted the name of some animal. Dr. K. was the ele- 
 phant ; Mrs. K., dromedary ; Miss Adams, antelope ; and 
 H. More, rhinoceros. 
 
 " HAMPTON, December 24, 1728. 
 
 " DEAR DKOMY (a) : Pray, send word if Anie (b) is come, and also how 
 Ele (c) does, to your very affectionate KHYNEY' ' (d). 
 
 " The following notes on the above epistle are by a com- 
 mentator of the latter end of the nineteenth century. This 
 epistle is all that is come down to us of this voluminous 
 author, and is probably the only thing she ever wrote that
 
 HUMOR OF LITERARY ENGLISHWOMEN. 35 
 
 was worth preserving, or which might reasonably expect to 
 reach posterity. Her name is only presented to us in some 
 beautiful hendecasyllables written by the best Latin poet 
 of his time (Bishop Lowth) : 
 
 Note (a). 
 
 " Dromy. From the termination of this address it seems to have been 
 written to a woman, though there is no internal evidence to support this 
 hypothesis. The best critics are much puzzled about the orthography of 
 this abbreviation. Wartonius and other skilful etymologists contend 
 that it ought to be spelled drummy, being addressed to a lady who was 
 probably fond of warlike instruments, and who had a singular predilec- 
 tion for a canon. Drummy, say they, was a tender diminutive of drum, 
 as the best authors in their more familiar writings now begin to use 
 gunny for gun. But Hardlus, a contemporary critic, contends, with 
 more probability, that it ought to be written Drome, from hippodrome ; 
 a learned leech and elegant bard of Bath having left it on record that 
 this lady spent much of her time at the riding-school, being a very ex- 
 quisite judge of horsemanship Colmanus and Horatius Strawberryensis 
 insist that it ought to be written Dromo, in reference to the Dromo Sora- 
 sius of the Latin dramatist. 
 
 Note (b). 
 
 " Ante. Scaliger 2d says this name simply signifies the appellation of 
 uncle's wife, and ought to be written Aunty. But here, again, are various 
 readings. Philologists of yet greater name affirm that it was meant to 
 designate pre-eminence, and therefore ought to be written ante, before, 
 from the Latin, a language now pretty well forgotten, though the authors 
 who wrote in it are still preserved in French translations. The younger 
 Madame Dacier insists that this Udy was against all men, and that it. 
 ought to be spelled anti ; but this Kennicotus, a rabbi of the most recon- 
 dite learning, with much critical wrath, vehemently contradicts, affirm- 
 ing it to have been impossible she could have been against mankind 
 whom all mankind admired. He adds that ante is for antelope, and is 
 emblematically used to express an elegant and slender animal, or that it 
 is an elongation of ant, the emblem of virtuous citizenship. " 
 
 And so she continues her comments to close of notes.
 
 36 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Mrs. Gaskell's "Cranford" is full of the most delicate 
 but veritable humor, as her allusion to the genteel and 
 cheerful poverty of the lady who, in giving a tea-party, 
 " now sat in state, pretending not to know what cakes were 
 sent up, though she knew, and we knew, and she knew that 
 we knew ; and we knew that she knew that we knew she 
 had been busy all the morning making tea-bread and 
 sponge-cakes." 
 
 The humor of Mary Russell Mitford, quiet and delectable, 
 must not be forgotten. We will sympathize with her woes 
 as she describes a visitation from 
 
 THE TALKING LADY. 
 
 " Ben Jonson has a play called The Silent Woman, who 
 turns out, as might be expected, to be no woman at all 
 nothing, as Master Slender said, but ' a great lubberly boy,' 
 thereby, as I apprehend, discourteously presuming that a 
 silent woman is a nonentity. If the learned dramatist, thus 
 happily prepared and predisposed, had happened to fall in 
 with such a specimen of female loquacity as I have just 
 parted with, he might, perhaps, have given us a pendant to 
 his picture in the talking lady. Pity but he had ! He 
 would have done her justice, which I could not at any 
 time, least of all now ; I atn too much stunned, too much 
 like one escaped from a belfry on a coronation day. I am 
 just resting from the fatigue of four days' hard listening 
 four snowy, sleety, rainy days ; days of every variety of 
 falling weather, all of them too bad to admit the possibility 
 that any petticoated thing, were she as hardy as a Scotch 
 fir, should stir out ; four days chained by ' sad civility ' to
 
 HUMOR OF LITERARY ENGLISHWOMEN. 37 
 
 that fireside, once so quiet, and again cheering thought ! 
 again I trust to be so when the echo of that visitor's inces- 
 sant tongue shall have died away. . . . 
 
 " She took us in her way from London to the west of 
 England, and being, as she wrote, ' not quite well, not 
 equal to much company, prayed that no other guest might 
 be admitted, so that she might have the pleasure of our 
 conversation all to herself (purs ! as if it were possible for 
 any of us to slide in a word edgewise !), and especially 
 enjoy the gratification of talking over old times with the 
 master of the house, her countryman. ' 
 
 " Such was the promise of her letter, and to the letter it 
 has been kept. All the news and scandal of a large county 
 forty years ago, and a hundred years before, and ever 
 since ; all the marriages, deaths,, births, elopements, law- 
 suits, and casualties of her own times, her father's, grand- 
 father's, great-grandfathers, nephews', and grandnephews' , 
 has she detailed with a minuteness, an accuracy, a prodigal- 
 ity of learning, a profuseness of proper names, a pedantry 
 of locality, which would excite the envy of a county histo- 
 rian, a king-at-arms, or even a Scotch novelist. 
 
 " Her knowledge is most astonishing ; but the most 
 astonishing part of all is how she came by that knowledge. 
 It should seern, to listen to her, as if at some time of her 
 life she must have listened herself ; and yet her countryman 
 declares that in the forty years he has known her, no such 
 event has occurred ; and she knows new news, too ! It 
 must be intuition ! . . . 
 
 " The very weather is not a safe subject. Her memory 
 is a perpetual register of hard frosts and long droughts, and 
 high winds and terrible storms, with all the evils that fol-
 
 38 THE WIT OF WOMKX. 
 
 lowed in their train, and all the personal events connected 
 with them ; so that, if you happen to remark that clouds 
 are come up and you fear it may rain, she replies : ' Ay, it 
 is just such a morning as three-and-thirty years ago, when 
 my poor cousin was married you remember my cousin 
 Barbara ; she married so-and-so, the son of so-and-so ; ' and 
 then comes the whole pedigree of the bridegroom, the 
 amount of the settlements, and the reading and signing 
 them overnight ; a description of the wedding-dresses in 
 the style of Sir Charles Grandison, and how much the 
 bride's gown cost per yard ; the names, residences, and a 
 short subsequent history of the bridesmaids and men, the 
 gentleman who gave the bride away, and the clergyman 
 who performed the ceremony, with a learned antiquarian 
 digression relative to the church ; then the setting out in 
 procession ; the marriage, the kissing, the crying, the break- 
 fasting, the drawing the cake through the ring, and, finally, 
 the bridal excursion, which brings us back again, at an hour's 
 end, to the starting-post, the weather, and the whole story 
 of the sopping, the drying, the clothes-spoiling, the cold- 
 catching, and all the small evils of a summer shower. By 
 this time it rains, and she sits down to a pathetic see-saw of 
 conjectures on the chance of Mrs. Smith's having set out 
 for her daily walk, or the possibility that Dr. Brown may 
 have ventured to visit his patients in his gig, and the cer- 
 tainty that Lady Green's new housemaid would come from 
 London on the outside of the coach. . . . 
 
 " I wonder, if she had happened to be married, how 
 many husbands she would have talked to death. It is cer- 
 tain that none of her relatives are long-lived, after she 
 comes to reside with them. Father, mother, uncle, sister,
 
 HUMOR OF LITERAKY ENGLISHWOMEN. 39 
 
 brother, two nephews, and one niece, all these have suc- 
 cessively passed away, though a healthy race, and with no 
 visible disorder except But we must not be unchari- 
 table." 
 
 Mary Ferrier, the Scotch novelist, was gifted with genial 
 wit and a quick sense of the ludicrous. Walter Scott ad- 
 mired her greatly, and as a lively guest at Abbotsford she 
 did much to relieve the sadness of his last days. He said 
 of her : 
 
 " She is a gifted personage, having, besides her great 
 talents, conversation the least exigeante of any author, 
 female at least, whom I have ever seen, among the long list 
 I have encountered. Simple and full of humor, and ex- 
 ceedingly ready at repartee ; and all this without the least 
 affectation of the blue-stocking. The general strain of her 
 writing relates to the foibles and oddities of mankind, and 
 no one has drawn them with greater breadth of comic 
 humor or effect. Her scenes often resemble the style of our 
 best old comedies, and she may boast, like Foote, of adding 
 many new and original characters to the stock of our comic 
 literature." 
 
 Here is one of her admirably-drawn portraits : 
 
 THE SENSIBLE WOMAN. 
 
 " Miss Jacky, the senior of the trio, was what is reck- 
 oned a very sensible woman which generally means a very 
 disagreeable, obstinate, illiberal director of all men, women, 
 and children a sort of superintendent of all actions, time, 
 and place, with unquestioned authority to arraign, judge,
 
 40 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 and condemn upon the statutes of her own supposed sense. 
 Most country parishes have their sensible woman, who lays 
 down the law on all affairs, spiritual and temporal. Miss 
 Jacky stood unrivalled as the sensible woman of Glenfern. 
 She had attained this eminence partly from having a little 
 more understanding than her sisters, but principally from 
 her dictatorial manner, and the pompous, decisive tone in 
 which she delivered the most commonplace truths. At 
 home her supremacy in all matters of sense was perfectly 
 established ; and thence the infection, like other supersti- 
 tions, had spread over the whole neighborhood. As a 
 sensible woman she regulated the family, which she took 
 care to let everybody hear ; she was a sort of postmistress- 
 general, a detector of all abuses and impositions, and deemed 
 it her prerogati ve to be consulted about all the useful and 
 useless things which everybody else could have done as well. 
 She was liberal of her advice to the poor, always enforcing 
 upon them the iniquity of idleness, but doing nothing for 
 them in the way of employment, strict economy being one 
 of the many points in which she was particularly sensible. 
 The consequence was that, while she was lecturing half the 
 poor women in the parish for their idleness, the bread was 
 kept out of their mouths by the incessant carding of wool, 
 and knitting of stockings, and spinning, and reeling, and 
 winding, and pirning, that went on among the ladies them- 
 selves. And, by the by, Miss Jacky is not the only sensi- 
 ble woman who thinks she is acting a meritorious part when 
 she converts what ought to be the portion of the poor into 
 the employment of the affluent. 
 
 " In short, Miss Jacky was all over sense. A skilful 
 physiognomist would at a single glance have detected the
 
 HDMOK OF LITERARY ENGLISHWOMEN. 41 
 
 sensible woman in the erect head, the compressed lips, 
 square elbows, and firm, judicious step. Even her very 
 garments seemed to partake of the prevailing character of 
 their mistress. Her ruff always looked more sensible than 
 any other body's ; her shawl sat most sensibly on her shoul- 
 ders ; her walking-shoes were acknowledged to be very 
 sensible, and she drew on her gloves with an air of sense, as 
 if the one arm had been Seneca, the other Socrates. From 
 what has been said it may easily be inferred that Miss Jacky 
 was, in fact, anything but a sensible woman, as, indeed, no 
 woman can be who bears such visible outward marks of 
 what is in reality the most quiet and unostentatious of all 
 good qualities." 
 
 Frederika Bremer, the Swedish novelist, whose novels 
 have been translated into English, German, French, and 
 Dutch, had a style peculiarly her own. Her humor reminds 
 me of a bed of mignonette, with its delicate yet permeating 
 fragrance. One paragraph, like one spray of that shy 
 flower, scarcely reveals the dainty flavor. 
 
 From the " Neighbors," her best story, and one that still 
 has a moderate sale, I take her description of Franziska's 
 first little lover-like quarrel with her adoring husband, the 
 " Bear." (Let us remember Miss Bremer with appreciation 
 and gratitude, as one of the very few visitors we have enter- 
 tained who have written kindly of our country and our 
 " Homes.") 
 
 THE FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 " Here I am again sitting with a pen in my hand, im- 
 pelled by a desire for writing, yet with nothing particular
 
 42 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 to write about. Everything in the house and in the whole 
 household arrangement is in order. Little patties are bak- 
 ing in the kitchen, the weather is oppressively hot, and 
 every leaf and bird seem as if deprived of motion. The 
 hens lie outside in the sand before the window, the cock 
 stands solitarily on one leg, and looks upon his harem with 
 the countenance of a sleepy sultan. Bear sits in his room 
 writing letters. I hear him yawn ; that infects me. Oh ! 
 oh ! I must go and have a little quarrel with him on pur- 
 pose to awaken us both. 
 
 " I want at this moment a quire of writing-paper on 
 which to drop sugar-cakes. He is terribly miserly of his 
 writing-paper, and on that very account I must have some 
 now. 
 
 "Later. All is done! A complete quarrel, and how 
 completely lively we are after it ! You, Maria, must hear 
 all, that you may thus see how it goes on among married 
 people. 
 
 " I went to my husband and said quite meekly, ' My 
 Angel Bear, you must be so very good as to give me a quire 
 of your writing-paper to drop sugar-cakes upon.' 
 
 "He (in consternation}. ' A quire of writing-paper ? ' 
 
 "She ' Yes, my dear friend, of your very best writing- 
 paper.' 
 
 "He. ' Finest writing-paper ? Are you mad ? ' 
 
 "She. ' Certainly not ; but I believe you are a little out 
 of your senses. ' 
 
 "He. ' You covetous sea-cat, leave off raging among my 
 papers ! You shall not have my paper ! ' 
 
 "She. ' Miserly beast ! I shall and will have the paper.' 
 
 "He. ' " I shall " ! Listen a moment. Let's see, now,
 
 HUMOR OF LITERARY ENGLISHWOMEN. 43 
 
 how you will accomplish your will.' And the rough Bear 
 held both my small hands fast in his great paws. 
 
 "She. i You ugly Bear ! You are worse than any of 
 those that walk on four legs. Let me loose ! Let me 
 loose, else I shall bite you ! ' And as he would not let me 
 loose I bit him. Yes, Maria, I bit him really on the hand, 
 at which he only laughed scornfully and said : ' Yes, yes, 
 my little wife, that is always the way of those who are for- 
 ward without the power to do. Take the paper. Now, 
 take it ! ' 
 
 "She. i Ah ! Let me loose ! let me loose ! ' 
 
 "He. f Ask me prettily. ' 
 
 "She. 'Dear Bear!' 
 
 "He. ' Acknowledge your fault.' 
 
 "She. 'I do.' 
 
 "He. ' Pray for forgiveness.' 
 
 "She. ' Ah, forgiveness ! ' 
 
 "He. ' Promise amendment.' 
 
 "She. l Oh, yes, amendment ! ' 
 
 "He. 'Nay, I'll pardon you. But now, no sour faces, 
 dear wife, but throw your arms round my neck and kiss me. ' 
 
 " I gave him a little box on the ear, stole a quire of 
 paper, and ran off with loud exultation. Bear followed into 
 the kitchen growling horribly ; but then I turned upon him 
 armed with two delicious little patties, which I aimed at his 
 mouth, and there they vanished. Bear, all at once, was 
 quite still, the paper was forgotten, and reconciliation con- 
 cluded. 
 
 " There is, Maria, no better way of stopping the mouths 
 of these lords of the creation than by putting into them 
 something good to eat."
 
 44: THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 I wish I had room for my favorite Irishwoman, Lady 
 Morgan, and her description of her first rout at the house of 
 the eccentric Lady Cork. 
 
 The off-hand songs of her sister, Lady Clarke, are fine 
 illustrations of rollicking Irish w r it and badinage. 
 
 At one of Lady Morgan's receptions, given in honor of 
 fifty philosophers from England, Lady Clarke sang the fol- 
 lowing song with " great effect :" 
 
 FUN AND PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Heigh for ould Ireland ! Oh, would you require a land 
 
 Where men by nature are all quite the thing, 
 Where pure inspiration has taught the whole nation 
 
 To fight, love, and reason, talk politics, sing ; 
 'Tis Pat's mathematical, chemical, tactical, 
 
 Knowing and practical, fanciful, gay, * 
 
 Fun and philosophy, supping and sophistry, 
 
 There s nothing in life that is out of his way. 
 
 He makes light of optics, and sees through dioptrics, 
 
 He's a dab at projectiles ne'er misses his man ; 
 He s complete in attraction, and quick at reaction, 
 
 By the doctrine of chances he squares every plan ; 
 In hydraulics so frisky, the whole Bay of Biscay, 
 
 If it flowed but with whiskey, he'd store it away. 
 Fun and philosophy, supping and sophistry, 
 
 There's nothing in life that is out of his way. 
 
 So to him cross over savant and philosopher, 
 
 Thinking, God help them ! to bother us all ; 
 But they'll find that for knowledge 'tis at our own college 
 
 Themselves must inquire for- beds, dinner, or ball. 
 There are lectures to tire, and good lodgings to hire, 
 
 To all who require and have money to pay ; 
 While fun and philosophy, supping and sophistry, 
 
 Ladies and lecturing fill up the day.
 
 HUMOR OF LITERARY ENGLISHWOMEN. 4:5 
 
 So at the Rotunda we all sorts of fun do, 
 
 Hard hearts and pig-iron we melt in one flame ; 
 For if Love blows the bellows, our tough college fellows 
 
 Will thaw into rapture at each lovely dame. 
 There, too, sans apology, tea, tarts, tautology, 
 
 Are given with zoology, to grave and gay ; 
 Thus fun and philosophy, supping and sophistry 
 
 Send all to England home, happy and gay. 
 
 From George Eliot, whose humor is seen at its best in 
 " Adam Bede" and " Silas Marner," how much we could 
 quote ! How some of her searching comments cling to the 
 memory ! 
 
 " I've nothing to say again' her piety, my dear ; but I 
 know very well I shouldn't like her to cook my victuals. 
 When a man coines in hungry and tired, piety won't feed 
 him, I reckon. Hard carrots 'nil lie heavy on his stomach, 
 piety or no piety. I called in one day when she was dish- 
 in' up Mr. Try an 's dinner, an' I could see the potatoes was 
 as watery as watery. It's right enough to be speritial, I'm 
 no enemy to that, but I like my potatoes mealy." 
 
 " You're right there, Tookey ; there's allays two 'pin- 
 ions : there's the 'pinion a man has of himsen, and there's 
 the 'pinion other folks have on him. There'd be two 'pin- 
 ions about a cracked bell if the bell could hear itself." 
 
 " You're mighty fond o' Craig ; but for my part, 1 think 
 he's welly like a cock as thinks the sun's rose o' purpose to 
 hear him crow." 
 
 " When Mr. Brooke had something painful to tell it was 
 usually his way to introduce it among a number of dis- 
 jointed particulars, as if it were a medicine that would get 
 a milder flavor by mixing."
 
 46 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 " Heaven knows what would become of our sociality if 
 we never visited people we speak ill of ; we should live like 
 Egyptian Jierinits, in crowded solitude." 
 
 " No, I ain't one to see the cat walking into the dairy 
 and wonder what she's come after." 
 
 " I have nothing to say again' Craig, on'y it is a pity he 
 couldna be hatched o'er again, and hatched different." 
 
 " I'm not denyin' the women are foolish ; God Almighty 
 made 'em to match the men." 
 
 " It's a waste of time to praise people dead whom you 
 maligned while living ; for it's but a poor harvest you'll 
 get by watering last year's crop." 
 
 " I suppose Dinah's like all the rest of the women, and 
 thinks two and two will come to make five, if she only cries 
 and makes bother enough about it. " 
 
 " Put a good face on it and don't seem to be looking out 
 for crows, else you'll set other people to watchin' for 'em, 
 too." 
 
 " I took pretty good care, before I said ' sniff,' to be sure 
 she would say 'snaff,' and pretty quick, too. I warn't 
 a-goin' to open my mouth like a dog at a fly, and snap it to 
 again wi' nothin' to s waller."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FROM ANNE BRADSTREET TO MRS. 8TOWE. 
 
 THE same gratifying progress and improvement noticed 
 in the wit of women of other lands is seen in studying the 
 literary annals of our own countrywomen. 
 
 Think of Anne Bradstreet, Mercy Warren, and Tabitha 
 Tenney, all extolled to the skies by their contemporaries. 
 
 Mercy Warren was a satirist quite in the strain of Juve- 
 nal, but in cumbrous, artificial fashion. 
 
 Hon. John Winthrop consulted her on the proposed sus- 
 pension of trade with England in all but the necessaries of 
 life, and she playfully gives a list of articles that would be 
 included in that word : 
 
 " An inventory clear 
 Of all she needs Lamira offers here ; 
 Nor does she fear a rigid Cato's frown, 
 When she lays by the rich embroidered gown, 
 And modestly compounds for just enough, 
 Perhaps some dozens of mere nighty stuff ; 
 With lawns and lute strings, blonde and Mechlin laces, 
 Fringes and jewels, fans and tweezer-cases ; 
 Gay cloaks and hat, of every shape and size, 
 Scarfs, cardinals, and ribands, of all dyes, 
 With ruffles stamped and aprons of tambour, 
 Tippets and handkerchiefs, at least threescore ; 
 With finest muslins that fair India boasts, 
 And the choice herbage from Chinesian coasts :
 
 4:8 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Add feathers, furs, rich satin, and ducapes, 
 And head-dresses in pyramidal shapes ; 
 Sideboards of plate and porcelain profuse, 
 With fifty dittoes that the ladies use. 
 So weak Lamira and her wants so few 
 Who can refuse? they're but the sex's due." 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney, voluminous and mediocre, is amusing 
 because so absolutely destitute of humor, and her style, a 
 feminine Johnsonese, is absurdly hifalutin and strained. 
 
 This is the way in which she alludes to green apples : 
 
 " From the time of their first taking on orbicular shape, 
 and when it might be supposed their hardness and acidity 
 would repulse all save elephantine tusks and ostrich stom- 
 achs, they were the prey of roaming children." 
 
 And in her poem " To a Shred of Linen" : 
 
 " Methinks I scan 
 
 Some idiosyncrasy that marks thee out 
 A defunct pillow-case." 
 
 She preserved, however, a long list of the various solicita- 
 tions sent her to furnish poems for special occasions, and I 
 think this shows that she possessed a sense of humor. Let 
 me quote a few : 
 
 " Some verses were desired as an elegy on a pet canary 
 accidentally drowned in a barrel of swine's food. 
 
 " A poem requested on the dog-star Sirius. 
 
 " To write an ode for the wedding of people in Maine, 
 of whom I had never heard. 
 
 " To punctuate a three-volume novel for an author who 
 complained that the work of punctuating always brought 
 on a pain in the small of his back.
 
 FKOM ANNE BKADSTKEET TO MKS. STOWE. 49 
 
 " Asked to assist a servant-man not very well able to read 
 in getting his Sunday-school lessons, and to write out all 
 the answers for him clear through the book to save his 
 time. 
 
 " A lady whose husband expects to be absent on a jour- 
 ney for a month or two wishes I would write a poem to 
 testify her joy at his return. 
 
 " An elegy on a young man, one of the nine children of 
 a judge of probate." 
 
 Miss Sedgwick, in her letters, occasionally showed a keen 
 sense of humor, as, when speaking of a certain novel, she 
 eaid : 
 
 " There is too much force for the subject. It is as if a 
 railroad should be built and a locomotive started to transport 
 skeletons, specimens, and one bird of Paradise." 
 
 Mrs. Caroline Gilrnan, born in 1794, and still living, 
 author of " Recollections of a Southern Matron," etc., will 
 be represented by one playful poem, .which has a veritable 
 New England flavor : 
 
 JOSHUA'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 A NZW ENGLAND BALLAD. 
 
 Stout Joshua was a farmer's son, 
 
 And a pondering he sat 
 One night when the fagots crackling burned, 
 
 And purred the tabby cat. 
 
 Joshua was a well-grown youth, 
 
 As one might plainly see 
 By the sleeves that vainly tried to reach 
 
 His hands upon his knee.
 
 50 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 His splay -feet stood all parrot-toed 
 
 In cowhide shoes arrayed, 
 And his hair seemed cut across his brow 
 
 By rule and plummet laid. 
 
 And what was Joshua pondering on, 
 With his widely staring eyes, 
 
 And his nostrils opening sensibly 
 To ease his frequent sighs ? 
 
 Not often will a lover's lips 
 
 The tender secret tell, 
 But out he spoke before he thought, 
 
 " My gracious ! Nancy Bell !" 
 
 His mother at her spinning-wheel, 
 Good woman, stood and spun, 
 
 " And what," says she, " is come o'er you, 
 Is't airnest or is't fun ?" 
 
 Then Joshua gave a cunning look, 
 Half bashful and half sporting, 
 
 " Now what did father do," says he, 
 " When first he came a courting?" 
 
 " Why, Josh, the first thing that he did," 
 With a knowing wink, said she, 
 
 " He dressed up of a Sunday night, 
 And cast sheep's eyes at me." 
 
 Josh said no more, but straight went out 
 And sought a butcher's pen, 
 
 Where twelve fat sheep, for market bound, 
 Had lately slaughtered been. 
 
 He bargained with a lover's zeal, 
 Obtained the wished-for prize, 
 
 And filled his pockets fore and aft 
 With twice twelve bloody eyes.
 
 FKOM ANNE BEADSTKEET TO MUS. STOWE. 51 
 
 The next night was the happy time 
 
 When all New England sparks, 
 Drest in their best, go out to court, 
 
 As spruce and gay as larks. 
 
 When floors are nicely sanded o'er, 
 
 When tins and pewter shine, 
 And milk-pans by the kitchen wall 
 
 Display their dainty line ; 
 
 While the new ribbon decks the waist 
 
 Of many a waiting lass, 
 Who steals a conscious look of pride 
 
 Toward her answering glass. 
 
 In pensive mood sat Nancy Bell ; 
 
 Of Joshua thought not she, 
 But of a hearty sailor lad 
 
 Across the distant sea. 
 
 Her arm upon the table rests, 
 
 Her hand supports her head, 
 When Joshua enters with a scrape, 
 
 And somewhat bashful tread. 
 
 No word he spake, but down he sat, 
 
 And heaved a doleful sigh, 
 Then at the table took his aim 
 
 And rolled a glassy eye. 
 
 Another and another flew, 
 
 With quick and strong rebound, 
 They tumbled in poor Nancy's lap, 
 
 They fell upon the ground. 
 
 While Joshua smirked, and sighed, and smiled 
 
 Between each tender aim, 
 And still the cold and bloody balls 
 
 In frightful quickness came.
 
 52 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Until poor Nancy flew with screams, 
 
 To shun the amorous sport, 
 And Joshua found to cast sheep's eyes 
 
 Was not the way to court. 
 
 " Fanny Forrester" and " Fanny Fern" both delighted 
 the public with individual styles of writing, vastly success- 
 ful when a new thing. 
 
 When wanting a new dress and bonnet, as every woman 
 will in the spring (or any time), Fanny Forrester wrote to 
 Willis, of the New Mirror, an appeal which he called 
 " very clever, adroit, and fanciful." 
 
 " You know the shops in Broadway are very tempting 
 this season. Such beautiful things ! Well, you know 
 (no, you don't know that, but you can guess) what a de- 
 lightful thing it would be to appear in one of those 
 charming, head-adorning, complexion-softening, hard-feat- 
 ure-subduing Neapolitans, with a little gossamer veil drop- 
 ping daintily on the shoulder of one of those exquisite bal- 
 zarines, to be seen any day at Stewart's and elsewhere. 
 Well, you know (this you must know) that shopkeepers 
 have the impertinence to demand a trifling exchange for 
 these things, even of a lady ; and also that some people 
 have a remarkably small purse, and a remarkably small 
 portion of the yellow " root" in that. And now, to bring 
 the matter home, I am one of that class. 1 have the 
 most beautiful little purse in the world, but it is only kept 
 for show, i even find myself under the necessity of coun- 
 terfeiting that is, filling the void with tissue-paper in lieu 
 of bank-notes, preparatory to a shopping expedition. Well, 
 now to the point. As Bel and I snuggled down on the sofa
 
 FKOM ANNE BKADSTKEET TO MRS. STOWE. 53 
 
 this morning to read the New Mirror (by the way, Cousin 
 Bel is ne'ver obliged to put tissue-paper in her purse), it 
 struck us that you would be a friend in need, and give good 
 counsel in this emergency. Bel, however, insisted on my 
 not telling what I wanted the money for. She even 
 thought that I had better intimate orphanage, extreme 
 suffering from the bursting of some speculative bubble, 
 illness, etc. ; but did I not know you better ? Have I read 
 the New Mirror so much (to say nothing of the graceful 
 things coined under a bridge, and a thousand other pages 
 flung from the inner heart) and not learned who has an eye 
 for everything pretty ? Not so stupid, Cousin Bel, no, 
 no ! .*. . 
 
 " And to the point. Maybe you of the New Mirror 
 PAY for acceptable articles, maybe not. Comprenez 
 vousf Oh, I do hope that beautiful lalzarine like Bel's 
 will not be gone before another Saturday ! You will not 
 forget to answer me in the next Mirror but pray, my 
 dear Editor, let, it be done very cautiously, for Bel would 
 pout all day if she should know what I have written. 
 
 " Till Saturday, your anxiously-waiting friend, 
 
 "FANNY FORRESTER." 
 
 Such a note received by an editor of this generation 
 would promptly fall into the waste-basket. But Willis was 
 captivated, and answered : 
 
 " "Well, we give in ! On condition that you are under 
 twenty-five and that you will wear a rose (recognizably) in 
 your bodice the first time you appear in Broadway with the 
 hat and baharine, we will pay the bills. Write us there- 
 after a sketch of Bel and yourself as cleverly done as this
 
 54: THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 letter, and yon may ' snuggle ' down on the sofa and con- 
 sider us paid, and the public charmed with you." 
 
 This style of ingratiating one's self with an editor is as 
 much a bygone as an alliterative pen-name. 
 
 Fanny Fern (Sarah Willis Parton) also established a style 
 of her own " a new kind of composition ; short, pointed 
 paragraphs, without beginning and without end one clear, 
 ringing note, and then silence." 
 
 Her talent for humorous composition showed itself in her 
 essays at school. I'll give a bit from her " Suggestions on 
 Arithmetic after Cramming for an Examination" : 
 
 " Every incident, every object of sight seemed to pro- 
 duce an arithmetical result. I once saw a poor wretch evi- 
 dently intoxicated ; thought 1, ' That man has overcome 
 three scruples, to say the least, for three scruples make one 
 dram.' Even the Sabbath was no day of rest for me the 
 psalms, prayers, and sermons were all translated by me into 
 the language of arithmetic. A good man^ spoke very feel- 
 ingly upon the manner in which our cares and perplexities 
 were multiplied by riches. Muttered I : ' That, sir, de- 
 pends upon whether the multiplier is a fraction or a whole 
 number ; for if it be a fraction, it makes the product less.' 
 And when another, lamenting the various divisions of the 
 Church, pathetically exclaimed : ' And how shall we unite 
 .these several denominations in one ? ' 
 
 " ' Why, reduce them to a common denominator,' ex- 
 claimed I, half aloud, wondering at his ignorance. 
 
 ' l And when an admiring swain protested his warm ' in- 
 terest, ' he brought only one word that chimed with my 
 train of thought.
 
 FROM ANNE BRADSTREET TO MRS. STOWE. 55 
 
 " ' Interest ? ' exclaimed I, starting from my reverie. 
 ' What per cent, sir ? ' 
 
 ' ' ' Ma'am 2 ' exclaimed my attendant, in the greatest 
 possible amazement. 
 
 " ' How much per cent, sir ? ' said I, repeating my ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "His reply was lost on my ear save: 'Madam, at any 
 rate do not trifle with my feelings. ' 
 
 " ' At any rate, did you say ? Then take six per cent ; 
 that is the easiest to calculate.' : 
 
 Her style, too, has gone out of fashion ; but in its day it 
 was thought very amusing. 
 
 Mrs. Stowe needs no introduction, and she is another of 
 those from whom we quote little, because she could con- 
 tribute so much, and one does not know where to choose. 
 Her ' ' Sam Lawson' ' is, perhaps, the most familiar of her 
 odd characters and talkers. 
 
 SAM LAWSON'S SAYINGS. 
 
 ""Well, Sam, what did you think of the sermon ?" said 
 Uncle Bill. 
 
 " Wall," said Sam, leaning over the fire with his long, 
 bony hands alternately raised to catch the warmth, and then 
 dropped with an utter laxness when the warmth became too 
 pronounced, " Parson Simpson's a smart man ; but I tell 
 ye, it's kind o' discouragin' . Why, he said our state and 
 condition by natur war just like this : We war clear down 
 in a well fifty feet deep, and the sides all round nothin' but 
 glare ice ; but we war under immediate obligations to get
 
 56 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 out, 'cause we war free, voluntary agents. But nobody ever 
 had got out, and nobody would, unless the Lord reached 
 down and took 'em. And whether he would or not nobody 
 could tell ; it was all sovereignty. lie said there warn't 
 one in a hundred, not one in a thousand, not one in ten 
 thousand, that would be saved. ' Lordy massy,' says I to 
 myself, ' ef that's so they're any of 'em welcome to my 
 chance.' And so I kind o' ris up and come out, 'cause 
 I'd got a pretty long walk home, and 1 wanted to go round 
 by South Pond and inquire about Aunt Sally Morse's 
 toothache." . . . 
 
 11 This 'ere Miss Sphyxy Smith's a rich old gal, and 
 'mazin' smart to work," he began. " Tell you, she holds 
 all she gets. Old Sol, he told me a story 'bout her that 
 was a pretty good un." 
 
 " What was it ?" said my grandmother. 
 
 " Wai, ye see, you 'member old Parson Jeduthun Ken- 
 dall that lives up in Stonytown ; he lost his wife a year ago 
 last Thanksgivin', and he thought 'twar about time he hed 
 another ; so he comes down and consults our Parson 
 Lothrop. Says he : 'I want a good, smart, neat, economi- 
 cal woman, with a good property. I don't care notbin' 
 about her bein' handsome. In fact, I ain't particular 
 about anything else,' says he. Wai, Parson Lothrop, says 
 he : ' I think, if that's the case, 1 know jest the woman to 
 suit ye. She owns a clear, handsome property, and she's 
 neat and economical ; but she's no beauty ! ' ' Oh, beauty 
 is nothin' to me,' says Parson Kendall ; and so he took the 
 direction. Wai, one day he hitched up his old one-hoss 
 shay, and kind o' brushed up, and started off a-courtin'. 
 Wai, the parson come to the house, and he war tickled to
 
 * 
 
 FKOM ANNE BRADSTREET TO MRS. STOWE. 57 
 
 pieces with the looks o' things outside, 'cause the house is 
 all well shingled and painted, and there ain't a picket loose 
 nor a nail wantin' nowhere. 
 
 " ' This 'ere's the woman for me,' says Parson Kendall. 
 So he goes up and raps hard on the front door with his 
 whip-handle. Wai, you see, Miss Sphyxy she war jest 
 goin' out to help get in her hay. She had on a pair o' 
 clompin' cowhide boots, and a pitchfork in her hand, jest 
 goin' out, when she heard the rap. So she come jest as she 
 was to the front door. Now, you know Parson Kendall's a 
 little midget of a man, hut he stood there on the step kind 
 o' smilin' and genteel, lickin' his lips and lookin' so agree- 
 able ! Wai, the front door kind o' stuck front doors gen- 
 erally do, ye know, 'cause they ain't opened very often 
 and Miss Sphyxy she had to pull and haul and put to all 
 her strength, and finally it come open with a bang, and she 
 'peared to the parson, pitchfork and all, sort o' frownin' 
 like. 
 
 " l What do you want ? ' says she ; fer, you see, Miss 
 Sphyxy ain't no ways tender to the men. 
 
 " ' I want to see Miss Asphyxia Smith,' says he, very 
 civil, thinking she war the hired gal. 
 
 " ' Pm Miss Asphyxia Smith,' says she. ' What do you 
 want o' me ? ' 
 
 " Parson Kendall he jest took one good look on her, 
 from top to toe. 'Noram',' says he, and turned right 
 round and went down the steps like lightnin'." 
 
 Years ago Mrs. Stowe published some capital stories of 
 New England life, which were collected in a little volume 
 called " The Mayflower," a book which is now seldom seen,
 
 58 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 and almost unknown to the present generation. From this I 
 take her "Night in a Canal-Boat." Extremely effective 
 when read with enthusiasm and proper variety of tone. 
 I quote it as a boon for the boys and girls who are often 
 looking for something " funny" to read aloud. 
 
 THE CANAL-BOAT. 
 
 BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 
 
 Of all the ways of travelling which obtain among our 
 locomotive nation, this said vehicle, the canal-boat, is the 
 most absolutely prosaic and inglorious. There is something 
 picturesque, nay, almost sublime, in the lordly march of 
 your well-built, high-bred steamboat. Go take your stand 
 on some overhanging bluff, where the blue Ohio winds its 
 thread of silver, or the sturdy Mississippi tears its path 
 through unbroken forests, and it will do your heart good to 
 see the gallant boat walking the waters with unbroken and 
 powerful tread, and, like some fabled monster of the wave, 
 breathing fire and making the shores resound with its deep 
 respirations. Then there is something mysterious even 
 awful in the power of steam. See it curling up against a 
 blue sky some rosy morning, graceful, floating, intangible, 
 and to all appearance the softest and gentlest of all spiritual 
 things, and then think that it is this fairy spirit that keeps 
 all the world alive and hot with motion ; think how excel- 
 lent a servant it is, doing all sorts of gigantic works, like 
 the genii of old ; and yet, if you let slip the talisman only 
 for a moment, what terrible advantage it will take of you ! 
 and you will confess that steam has some claims both to the 
 beautiful and the terrible ! For our own part, when we are
 
 FROM ANNE BRADSTREET TO MRS. STOWE. 59 
 
 down among the machinery of a steamboat in full play, we 
 conduct ourselves very reverently, for we consider it as 
 a very serious neighborhood, and every time the steam 
 whizzes with such red-hot determination from the escape- 
 valve, we start as if some of the spirits were after us. But 
 in a canal-boat there is no power, no mystery, no danger ; 
 one cannot blow up, one cannot be drowned unless by 
 some special effort ; one sees clearly all there is in the 
 case a horse, a rope, and a muddy strip of water and 
 that is all. 
 
 Did you ever try it, reader ? If not, take an imaginary 
 trip with us, just for experiment. " There's the boat !" 
 exclaims a passenger in the omnibus, as we are rolling 
 down from the Pittsburg Mansion House to the canal. 
 " Where ?" exclaim a dozen of voices, and forthwith a 
 dozen heads go out of the window. " Why, down there, 
 under that bridge ; don't you see those lights ?" " What, 
 that little thing !" exclaims an inexperienced traveller ; 
 " dear me ! we can't half of us get "into it !'' " We ! in- 
 deed," says some old hand in the business ; " I think you'll 
 find it will hold us and a dozen more loads like us." " Im- 
 possible !" say some. " You'll see," say the initiated ; and 
 as soon as you get out you do see, and hear, too, what seems 
 like a general breaking loose from the Tower of Babel, 
 amid a perfect hail-storm of trunks, boxes, valises, carpet- 
 bags, and every describable and indescribable form of what 
 a Westerner calls " plunder." 
 
 " That's my trunk !" barks out a big, round man. 
 " That's my bandbox !" screams a heart-stricken old lady, 
 in terror for her immaculate Sunday caps. " Where's my 
 little red box ? 1 had two carpet-bags and a My trunk
 
 60 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 had a scarle Halloo ! where are you going with that 
 portmanteau ? Husband ! Husband ! do see after the 
 large basket and the little hair-trunk- Oh, and the 
 
 O 
 
 baby's little chair !" " Go below, go below, for mercy's 
 sake, my dear ; I'll see to the baggage." At last the femi- 
 nine part of creation, perceiving that, in this particular in- 
 stance, they gain nothing by public speaking, are content 
 to be led quietly under hatches ; and amusing is the look of 
 dismay which each new-comer gives to the confined quar- 
 ters that present themselves. Those who were so ignorant 
 of the power of compression as to suppose the boat scarce 
 large enough to contain them and theirs, find, with dismay, 
 a respectable colony of old ladies, babies, mothers, big 
 baskets, and carpet-bags already established. " Mercy on 
 us !" says one, after surveying the little room, about ten 
 feet long and six feet high, " where are we all to sleep to- 
 night ?" " Oh, me, what a sight of children !" says a 
 young lady, in a despairing tone. " Pooh !" says an initi- 
 ated traveller, " children ! scarce any here ; let's see : one ; 
 the woman in the corner, two ; that child with the bread 
 and butter, three ; and then there's that other woman with 
 two. Really, it's quite moderate for a canal -boat. How- 
 ever, we can't tell till they have all come." 
 
 " All ! for mercy's sake, you don't say there are any 
 more coming !" exclaim two or three in a breath ; " they 
 can't come ; there -is not room /" 
 
 Notwithstanding the impressive utterance of this sentence 
 the contrary is immediately demonstrated by the appearance 
 of a very corpulent elderly lady with three well-grown 
 daughters, who come down looking about them most com- 
 placently, entirely regardless of the unchristian looks of the
 
 FROM ANNE BRADSTEEET TO MRS. STO\VE. 61 
 
 company. What a mercy it is that fat people are always 
 good-natured ! 
 
 After this follows an indiscriminate raining down of all 
 shapes, sizes, sexes, and ages men, women, children, 
 babies, and nurses. The state of feeling becomes perfectly 
 desperate. Darkness gathers on all faces. " We shall be 
 smothered ! we shall be crowded to death ! we can't stay 
 here !" are heard faintly from one and another ; and yet, 
 though the boat grows no wider, the walls no higher, they 
 do live, and do stay there, in spite of repeated protestations 
 to the contrary. Truly, as Sam Slick says, " there's a sight 
 of wear in human natur'!" 
 
 But meanwhile the children grow sleepy, and divers in- 
 teresting little duets and trios arise from one part or another 
 of the cabin. 
 
 " Hush, Johnny ! be a good boy," says a pale, nursing 
 mamma, to a great, bristling, white-headed phenomenon, 
 who is kicking very much at large in her lap. f 
 
 " I won't be a good boy, neither," responds Johnny, 
 with interesting explicitness ; " I want to go to bed, and 
 so-o-o-o !" and Johnny makes up a mouth as big as a tea- 
 cup, and roars with good courage, and his mamma asks him 
 "if he ever saw pa do so," and tells him that "he is 
 mamma's dear, good little boy, and must not make a 
 noise," with various observations of the kind, which are so 
 strikingly efficacious in such cases. Meanwhile the do- 
 mestic concert in other quarters proceeds with vigor. 
 " Mamma, I'm tired !" bawls a child. " Where's the 
 baby's nightgown ?" calls a nurse. " Do take Peter up in 
 your lap, and keep him still." "Pray get out some bis- 
 cuits to stop their mouths." Meanwhile sundry babies
 
 62 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 strike in con spirito, as the music-books have it, and execute 
 various flourishes ; the disconsolate mothers sigh, and look 
 as if all was over with them ; and the young ladies appear 
 extremely disgusted, and wonder " what business women 
 have to be travelling round with children." 
 
 To these troubles succeeds the turning-out scene, when 
 the whole caravan is ejected into the gentlemen's cabin, 
 that the beds may be made. The red curtains are put 
 down, and in solemn silence all the last mysterious prepara- 
 tions begin. At length it is announced that all is ready. 
 Forthwith the whole company rush back, and find the walls 
 embellished by a series of little shelves, about a foot wide, 
 each furnished with a mattress and bedding, and hooked to 
 the ceiling by a very suspiciously slender cord. Direful 
 are the ruminations and exclamations of inexperienced 
 travellers, particularly young ones, as they eye these very 
 equivocal accommodations. "What, sleep up there! / 
 won't sleep on one of those top shelves, / know. The 
 cords will certainly break." The chambermaid here takes 
 up the conversation, and solemnly assures them that such 
 an accident is not to be thought of at all ; that it is a natu- 
 ral impossibility a thing that could not happen without an 
 actual miracle ; and since it becomes increasingly evident 
 that thirty ladies cannot all sleep on the lowest shelf, there 
 is some effort made to exercise faith in this doctrine ; never- 
 theless all look on their neighbors with fear and trembling ; 
 and when the stout lady talks of taking a shelf, she is most 
 urgently pressed to change places with her alarmed neigh- 
 bor below. Points of location being after a while adjusted, 
 comes the last struggle. Everybody wants to take oif a 
 bonnet, or look for a shawl, to find a cloak, or get a carpet-
 
 FROM ANNE BRADSTREET TO MRS. STOWE. 63 
 
 bag, and all set about it with such zeal that nothing can be 
 done. "Ma'am, you're on my foot !" says one. " "Will 
 you please to move, ma'am ?" says somebody, who is gasp- 
 ing and struggling behind you. " Move !" you echo. 
 " Indeed, 1 should be very glad to, but I don't see much 
 prospect of it." " Chambermaid !" calls a lady who is 
 struggling among a heap of carpet-bags and children at one 
 end of the cabin. " Ma'am !" echoes the poor chamber- 
 maid, who is wedged fast in a similar situation at the other. 
 " Where's my cloak, chambermaid ?" " I'd find it, 
 ma'am, if 1 could move." " Chambermaid, my basket !" 
 " Chambermaid, my parasol !" " Chambermaid, my carpet- 
 bag !" " Mamma, they push ine so !" " Hush, child ; 
 crawl under there and lie still till I can undress you." At 
 last, however, the various distresses are over, the babies 
 sink to sleep, and even that much-enduring being, the 
 chambermaid, seeks out some corner for repose. Tired 
 and drowsy, you are just sinking into a doze, when, bang ! 
 goes the boat against the sides of a lock ; ropes scrape, men 
 run and shout,' and up fly the heads of all the top-shelfites, 
 who are generally the more juvenile and airy part of the 
 company. 
 
 " What's that ! what's that !" flies from mouth to 
 mouth ; and forthwith they proceed to awaken their re- 
 spective relations. " Mother ! Aunt Hannah ! do wake 
 up; what is this awful noise?" "Oh, only a lock." 
 " Pray, be still," groan out the sleepy members from below. 
 
 " A lock !" exclaim the vivacious creatures, ever on the 
 alert for information ; " and what is a lock, pray ?" 
 
 " Don't you know what a lock is, you silly creatures. 
 Do lie down and go to sleep."
 
 64: THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 " But say, there ain't any danger in a lock, is there ?" 
 respond the querists. " Danger !" exclaims a deaf old 
 lady, poking up her head. "What's the matter? There 
 hain't nothing burst, has there ?" " No, no, no !" exclaim 
 the provoked and despairing opposition party, who find that 
 there is no such thing as going to sleep till they have made 
 the old lady below and the young ladies above understand 
 exactly the philosophy of a lock. After a while the con- 
 versation again subsides ; again all is still ; you hear only 
 the trampling of horses and the rippling of the rope in the 
 water, and sleep again is stealing over you. You doze, you 
 dream, and all of a sudden you are startled by a cry, 
 " Chambermaid ! wake up the lady that wants to be set 
 ashore." Up jumps chambermaid, and up jump the lady 
 and two children, and forthwith form a committee of in- 
 quiry as to ways and means. " Where's my bonnet ?" says 
 the lady, half awake and fumbling among the various articles 
 of that name. " 1 thought I hung it up behind the door." 
 " Can't you find it ?" says the poor chambermaid, yawning 
 and rubbing her eyes. " Oh, yes, here it is," says the 
 lady ; and then the cloak, the shawl, the gloves, the shoes, 
 receive each a separate discussion. At last all seems ready, 
 and they begin to move off, when lo ! Peter's cap is miss- 
 ing. " Now, where can it be ?" soliloquizes the lady. " I 
 put it right here by the table-leg ; maybe it got into some 
 of the berths." At this suggestion the chambermaid takes 
 the candle, and goes round deliberately to every berth, 
 poking the light directly in the face of every sleeper. 
 "Here it is," she exclaims, pulling at something black 
 under one pillow. "No, indeed, those are my shoes," 
 says the vexed sleeper. " Maybe it's here." she resumes,
 
 FROM AXNE BKADSTREET TO MRS. STOWE. 65 
 
 darting upon something dark in another berth. " No, 
 that's my bag," responds the occupant. The chambermaid 
 then proceeds to turn over all the children on the floor, to 
 see if it is not under them. In the course of which process 
 they are most agreeably waked up and enlivened ; and 
 when everybody is broad awake, and most uncharitably 
 wishing the cap, and Peter too, at the bottom of the canal, 
 the good lady exclaims, " "Well, if this isn't lucky ; here I 
 had it safe in my basket all the time !" And she departed 
 amid the what shall I say ? execrations ! of the whole 
 company, ladies though they be. 
 
 Well, after this follows a hushing up and wiping up 
 among the juvenile population, and a series of remarks 
 commences from the various shelves of a very edifying and 
 instructive tendency. One says that the woman did not 
 seem to know where anything was ; another says that she has 
 waked them all up ; a third adds that she has waked up all 
 the children, too ; and the elderly ladies make moral reflec- 
 tions on the importance of putting your things where you 
 can find them being always ready ; which observations, 
 being delivered in an exceedingly doleful and drowsy tone, 
 form a sort of sub-bass to the lively chattering of the upper- 
 shelfites, who declare that they feel quite awake that they 
 don't think they shall go to sleep again to-night, and dis- 
 course over everything in creation, until you heartily wish 
 you were enough related to them to give them a scolding. 
 
 At last, however, voice after voice drops off ; you fall 
 into a most refreshing slumber ; it seems to you that you 
 sleep about a quarter of an hour, when the chambermaid 
 pulls you by the sleeve. ' ' Will you please to get up, 
 ma'am? We want to make the beds." You start and
 
 Ob THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 stare. Sure enough, the night is gone. So much for 
 sleeping on board canal-boats ! 
 
 Let us not enumerate the manifold perplexities of the 
 morning toilet in a place where every lady realizes most 
 forcibly the condition of the old woman who lived under a 
 broom : u All she wanted was elbow-room. " Let us not 
 tell how one glass is made to answer for thirty fair faces, 
 one ewer and vase for thirty lavations ; and tell it not in 
 Gath one towel for a company ! Let us not intimate how 
 ladies' shoes have, in a night, clandestinely slid into the 
 gentlemen's cabin, and gentlemen's boots elbowed, or, 
 rather, toed their way among ladies' gear, nor recite the ex- 
 clamations after runaway property that are heard. 
 
 " I can't find nothing of Johnny's shoe !" " Here's a 
 shoe in the water-pitcher is this it?" "My side-combs 
 are gone !" exclaims a nymph with dishevelled curls. 
 "Massy! do look at my bonnet!" exclaims an old lady, 
 elevating an article crushed into as many angles as there are 
 pieces in a mince-pie. " I never did sleep so much to- 
 gether in my life," echoes a poor little French lady, whom 
 despair has driven into talking English. 
 
 But our shortening paper warns us not to prolong our 
 catalogue of distresses beyond reasonable bounds, and there- 
 fore we will close with ad vising, all our friends, who intend 
 to try this way of travelling for pleasure, to take a good 
 stock both of patience and clean towels with them, for we 
 think that they will find abundant need for both.
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 " SAMPLES " HERE AND THEEE. 
 
 NEXT comes Mrs. Caroline M. Kirkland with her "Western 
 sketches. Many will remember her laughable description of 
 " Borrowing Out West," with its two appropriate mottoes : 
 " Lend me your ears," from Shakespeare, and from Bacon : 
 " Grant graciously what you cannot refuse safely." 
 
 " ' Mother wants your sifter,' said Miss Ian the Ploward, 
 a young lady of six years' standing, attired in a tattered 
 calico thickened with dirt ; her unkempt locks straggling 
 from under that hideous substitute for a bonnet so universal 
 in the Western country a dirty cotton handkerchief 
 which is used ad nauseam for all sorts of purposes. 
 
 " ' Mother wants your sifter, arid she says she guesses 
 you can let her have some sugar and tea, 'cause you've got 
 plenty.' This excellent reason, ' 'cause you've got plenty,' 
 is conclusive as to sharing with neighbors. 
 
 " Sieves, smoothing-irons, and churns run about as if 
 they had legs ; one brass kettle is enough for a whole 
 neighborhood, and I could point to a cradle which has 
 rocked half the babies in Montacute. 
 
 " For my own part, I have lent my broom, my thread^ 
 my tape, my spoons, my cat, my thimble, my scissors, my 
 shawl, my shoes, and have been asked for my combs and 
 brushes, and my husband for his shaving apparatus and 
 pantaloons."
 
 68 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Mrs. Whichsr, whose " Widow Bedott" is a familiar 
 name, resembles Mrs. Kirkland in her comic portraitures, 
 which were especially good of their kind, and never be- 
 trayed any malice. The " Bedott Papers" first appeared 
 in 1846, and became popular at once. They are good 
 examples of what they simply profess to be : an amusing 
 series of comicalities. 
 
 I shall not quote from them, as every one who enjoys 
 that style of humor knows them by heart. It would be as 
 useless as copying "Now I lay me down to sleep," or 
 " Mary had a little lamb," for a child's collection of 
 verses ! 
 
 There are many authors whom I cannot represent wor- 
 thily in these brief limits. "When, encouraged by the un- 
 precedented popularity of this venture, I prepare an 
 encyclopaedia of the " "Wit and Rumor of American 
 "Women," I can do justice to such writers as " Gail Hamil- 
 ton" and Miss Alcott, whose " Transcendental Wild Oats" 
 cannot be cut. Rose Terry Cooke thinks her " Knoware" 
 the only funny thing she lias ever done. She is greatly 
 mistaken, as 1 can soon prove. " Knoware" ought to be 
 printed by itself to delight thousands, as her " Deacon's 
 Week" ' has already done. To search for a few good things 
 in the works of my witty friends is searching not for the 
 time-honored needle in a hay-mow, but for two or three 
 needles of just the right size out of a whole paper of 
 needles. 
 
 " The Insanity of Cain," by Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, 
 an inimitable satire on the feebleness of our jury system 
 and the absurd pretence of "temporary insanity," must
 
 "SAMPLES" HERE AND THERE. 69 
 
 wait for that encyclopaedia. And her " Miss Molony on 
 the Chinese Question" is known and admired by every one, 
 including the Prince of Wales, who was fairly convulsed by 
 its fun, when brought out by our favorite elocutionist, Miss 
 Sarah Cowell, who had the honor of reading before royalty. 
 
 I regretfully omit the " Peterkin Letters," by Lucretia P. 
 Hale, and the famous " William Henry Letters," by Mrs. 
 Abby Morton Diaz. The very best bit from Miss Sallie 
 McLean would be how " Grandma Spicer gets Grandpa 
 Ready for Sunday-school," from the " Cape Cod Folks ;" 
 but why not save space for what is not in everybody's 
 mouth and memory ? This is equally true of Mrs. Cleave- 
 land's "No Sects in Heaven," which, like Arabella Wil- 
 son's "Sextant," goes the rounds of all the papers every 
 other year as a fresh delight. 
 
 Marietta Holley, too, must be allowed only a brief quo- 
 tation. " Samantha" is a family friend from Mexico to 
 Alaska. Mrs. Metta Victoria Victor, who died recently, has 
 written an immense amount of humorous sketches. Her 
 " Miss Slimmens," the boarding-house keeper, is a marked 
 character, and will be remembered by many. 
 
 I will select a few " samples," unsatisfactory because there 
 is so much more just as good, and then give room for others 
 less familiar. 
 
 MISS LUCINDA'S PIG. 
 
 BY ROSE TERRY COOKE. 
 
 "You don't know of any poor person who'd like to 
 have a pig, do you ?' ' said Miss Lucinda, wistfully. 
 
 " Well, the poorer they was, the quicker they'd eat him 
 up, 1 guess ef they could eat such a razor-back."
 
 70 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 11 Oh, I don't like to think of his being eaten ! I wish 
 he could be got rid of some other way. Don't you think 
 he might be killed in his sleep, Israel ?' ' 
 
 11 I think it's likely it would wake him up," said he, 
 demurely. " Killin' 's killin', and a critter can't sleep 
 over it 's though 'twas the stomachache. 1 guess he'd kick 
 some, ef he was asleep and screech some, too !' ' 
 
 " Dear me !" said Miss Lucinda, horrified at the idea. 
 "I wish he could be sent out to run in the woods. Are 
 there any good woods near here, Israel ?" 
 
 " I don't know but what he'd as lieves be slartered to 
 once as to starve an' be hunted down out in the lots. Be- 
 sides, there ain't nobody as I knows of would like a hog to 
 be a-rootin' round among their turnips and young wheat." 
 
 ""Well, what I shall do with him I don't know !" de- 
 spairingly exclaimed Miss Lucinda. " He was such a dear 
 little thing when you bought him, Israel ! Do you remem- 
 ber how pink his pretty little nose was just like a rosebud 
 and how bright his eyes were, and his cunning legs ? 
 And now he's grown so big and fierce ! But I can't help 
 liking him, either." 
 
 " He's a cute critter, that's sartain ; but he does too much 
 rootin' to have a pink nose now, I expect ; there's eonsider- 
 'ble on 't, so I guess it looks as well to have it gray. But 
 I don't know no more'n you do what to do abaout it." 
 
 " If I could only get rid of him without knowing what 
 became of him !" exclaimed Miss Lucinda, squeezing her 
 forefinger with great earnestness, and looking both puzzled 
 and pained. 
 
 ' ' If Mees Lucinda would pairmit ?' ' said a voice behind 
 her.
 
 "SAMPLES" HERE AND THERE. 71 
 
 She turned round to see Monsieur Leclerc on liis crutches, 
 just in the parlor-door. 
 
 " I shall, mees, myself dispose of piggie, if it please. I 
 can. I shall have no sound ; he shall to go away like a 
 silent snow, to trouble you no more, never !" 
 
 " Oh, sir, if you could ! But I don't see how !" 
 
 " If mees was to see, it would not be to save her pain. 
 I shall have him to go by magique to fiery land." 
 
 Fairy-land, probably. But Miss Lucinda did not per- 
 ceive the equivoque. 
 
 " Nor yet shall I trouble Meester Israyel. I shall have 
 the aid of myself and one good friend that 1 have ; and 
 some night, when you rise of the morning, he shall not be 
 there." 
 
 Miss Lucinda breathed a deep sigh of relief. 
 
 " I am greatly obliged I mean, I shall be," said she. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad enough to wash my hands on 't," said 
 Israel. " I shall hanker arter the critter some, but he's 
 a-gettin* too big to be handy ; 'n it's one comfort about 
 critters, you ken git rid on 'em somehaow when they're 
 more plague than profit. But folks has got to be let alone, 
 excep' the Lord takes 'em ; an' He generally don't see fit." 
 From Somebody's Neighbors. 
 
 A GIFT HORSE. 
 
 BY ROSE TERRY COOKE. 
 
 " Well, he no need to ha' done it, Sary. I've told him 
 more'n four times he hadn't ought to pull a gun tow'rds him 
 by the muzzle on't. Now he's up an' did it once for all." 
 
 " He won't never hare no chance to do it again, Scotty,
 
 72 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 if you don't hurry up after the doctor," said Sary, wiping 
 her eyes on her dirty calico apron, thereby adding an 
 effective shadow under their redness. 
 
 " Well, I'm agoin', ain't I ? But ye know yerself 
 'twon't do to go so fur on eend, 'thout ye're vittled con- 
 sider' ble well." 
 
 So saying, he fell to at the meal she Lad interrupted, hot 
 potatoes, cold pork, dried venison, and blueberry pie van- 
 ishing down his throat with an alacrity and dispatch that 
 augured well for the thorough " vittling" he intended, 
 while Sary went about folding chunks of boiled ham, thick 
 slices of brown bread, solid rounds of " sody biskit," and 
 slab-sided turnovers in a newspaper, filling a flat bottle 
 with whiskey, and now and then casting a look at the low 
 bed where young Harry McAlister lay, very much whiter 
 than the sheets about him, and quite as unconscious of sur- 
 roundings, the blood oozing slowly through such bandages 
 as Scott Peck's rude surgery had twisted about a gunshot- 
 wound in his thigh, and brought to close tension by a stick 
 thrust through the folds, turned as tight as could be borne, 
 and strapped into place by a bit of coarse twine. 
 
 It was a long journey paddling up the Racquette River, 
 across creek and carry, with the boat on his back, to the 
 lakes, and then from Martin's to " Harri'tstown," where 
 he knew a surgeon of repute from a great city was spending 
 his vacation. It was touch-and-go with Harry before Scott 
 and Dr. Drake got back. Sary had dosed him with veni- 
 son-broth, hot and greasy, weak whiskey and water, and a 
 little milk (only a little), for their cow was old and pastured 
 chiefly on leaves and twigs, and she only came back to the 
 shanty when she liked or needed to come, so their milk
 
 "SAMPLES" HEBE AND THERE. 73 
 
 supply was uncertain, and Sary dared not leave her patient 
 long enough to row to the end of Tupper's Lake, where 
 the nearest cow was kept. But youth has a power of 
 recovery that defies circumstance, and Dr. Drake was very 
 skilful. Long weeks went by, and the green woods of July 
 had brightened and faded into October's dim splendor be- 
 fore Harry McAlister could be carried up the river and 
 over to Bartlett's, where his mother had been called to 
 meet him. She was a widow, and he her only child ; and, 
 though she was rather silly and altogether unpractical, she 
 had a tender, generous heart, and was ready to do anything 
 possible for Scott and Sarah Peck to show her gratitude for 
 their kindness to her boy. She did not consult Harry at 
 all. He had lost much blood from his accident and recov- 
 ered strength slowly. She kept everything like thought or 
 trouble out of his way as far as she could, and when the 
 family physician found her heart was set on taking him to 
 Florida for the winter, because he looked pale and her 
 grandmother's aunt had died of consumption, Dr. Peet, 
 like a wise man, rubbed his hands together, bowed, and 
 assured her it would be the very thing. But something 
 must be done for the Pecks before she went away. It 
 occurred to her how difficult it must be for them to row 
 everywhere in a small boat. A horse would be much bet- 
 ter. Even if the roads were not good they could ride, 
 Sarah behind Scott. And so useful in farming, too. Her 
 mind was made up at once. She dispatched a check for 
 three hundred dollars to Peter Haas, her old coachman, 
 who had bought a farm in Vermont with his savings, and 
 retired, with the cook for his wife, into the private life of a 
 farmer. Mrs. McAlister had much faith in Peter's knowl-
 
 7-4 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 edge of horses and his honesty. She wrote him to buy a 
 strong, steady animal, and convey it to Scott Peck, either 
 sending him word to come up to Bartlett's after it, or tak- 
 ing it down the river ; but, at any rate, to make sure he 
 had it. If the check would not pay all expenses, he was to 
 draw on her for more. Peter took the opportunity to get 
 rid of a horse he had no use for in winter ; a beast restive 
 as a racer when not in daily use, but strong enough for any 
 work, and steady enough if he had work. Two hundred 
 and fifty dollars was the price now set on his head, though 
 Peter had bought him for seventy-five, and thought him 
 dear at that. The remaining fifty was ample for expenses ; 
 but Peter was a prudent German and liked a margin. 
 There was no difficulty in getting the horse as far as 
 Martin's, and by dint of patient insistence Peter contrived 
 to have him conveyed to Bartlett's ; but here he rested and 
 sent a messenger down to Scott Peck, while he himself 
 returned to Bridget at the farm, slowly cursing the country 
 and the people as he went his way, for his delays and 
 troubles had been numerous. 
 
 " Gosh !" said Scott Peck, when he stepped up to the 
 log -house that served for the guides, unknowing what 
 awaited him, for the messenger had not found him at home, 
 but left word he was to come to Bartlett's for something, 
 and the first thing he saw was this gray horse. 
 
 " "What fool fetched his hoss up here ?" 
 
 The guides gathered about the door of their hut, burst 
 into a loud cackle of laughter ; even the beautiful hounds 
 in their rough kennel leaped up and bayed. 
 
 ""W-a-a-1," drawled lazy Joe Tucker, "the feller 't 
 owns him ain't nobody's fool. Be ye, Scotty ?"
 
 ''SAMPLES HERE AND THERE. <O 
 
 " Wha-t !" ejaculated Scott. 
 
 u It's your'n, man, sure as shootin' !" laughed Hearty 
 Jack, Joe Tucker's brother. 
 
 " Mine ? Jehoshaphat ! Blaze that air track, will ye ? 
 I'm lost, sure." 
 
 " Well, Bartlett's gone out Keeseville way, so't kinder 
 was lef to me to tell ye. 'Member that ar chap that shot 
 hisself in the leg down to your shanty this summer ?" 
 
 "Well, I expect I do, seein' I ain't more'n a hundred 
 year old," sarcastically answered Scott. 
 
 " He's cleared out South-aways some'eres, and his ma 
 consaited she was dredful obleeged to ye ; 'n I'm blessed if 
 she didn't send an old Dutch feller up here fur to fetch ye 
 that hoss fur a present. He couldn't noways wait to see ye 
 pus'nally, he sed, fur he mistrusted the' was snows here 
 sometimes 'bout this season. Ho ! ho ! ho !" 
 
 " Good land !" said Scott, sitting $own on a log, and 
 putting his hands in his pockets, the image of perplexity, 
 while the men about him roared with fresh laughter. 
 " What be I a-goin' to do with the critter?" he asked of 
 the crowd. 
 
 " Blessed if I know," answered Hearty Jack. 
 
 " Can't ye get him out to 'Sable Falls or Keeseville 'n 
 sell him fur what he'll fetch ?" suggested Joe Tucker. 
 
 " I can't go now, noways. Sary's wood- pile's nigh gin 
 out, 'n there was a mighty big sundog yesterday ; 'nd 
 moreover I smell snow. It'll be suthin' to git hum as 'tis. 
 Mabbe Bartlett'll keep him a spell." 
 
 " No, he won't ; you kin bet your head. His fodder's 
 a-runnin' short for the hornid critters. He's bought some 
 up to Martin's, that's a-comin' down dyroct ; but 'tain't
 
 76 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 enough. He's put to't for more. Shouldn't wonder ef he 
 had to draw from North Elby when sleddin' sets in." 
 
 " Well, I dono's there's but one thing for to do ; fetch 
 him hum somehow or 'nother ; 'nd there's my boat over to 
 the carry !" 
 
 u You'd better tie the critter on behind an' let him wade 
 down the Racket !" 
 
 Another shout of laughter greeted this proposal. 
 
 " I s'all take ze boat for you !" quietly said a little 
 brown Canadian Jean Poiton. " I am go to Tupper to- 
 morrow. I have one hunt to make. I can take her." 
 
 " Well said, Gene. I'll owe you a turn. But, fur all, 
 how be I goin' to get that animile 'long the trail ?" 
 
 "I dono !" answered Joe Tucker. "1 expect, if it's- 
 got to be did, you'll fetch it somehow. But I'm mighty 
 glad 'tain't my job !" 
 
 Scott Peck thought Joe had good reason for joy in that 
 direction before he had gone a mile on his homeward way ! 
 The trail was only a trail, rough, devious, crossed with 
 roots of trees, brushed with boughs of tir and pine, and the 
 horse was restive and unruly. By nightfall he had gone 
 only a few miles, and when he had tied the beast to a tree 
 and covered him with a blanket brought from Baitlett's for 
 the purpose, and strapped on his own back all the way, the 
 light of the camp-fire startled the horse so that Scott was 
 forced to blind him with a comforter before he would stand 
 still. Then in the middle of the night, a great owl hooting 
 from the tree-top just above him was a fresh scare, and but 
 that the strap and rope both were new and strong he would 
 have escaped. Scott listened to his rearing, trampling, 
 snorts, and wild neigh with the composure of a sleepy
 
 "SAMPLES" HERE AND THEKE. 77 
 
 man ; but when lie awoke at daylight, and found four 
 inches of snow had fallen during the night, he swore. 
 
 This was too much. Even to his practised woodcraft it 
 seemed impossible to get the horse safe to his clearing with- 
 out harm. It was only by dint of the utmost care and 
 patience, the greatest watchfulness of the way, that he got 
 along at all. Every rod or two he stumbled, and all but 
 fell himself. Here and there a loaded hemlock bough, 
 weighed out of its uprightness by the wet snow, snapped in 
 his face and blinded him with its damp burden ; and he 
 knew long before nightfall that another night in the woods 
 was inevitable. He could feed the horse on young twigs of 
 beech and birch, fresh moss, and new-peeled bark (fodder 
 the animal would have resented with scorn under any other 
 conditions) ; but hunger has no law concerning food. Scott 
 himself was famished ; but his pipe and tobacco were a ref- 
 uge whose value he knew before, and his charge was tired 
 enough to be quiet this second night ; so the man had an 
 undisturbed sleep by his comfortable fire. It was full noon 
 of the next day when he reached his cabin. Jean Poiton 
 had tied his boat to its stake, and gone on without stopping 
 to speak to Sarah ; so her surprise was wonderful when she 
 saw Scott emerge from the forest, leading a gray creature, 
 with drooping head and shambling gait, tired and dispirited. 
 
 " Heaven's to Betsey, Scott Peck ! What hev you got 
 theer?" 
 
 " The devil !" growled Scott. 
 
 Sary screamed. 
 
 " Do hold your jaw, gal, an' git me su'thin' hot to eat 'n 
 drink. I'm savager'n an Injin. Come, git along." And, 
 tying his horse to a stump, the hungry man followed Sarah
 
 78 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 into the house and helped himself out of a keg in the corner 
 to a long, reviving draught. 
 
 " Du tell !" said Sarah, when the pork began to frizzle 
 in the pan. " What upon airth did you buy a boss for ?" 
 (She had discovered it was a horse.) 
 
 " Buy it ! I guess not. I ain't no such blamed fool as 
 that comes to. That feller you missed up here a spell back, 
 he up an" sent it roun' to Bartlett's, for a present to me." 
 
 " Well ! Did he think you was a-goin' to set up canawl 
 long o' Kacket ?" 
 
 " I expect he calc'lated I'd go racin'," dryly answered 
 Scott. 
 
 " But what be ye a-goin' to feed him with ?" said Sary, 
 laying venison steaks into the pan. 
 
 " Lord knows ! I don't. Shut up, Sary ! I'm tuck- 
 ered out with the beast. I'd ruther still-hunt three weeks 
 on eend than fetch him in from Sar'nac, now I tell ye. 
 Ain't them did enough ? I could eat a raw bear." 
 
 Sary laughed and asked no more questions till the raven- 
 ous man had satisfied himself with the savory food ; but, if 
 she had asked them, Scott would have had no answer, for 
 his mind was perplexed to the last Degree. He fed the 
 beast for a while on potatoes ; but that was taking the bread 
 out of his own mouth, though he supplemented it with now 
 and then a boat-load of coarse, frost-killed grass, but the 
 horse grew more and more gaunt and restive. His eyes 
 glared with hunger and fury. He kicked out one side of 
 the cowshed and snapped at Scott whenever he came near 
 him. Want of use and food had ..restored him to the orig- 
 inal savagery of his race. Hitherto Scott had never ac- 
 knowledged Mrs. McAlister's gift ; but Sary, who had a
 
 "SAMPLES" HEKE AND THERE. 79 
 
 vague idea of good manners, caught from the picture papers 
 and occasional dime novels the tribe of Adirondack travel- 
 lers strew even in such a wilderness, kept pecking at him. 
 
 " Ta'n't no more'n civil to say thank ye, to the least," 
 she said, till Scott's temper gave way. 
 
 " Stop a-pesterin' of me ! I've lied too much. I ain't 
 a speck thankful ! I'm mightily t'other thing, whatever 
 'tis. Write to her yourself, if you're a mind tu. You can 
 make a better list at it, anyways. Conies as nateral to 
 women to lie as sap to run. I'll be etarnally blessed ef I 
 touch paper for to do it." And he flung out of the door 
 with a bang. 
 
 Of course Sary wrote the letter, which one balmy day 
 electrified Harry and his mother as they sat basking in 
 Southern sunshine ; 
 
 " Mis MACALLISTUE : This is fur to say wee is reel obliged to ye fur the 
 Hoss." 
 
 " Good gracious, mother ! Did you send them a horse ?" 
 ejaculated Harry. 
 
 " Why, my dear, I wanted to show my sense of their 
 kindness, and I could not offer these people money. I 
 thought a horse would be so useful !" 
 
 " Useful ! in the Adirondack woods !" And Harry 
 burst into a fit of laughter that scarcely permitted his 
 mother to go on ; but at last she proceeded : 
 
 " But Scotty and me ain't ackwainted So to speak with Hoss ways ; 
 he seems kinder Hum-sick if you may say that of a Cretur. We air 
 etarnally gratified to You for sech a Valewble Pressent, but if you was 
 Wiling we shood Like to swapp it of in spring fur a kow, ourn Being 
 some in years. 
 
 " yours to Command, SARY PKCK."
 
 80 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 But long before Mrs. McAlister's permission to " swap" 
 the horse reached Scott Peck, the creature took his destiny 
 into his own hands. Scott had gone away on a desperate 
 errand, to fetch some sort of food for the poor creature, 
 whose bones stared him in the face, and Sary went out one 
 morning to give him her potato-peelings and some scraps of 
 bread, when, suddenly, he jerked his head fiercely, snapped 
 his halter in two, and wheeled round upon the frightened 
 woman, rearing, snorting, and showing his long, yellow 
 teeth. Sary fled at once and barred the door behind her ; 
 but neither she nor Scott ever saw their " gift horse'' again. 
 For aught 1 know he still roams the Adirondack forest, and 
 maybe personates the ghostly and ghastly white deer of 
 song and legend. Who can tell ? But he was lifted off 
 Scott Peck's shoulders, and all Scott said by way of epitaph 
 on the departed, when he came home to find his white steed 
 gone, was, " Hang presents !" 
 
 " Samantha Allen" will now have "a brief opportunity 
 for remark." 
 
 Admire her graphic description of the excitement Josiah 
 caused by voting,' at a meeting of the " Jonesville Crea- 
 tion Searchers," for his own spouse as a delegate from 
 Jonesville to the " Sentinel." She reports thus : 
 
 " It was a fearful time, but right where the excitement 
 was raining most fearfully I felt a motion by the side of me, 
 and my companion got up and stood on his feet and says, 
 \i\pretty firm accents, though some sheepish : 
 
 " 'I did, and there's where I stand now ; 1 vote for 
 Samantha ! ' 
 
 " And then he sot down again. Oh, the fearful excite-
 
 "SAMPLES" HERE AND THERE. 81 
 
 ment and confusion that rained down again ! The president 
 got up and tried to speak ; the editor of the Auger talked 
 wildly ; Shakespeare Bobbet talked to himself incoherently, 
 but Solomon Cypher's voice drowned 'em all out, as he 
 kep' a-smitin' his breast and a hollerin' that he wasn't goin' 
 to be infringed upon, or come in contract with no woman ! 
 
 " No female woman needn't think she was the equal of 
 man ; and I should go as a woman or stay to home. I was 
 so almost wore out by their talk, that I spoke right out, and, 
 says I, 'Good land! how did you s'pose I was a-goin' ? ' 
 
 " The president then said that he meant, if I went I 
 mustn't look upon things with the eye of a ' Creation 
 Searcher ' and a man (here he p'inted his forefinger right up 
 in the air and waved it round in a real free and soarin' way), 
 but look at things with the eye of a private investigator and 
 a woman (here he p'inted his finger firm and stiddy right 
 down into the wood-box and a pan of ashes). It war im- 
 pressive VERY. ' ' 
 
 MISS SLIMMENS SURPRISED. 
 
 A Terrible Accident. 
 
 BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR. 
 
 ' ' Dora ! Dora ! Dora ! wake up, wake up, I say ! Don't 
 you smell something burning ? Wake up, child ! Don't 
 you smell fire ? Good Lord ! so do 1. I thought I wasn't 
 mistaken. The room's full of smoke. Oh, dear ! what'll 
 we do ? Don't stop to put on your petticoat. We'll all be 
 burned to death. Fire ! fire ! fire ! fire ! 
 
 " Yes, there is ! I don't know where ! It's all over our 
 room's all in a blaze, and Dora won't come out till she gets
 
 82 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 her dress on. Mr. Little, you shan't go in I'll hold you 
 you'll be killed just to save that chit of a girl, when I 
 1 He's gone rushed right into the flames. Oh, my 
 house ! my furniture ! all my earnings ! Can't anything 
 be done ? Fire ! fire ! fire ! Call the fire-engines ! ring 
 the dinner-bell ! Be quiet ! How can I be quiet ? Yes, 
 it is all in flames. I saw them myself ! Where's my silver 
 spoons ? Oh, where's my teeth, and my silver soup-ladle ? 
 Let me be ! I'm going out in the street before it's too 
 late ! Oh, Mr. Grayson ! have you got water ? have you 
 found the place ? are they bringing water ? 
 
 u Did you say the fire was out ? Was that you that spoke, 
 Mr. Little ? 1 thought you were burned up, sure ; and 
 there's Dora, too. How did they get it out ? My clothes- 
 closet was on fire, and the room, too ! We would have 
 been smothered in five minutes more if we hadn't waked 
 up ! But it's all out now, and no damage done, but my 
 dresses destroyed and the carpet spoiled. Thank the Lord, 
 if that's the worst ! But it ain't the worst. Dora, come 
 along this minute to my room. 1 don't care if it is cold, 
 and wet, and full of smoke. Don't you see don't you see 
 I'm in my night-clothes ? I never thought of it before. 
 I'm ruined, ruined completely ! Go to bed, gentlemen ; 
 get out of the way as quick as you can Dora, shut the 
 door. Hand me that candle ; I want to look at myself in 
 the glass. To think that all those gentlemen should have 
 seen me in this fix ! I'd rather have perished in the flames. 
 It's the very first night I've worn these flannel night-caps, 
 and to be seen in 'em ! Good gracious ! how old I do 
 look ! Not a spear of hair on my head scarcely, and this 
 red night-gown and old petticoat on, and my teeth in the
 
 "SAMPLES" HERE AND THERE. 83 
 
 tumbler, and the paint all washed off my face, and scarred 
 besides ! It's no use ! I never, never can again make any 
 of those men believe that I'm only twenty-five, arid 1 felt so 
 sure of some of them. 
 
 " Oh, Dora Adams ! you needn't look pale ; you've lost 
 nothing. I'll warrant Mr. Little thought you never looked 
 so pretty as in that ruffled gown, and your hair all down 
 over your shoulders. He says you were fainting from the 
 smoke when he dragged you out. You must be a little fool 
 to be afraid to come out looking that way. They say that 
 new boarder is a drawing-master, and I seen some of his 
 pictures yesterday ; he had some such ridiculous things. 
 He'll caricature me for the amusement of the young men, 
 I know. Only think how my portrait would look taken to- 
 night ! and he'll have it, I'm sure, for I noticed him look- 
 ing at me the first that reminded me of my situation after 
 the fire was put out. Well, there's but one thing to be 
 done, and that's to put a bold face on it. I can't sleep any 
 more to-night ; besides, the bed's wet, and it'a beginning 
 to get daylight. I'll go to work and get myself ready for 
 breakfast, and I'll pretend to something E don't know just 
 what to get myself out of this scrape, if I can. . . . 
 
 " Good-morning, gentlemen, good-morning ! We had 
 quite a fright last night, didn't we ? Dora and I came 
 pretty near paying dear for a little frolic. You see, we 
 were dressing up in character to amuse ourselves, and I was 
 all fixed up for to represent an old woman, and had put on 
 a gray wig and an old flannel gown that I found, and we'd 
 set up pretty late, having some fun all to ourselves ; and I 
 expect Dora must have been pretty sleepy when she was 
 putting some of the things away, and set fire to a dress in
 
 84 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 the closet without noticing it. I' ve lost my whole ward- 
 robe, nigh about, by her carelessness ; but it's such a mercy 
 we wasn't burned in our bed that I don't feel to complain 
 so much on that account. Isn't it curious how I got caught 
 dressed up like my grandmother ? We didn't suppose we 
 were going to appear before so large an audience when we 
 planned out our little frolic. What character did Dora 
 assume ? Really, Mr. Little, I was so scared last night 
 that I disre'member. She took off her rigging before she 
 went to bed. Don't you think I'd personify a pretty good 
 old woman, gentlemen ha ! ha ! for a lady of my age ? 
 What's that, Mr. Little ? You wish I'd make you a pres- 
 ent of that nightcap, to remember me by ? Of course ; 
 I' ve no further use for it. Of course I haven't. It's one 
 of Bridget's, that 1 borrowed for the occasion, and I've got 
 to give it back to her. Have some coffee, Mr. Grayson 
 do ! I've got cream for it this morning. Mr. Smith, help 
 yourself to some of the beefsteak. It's a very cold morn- 
 ing fine weather out of doors. Eat all you can, all of you. 
 Have you any profiles to take yet, Mr. Gamboge ? I may 
 make up my mind to set for mine before you leave us ; 
 I've always thought I should have it taken some time. In 
 character ? He ! he ! Mr. Little, you're so funny ! But 
 you'll excuse me this morning, as I had such a fright last 
 night. I must go and take up that wet carpet."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN. 
 
 BY the courtesy of Harper Brothers 1 am allowed to give 
 you '' Aunt Anniky's Teeth," by Sherwood Bonner. The 
 illustrations add much, but the story is good enough without 
 pictures. 
 
 AUNT AXNIKY'S TEETH. 
 
 BY SHERWOOD BONNER. 
 
 Aunt Anniky was an African dame, fifty years old, and 
 of an imposing presence. As a waffle-maker she possessed 
 a gift beyond the common, but her unapproachable talent 
 lay in the province of nursing. She seemed born for the 
 benefit of sick people. She should have been painted with 
 the apple of healing in her hand. For the rest, she was a 
 funny, illiterate old darkey, vain, affable, and neat as a pink. 
 
 On one occasion my mother had a dangerous illness. 
 Aunt Anniky nursed her through it, giving herself no rest, 
 night nor day, until her patient had come " back to de 
 walks an 1 ways ob life,' ' as she expressed the dear mother's, 
 recovery. My father, overjoyed and grateful, felt that we 
 owed this result quite as much to Aunt Anniky as to our 
 family doctor, so he announced his intention of making her 
 a handsome present, and, like King Herod, left her free to 
 choose what it should be. I shall never forget how Aunt
 
 86 THE WIT OF WOMKN. 
 
 Anniky looked as she stood there smiling and bowing, and 
 bobbing the funniest little courtesies all the way down to 
 the ground. 
 
 And you would never guess what it was the old woman 
 asked for. 
 
 "Well, Mars' Charles," said she (she had been one of 
 our old servants, and always called my father ' Mars' 
 Charles '), " to tell you de livin' trufe, my soul an' body is 
 a-yearnin' fur a han'sum chany set o' teef. " 
 
 " A set of teeth !" said father, surprised enough. " And 
 have you none left of your own ?" 
 
 " I has gummed it fur a good many ye'rs," said Aunt 
 Anniky, with a sigh; "but not wishin' ter be ongrateful 
 ter my obligations, I owns ter havin' five nateral teef. But 
 dey is po' sogers ; dey shirks battle. One ob dern's got a 
 little somethin' in it as lively as a speared worm, an' I tell 
 you when anything teches it, hot or cold, it jest makes me 
 dance! An' anudder is in my top jaw, an' ain't got no 
 match fur it in de bottom one ; an' one is broke off nearly 
 to de root ; an' de las' two is so yaller dat I's ashamed ter 
 show 'em in company, an' so 1 lif's my turkey-tail ter my 
 jnouf every time 1 laughs or speaks." 
 
 Father turned to mother with a musing air. " The curi- 
 ous student of humanity," he remarked. " traces resem- 
 blances where they are not obviously conspicuous. Now, 
 :at the first blush, one would not think of any common 
 .ground of meeting for our Aunt Anniky and the Empress 
 Josephine. Yet that fine French lady introduced the fash- 
 jon of handkerchiefs by continually raising delicate lace 
 mouchoirs to her lips to hide her bad teeth. Aunt Anniky 
 lifts her turkey-tail ! It really seems that human beings
 
 A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN. 87 
 
 should be classed by strata, as if they were metals in the 
 earth. Instead of dividing by nations, let us class by 
 quality. So we might find Turk, Jew, Christian, fashion- 
 able lady and washerwoman, master and slave, hanging 
 together like cats on a clothes-line by some connecting cord 
 of affinity" 
 
 " In the mean time," said my mother, mildly, " Aunt 
 Anniky is waiting to know if she is to have her teeth." 
 
 " Oh, surely, surely !" cried father, coming out of the 
 clouds with a start. ' ' I am going to the village to-morrow, 
 Anniky, in the spring Wagon. I will take you with me, 
 and we will see what the dentist can do for you." 
 
 " Bless yo' heart, Mars' Charles !" said the delighted 
 Anniky ; " you're jest as good as yo' blood and yo' name, 
 and mo' I couldn't say." 
 
 The morrow came, and with it Aunt Anniky, gorgeously 
 arrayed in a naming red calico, a bandanna handkerchief, 
 and a string of carved yellow beads that glittered on her 
 bosom like fresh buttercups on a hill-slope. 
 
 1 had petitioned to go with the party, for, as we lived on 
 a plantation, a visit to the village was something of an 
 event. A brisk drive soon brought us to the centre of 
 " the Square." A glittering sign hung brazenly from a 
 high window on its western side, bearing, in raised black 
 letters, the name, " Doctor Alonzo Babb." 
 
 Dr. Babb was the dentist and the odd fish of our village. 
 He beams in my memory as a big, round man, with hair and 
 smiles all over his face, who talked incessantly, and said 
 things to make your blood run cold. 
 
 " Do you see this ring ?" he said, as he bustled about, 
 polishing his instruments and making his preparations for
 
 88 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 the sacrifice of Aunt Annikj. He held up his right hand, 
 on the forefinger of which glistened a ring the size of a dog- 
 collar. " Now, what d'ye s'pose that's made of ?" 
 
 '*' Brass," suggested father, who was funny when not 
 philosophical. 
 
 "Brass /" cried Dr. Babb, with a withering look ; " it's 
 virgin gold, that ring is. And where d've s'pose I found 
 the gold?" 
 
 My father ran his hands into his pockets in a retrospective 
 sort of way. 
 
 11 In the mouths of my patients, every grain of it," said 
 the dentist, with a perfectly diabolical smack of the lips. 
 " Old fillings plugs, you know that I saved, and had 
 made up into this shape. Good deal of sentiment about 
 such a ring as this. ' ' 
 
 " Sentiment of a mixed nature, I should say," murmured 
 my father, with a grimace. 
 
 " Mixed rather ! A speck here, a speck there. Some- 
 times an eye, of tener a jaw, occasionally a front. More than 
 a hundred men, I s'pose, have helped in the cause." 
 
 " Law, doctor ! you beats de birds, you does," cries 
 Aunt Anniky, whose head was as flat as the floor, where 
 her reverence should have been. " You know dey snatches 
 de wool from ebery bush to make deir nests. " 
 
 " Lots of company for me, that ring is," said the doctor, 
 ignoring the pertinent or impertinent interruption. " Often 
 as I sit in the twilight, I twirl it around and around, 
 a-thinking of the wagon-loads of food it has masticated, the 
 blood that has flowed over it, the groans that it has cost ! 
 Now, old lady, if you will sit just here." 
 
 He motioned Aunt Anniky to the chair, into which she
 
 A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN. 89 
 
 dropped in a limp sort of way, recovering herself immedi- 
 ately, however, and sitting bolt upright in a rigid attitude 
 of defiance. Some moments of persuasion were necessary 
 before she could be induced to lean back and allow Dr. 
 Babb's fingers on her nose while she breathed the laughing- 
 gas ; but, once settled, the expression faded from her coun- 
 tenance almost as quickly as a magic-lantern picture van- 
 ishes. I watched her nervously, my attention divided 
 between her vacant-looking face and a. dreadful picture on 
 the wall. It represented Dr. Babb himself, minus the hair, 
 but with double the number of smiles, standing by a patient 
 from whose mouth he had apparently just extracted a huge 
 molar that he held triumphantly in his forceps. A gray- 
 haired old gentleman regarded the pair with benevolent 
 interest. The photograph was entitled, " His First Tooth." 
 
 " Attracted by that picture ?" said Dr. Alonzo, affably, 
 his fingers on Aunt Anniky's pulse. " My par had that 
 struck off the first time I ever got a tooth out. That's par 
 with the gray hair and the benediction attitude. Tell you, 
 he was proud of me ! 1 had such an awful tussle with that 
 tooth ! Thought the old fellow's jaw was bound to break ! 
 But I got it out, and after that my par took me with him 
 round the country starring the provinces, you know and 
 I practised on the natives." 
 
 By this time Aunt Anniky was well under the influence 
 of the gas, and in an incredibly short space of time her five 
 teeth were out. As she came to herself I am sorry to say 
 she was rather silly, and quite mortified me by winking at 
 Dr. Babb in the most confidential manner, and repeating, 
 over and over again : " Honey, yer ain't harf as smart as 
 yer thinks yer is !"
 
 90 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 After a few weeks of sore gums, Aunt Anniky appeared, 
 radiant with her new teeth. The effect was certainly 
 funny. In the first place, blackness itself was not so black 
 as Aunt Anniky. She looked as if she had been dipped in 
 ink and polished off with lamp-black. Her very eyes 
 showed but the faintest rim of white. But those teeth were 
 white enough to make up for everything. She had selected 
 them herself, and the little ridiculous milk-white things 
 were more fitted for the mouth of a Titania than for the 
 great cavern in which Aunt Anniky 's tongue moved and 
 had its being. The gums above them were black, and 
 when she spread her wide mouth in a laugh, it always 
 reminded me of a piano-lid opening suddenly and showing 
 all the black and white ivories at a glance. Aunt Anniky 
 laughed a good deal, too, after getting her teeth in, and 
 declared she had never been so happy in her life. It was 
 observed, to her credit, that she put on no airs of pride, 
 but was as sociable as ever, and made nothing of taking out 
 her teeth and handing them around for inspection among 
 her curious and admiring visitors. On that principle of 
 human nature which glories in calling attention to the 
 weakest part, she delighted in tough meats, stale bread, 
 green fruits, and all other eatables that test the biting qual- 
 ity of the teeth. But finally destruction came upon them 
 in a way that no one could have foreseen. Uncle Ned was 
 an old colored man who lived alone in a cabin not very far 
 from Aunt Anniky's, but very different from her in point 
 of cleanliness and order. In fact, Uncle Ned's wealth, 
 apart from a little corn crop, consisted in a lot of fine 
 young pigs, that ran in and out of the house at all times, 
 and were treated by their owner as tenderly as if they had
 
 A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN. 01 
 
 been his children. One fine day the old man fell sick of a 
 fever, and he sent in haste for Aunt Anniky to come and 
 nurse him. He agreed to give her a pig in case she 
 brought him through ; should she fail to do so, she M*as to 
 receive no pay. Well, Uncle Ned got well, and the next 
 thing we heard was that he refused to pay the pig. My 
 father was usually called on to settle all the disputes in the 
 neighborhood ; so one morning Anniky and Ned appeared 
 before him, both looking very indignant. 
 
 " I'd jes' like ter tell yer, Mars' Charles," began Uncle 
 Ned, " ob de trick dis miser'ble ole nigger played on me." 
 
 " Go on, Ned," said my father, with a resigned air. 
 
 " Well, it wuz de fift night o' de fever," said Uncle 
 Ned, " an' I wuz a-tossin' an' a-moanin', an' old Anniky 
 jes' lay back in her cheer an' snored as ef a. dozen frogs 
 wuz in her throat. I wuz a-perishin' an' a-burnin' wid 
 thirst, an' I hollered to Anniky ; but Lor' ! I might as 
 well 'a hollered to a tombstone ! It wuz ice 1 wanted ; an' 
 1 knowed dar wuz a glass somewhar on my table wid 
 cracked ice in it. Lor' ! Lor' ! how dry I wuz ! I neber 
 longed fer whiskey in my born days ez I panted fur dat ice. 
 It wuz powerful dark, fur de grease wuz low in de lamp, 
 an' de wick spluttered wid a dyin' flame. But I felt 
 aroun', feeble like an' slow, till my fingers touched a glass. 
 I pulled it to me, an' I run my han' in an' grabbed de ice, 
 as I s'posed, an' flung it in my mouf, an' crunched, an' 
 crunched " 
 
 Here there was an awful pause. Uncle Ned pointed his 
 thumb at Anniky, looked wildly at my father, and said, in 
 a hollow voice : "It wuz Anniky' s teef 7" 
 
 My father threw back his head and laughed as I had
 
 92 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 never heard him laugh. Mother from her sofa joined in. 
 1 was doubled up like a jack-knife in the corner. But as 
 for the principals in the affair, neither of their faces moved 
 a muscle. They saw no joke. Aunt Anniky, in a dread- 
 ful, muffled, squashy sort of voice, took up the tale : 
 
 " Nexsh ting I knowed, Marsh Sharles, somebody's 
 sheizin' me by de head, a-jammin' it up 'gin de wall, 
 a- jawin' at me like de Angel Gabriel at de rish ole sinners 
 in de bad plashe an' dar wash ole Ned a-spittin' like a 
 black cat, an' a-howlin' so dreadful dat I tought he wash de 
 debil ; an' when I got de light, dar wash my beautiful 
 chany teef a-flung aroun', like scattered seed-corn, on de 
 do', an' Ned a-svvarin' he'd have de law o' me." 
 
 " An' arter all dat," broke in Uncle Ned, " she pretends 
 to lay a claim fur my pig. But I says no, sir ; T don't pay 
 nobody nothin' who's played me a trick like dat." 
 
 "Trick!"' said Aunt Anniky, scornfully, " whar's de 
 trick '( Tink 1 wanted yer ter eat my teef ? An' furder- 
 mo'. Marsh Sharles, dar's jes' dis about it : when dat night 
 set in dar warn't no mo' hope fur old Ned dan fur a foun- 
 dered sheep. Laws-a-massy ! dat's why I went ter sleep. 
 I wanted ter hev strengt' ter put on his burial clo'es in de 
 mornin'. But don' yer see, Marsh Sharles, dat when he 
 got so mad it brought on a sweat dat broke de fever ! 
 It saved him ! But, fur all dat, arter rnunchin' an' man- 
 glin' my chany teef, he has de imperdence ob tryin' to 
 'prive me ob de pig 1 honestly 'arned." 
 
 It was a hard case. Uncle Ned sat there a very image of 
 injured dignity, while Aunt Anniky bound a red handker- 
 chief around her mouth and fanned herself with her turkey- 
 tail. 
 
 " I am sure I don't know how to settle the matter," said
 
 A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN. 93 
 
 
 
 father, helplessly. " Ned, I don't see but that you'll have 
 to pay up." 
 
 " Neber, Mars' Charles, neber," 
 
 " Well, suppose you get married ?" suggested father, 
 brilliantly. " That will unite your interests, you know." 
 
 Aunt Anniky tossed her head. Uncle Ned was old, 
 wizened, wrinkled as a raisin, but he eyed Anniky over 
 with a supercilious gaze, and said with dignity : " Ef I 
 wanted ter marry, I could git a likely young gal." 
 
 All the four points of Anniky's turban shook with indig- 
 nation. " Pay me fur dem chany teef !" she hissed. 
 
 Some visitors interrupted the dispute at this time, and 
 the two old darkies went away. 
 
 A week later Uncle Ned appeared with rather a sheepish 
 look. 
 
 "Well, Mars' Charles," he said, " I's about concluded 
 dat I'll marry Anniky." 
 
 "Ah! is that so?" 
 
 " 'Pears like it's de onliest way I kin save my pigs," 
 said Uncle Ned, with a sigh. " When she's married she 
 boun' ter ''ley me. Women 'bey your husbands ; dat's 
 what de good Book says." 
 
 " Yes, she will lay you, I doirt doubt," said my father, 
 making a pun that Uncle Ned could not appreciate. 
 
 " An ? ef ever she opens her jaw ter me 'bout dem ar 
 teef." he went on, " I'll mash her." 
 
 Uncle Ned tottered on his legs like an unscrewed fruit- 
 stand, and I had my own opinion as to his " mashing" 
 Aunt Anniky. This opinion was confirmed the next day 
 when father offered her his congratulations. " You are 
 old enough to know your own mind," he remarked. 
 
 " I's ole, maybe," said Anniky, " but so is a oak-tree,
 
 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 an' it's rigorous, I reckon. I's a purty vigorous sort o' 
 growth myself, an' I reckon I'll have my own way with 
 Ned. I'm gwine ter fatten dem pigs o' hisn, an' you see 
 ef I don't sell 'em nex' Christmas fur money 'nouf ter git a 
 new string o' chany teef." 
 
 " Look here, Anniky," said father, with a burst of 
 generosity, "you and Ned will quarrel about those teeth 
 till the day of doom, so 1 will make you a wedding pres- 
 ent of another set, that you may begin married life in 
 harmony. ' ' 
 
 Aunt Anniky expressed her gratitude. " An' dis time," 
 she said, with sudden fury, " I sleeps wid 'em in." 
 
 The teeth were presented, and the wedding preparations 
 began. The expectant bride went over to JSed's cabin and 
 gave it such a clearing up as it had never had. But Ned 
 did not seem happy. He devoted himself entirely to his 
 pigs, and wandered about looking more wizened every day. 
 Finally he came to our gate and beckoned to me myste- 
 riously. 
 
 " Come over to my house, honey," he whispered, " an' 
 bring a pen an' ink an' a piece o' paper wid yer. I wants 
 yer ter write me a letter." 
 
 I ran into the house for my little writing-deek, and fol- 
 lowed Uncle Ned to his cabin. 
 
 " Now, honey," he said, after barring the door carefully, 
 " don't you ax me no questions, but jes' put down de 
 words dat comes out o' my mouf on dat ar paper." 
 
 ' ; Very well, (Jncle Ned, go on." 
 
 " Anniky Hobbleston," he began, " dat weddin' ain't 
 a-gwine ter come off. You cleans up too much ter suit me. 
 I ain't used ter so much water splashin' aroun'. Dirt is
 
 A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN. 95 
 
 warmin'. 'Spec I'd freeze dis winter if you wuz here. 
 An' you got too much tongue. Besides, I's got anudder 
 wife over in Tipper. An' I ain't a-gwine ter marry. As 
 fur havin' de law, I's a leavin' dese parts, an' I takes der 
 pigs wid me. Yer can't fin' dem, an' yer can't fin' me. 
 Fur I aiii't a-gwine ter marry. I wuz born a bachelor, 
 an' a bachelor will I represent myself befo' de judgment- 
 seat. If you gives yer promise ter say no mo' 'bout dis 
 marryin' business, p'r'apsl'll come back some day. So no 
 mo' at present, from your humble worshipper, 
 
 "NED CUDDY." 
 
 " Isn't that last part rather inconsistent ?" said I, greatly 
 amused. 
 
 " Yes, honey, if yer says so ; an' it's kind o' soothin' to 
 de feelin's of a woman, yer know." 
 
 I wrote it all down and read it aloud to Uncle Ned. 
 
 " Now, my chile," he said, " I'm a-gwine ter git on my 
 mule as soon as der moon rises, an' drive my pigs ter Col' 
 Water Gap, whar I'll stay an' fish. Soon as I am well 
 gone, you take dis letter ter Anniky ; but min\ don't tell 
 whar I's gone. An' if she takes it all right, an" promises 
 ter let me alone, you write me a letter, an' I'll git de fust 
 Methodis' preacher I run across in der woods ter read it ter 
 me. Den, ef it's all right, I'll come back an' weed yer 
 flower-garden fur yer as purty as preachin'." 
 
 I agreed to do all Uncle Ned asked, and we parted like 
 conspirators. The next morning Uncle Ned was missing, 
 and, after waiting a reasonable time I explained the matter 
 to my parents, and went over with his letter to Aunt 
 Anniky. 
 
 "Powers above!" was her only comment as I got
 
 96 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 through the remarkable epistle. Then, after a pause to 
 collect her thoughts, she seized me by the shoulder, saying : 
 " Run to yo' pappy, honey, quick, an' ax him ef he's 
 gwine ter stick ter his bargain 'bout de teef. Yer know he 
 pintedly said dey wuz a weddiri git''." 
 
 Of course my father sent word that she must keep the 
 teeth, and my mother added a message of sympathy, with a 
 present of a pocket-handkerchief to dry Aunt Anniky's tears. 
 
 " But it's all right," said that sensible old soul, opening 
 her piano-lid with a cheerful laugh. " Bless you, chile, it 
 wuz de teef I wanted, not de man ! An', honey, you jes' 
 sen' word to dat shif'less old nigger, ef you know whar he's 
 gone, to come back home and git his crap in de groun' ; 
 an', as fur as I'm consarned, yer jes' let him know dat I 
 wouldn't pick him up wid a ten-foot pole, not ef he wuz to 
 beg me on his knees till de millennial day.'' From 
 "Dialect Tales" published in 1883 by Harper Brothers. 
 
 It is not easy to tell what satire is, or where it originated. 
 "In Eden," says Dryden, "the husband and wife ex- 
 cused themselves by laying the blamfi on each other, and 
 gave a beginning to those conjugal dialogues in prose whieh 
 poets have perfected inverse." Whatever it maybe, we 
 know it when it cuts us, and Sherwood Bonner's hit on the 
 Radical Club of Boston was almost inexcusable. 
 
 She was admitted as a guest, and her subsequent ridicule 
 was a violation of all good breeding. But like so many 
 wicked things it is captivating, and while you are shocked, 
 you laugh. While I hold up both hands in horror, I intend 
 to give you an idea of it ; leaving out the most personal 
 verses.
 
 A BE ACE OF WITTY WOMEN. 97 
 
 THE EADICAL CLUB. 
 
 BY 8HEKWOOD BONNEB. 
 
 Dear friends, I crave attention to some facts that I shall mention 
 About a Club called " Radical," you haven't heard before ; 
 
 Got up to teach the nation was this new light federation, 
 To teach the nation how to think, to live, and to adore ; 
 To teach it of the heights and depths that all men should explore ; 
 Only this and nothing more. 
 
 It is not my inclination, in this brief communication, 
 
 To produce a false impression which I greatly would deplore 
 
 But a few remarks I'm makin' on some notes a chiel's been takin,' 
 And, if I'm not mistaken, they'll make your soul upsoar, 
 As you bend your eyes with eagerness to scan these verses o'er ; 
 Truly this and something more. 
 
 And first, dear friends, the fact is, I'm sadly out of practice, 
 And may fail in doing justice to this literary bore ; 
 
 But when I do begin it, I don't think 'twill take a minute 
 
 To prove there's nothing in it (as you've doubtless heard before), 
 But a free religious wrangling club of this I'm very sure 
 Only this and nothing more ! 
 
 'Twas a very cordial greeting, one bright morning of their meeting ; 
 Such eager salutations were never heard before. 
 
 After due deliberation on the importance of the occasion, 
 To begin the organization, Mr. Pompous took the floor 
 With an air quite self-complacent, strutted up and took the floor, 
 As he'd often done before ! 
 
 With an air of condescension he bespoke their close attention 
 To an essay from a Wiseman versed in theologic lore ; 
 
 He himself had had the pleasure of a short glance at the treasure, 
 And in no stinted measure said we had a treat in store ; 
 Then he waved his hand to Wiseman and resigned to him the floor ; 
 Only this and nothing more.
 
 98 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Quick and nervous, short and wiry, with a look profound, yet fiery, 
 Mr. Wiseman now stepped forward and eyed us darkly o'er, 
 
 Then an arm-chair, quaint and olden, gay with colors green and golden, 
 By the pretty hostess rolled in from its place behind the door, 
 Was offered to the reader, in the centre of the floor, 
 And he took the chair be sure. 
 
 Then with arguments elastic, and a voice and eye sarcastic, 
 
 Mr. Wiseman into flinders the Holy Bible tore ; 
 And he proved beyond all question that the God of Moses' mention 
 
 Was a fraudulent invention of some Hebrews, three or four, 
 
 And the Son of God's ascension an imaginary soar ! 
 Only this and nothing more. 
 
 Each member then admitted that his part was well acquitted, 
 
 For his strong, impassioned reasoning had touched them to the core ; 
 He felt sure, as he surveyed them through his specs, that he had 
 
 " played " them, 
 
 And was proud that he had made them all astonished by his lore ; 
 Not a continental cared he for the fruits such lessons bore, 
 So he bowed and left the floor. 
 
 Then a Colonel, cold and smiling, with a stately air beguiling, 
 Who punctuates his paragraphs on Newport's sounding shore, 
 
 Said his friend was wise and witty, and yet it seemed a pity 
 To destroy in this old city the belief it had before 
 In the ancient superstitions of the days of yore. 
 This he said, and something more. 
 
 Orthodoxy, he lamented, thoiight the Christian world demented, 
 Yet still he felt a rev'rence as he read the Bible o'er, 
 
 And he thought the modern preacher, though a poor stick for a teacher, 
 Or a broken reed, like Beecher, ought to have his claims looked o'er, 
 And the " tyranny of science" was indeed, he felt quite sure, 
 Our danger more and more. 
 
 His remarks our pulses quicken, when a British Lion, stricken 
 
 With his wondrous self-importancehe knew everything and more 
 Said he loathed such moderation ; and he made his declaration
 
 A BRACE OF WITTY \\OMKN. 99 
 
 That, in spite of all creation, he found no God to adore ; 
 And his voice was like the ocean as its surges loudly roar ; 
 
 Only this and nothing more. 
 
 ******* 
 But the interest now grew lukewarm, for an ancient Conco rd book-worm 
 
 With authoritative tramping, forward came and took the floor, 
 And in Orphic mysticisms talked of life and light and prisms, 
 And the Infinite baptisms on a transcendental shore, 
 And the concrete metaphysic, till we yawned in anguish sore ; 
 But still he kept the floor. 
 
 Then uprose a kindred spirit almost ready to inherit 
 
 The rare and radiant Aiden that he begged us to adore ; 
 His smile was beaming brightly, and his soft hair floated whitely 
 Bound a face as fair and sightly as a pious priest's of yore ; 
 And we forgave the arguments worn out years before, 
 
 For we loved this saintly bore. 
 
 ******* 
 Then a lively little charmer, noted as a dress reformer, 
 
 Because that mystic garment, chemiloon, she wore, 
 Said she had no " views" of Jesus, and therefore would not tease us, 
 But that she thought 'twould please us to look her figure o'er, 
 For she wore no bustles anywhere, and corsets, she felt sure, 
 Should squeeze her nevermore. 
 
 This pretty little pigeon said of course the true religion 
 Demanded ease of body before the mind could soar ; 
 
 But that no emancipation could come unto our nation 
 Until the aggregation of the clothes that women wore 
 Were suspended from the shoulders, and smooth with many a gore, 
 Plain behind and plain before ! 
 
 Her remarks were full of reason, but a little out of season, 
 And the proper tone of talking Mr. Fairman did restore, 
 When he sneered at priests and preaching, and indorsed the Index teach 
 
 ing, 
 
 And with philanthropic screeching, said he sought for evermore 
 The light of sense and freedom into darkened minds to pour ; 
 Truly this, but something more !
 
 100 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Then with eyes as bright as Phoebus, and hair dark as Erebus, 
 A maid with stunning eye-glass next appeared upon the floor ; 
 
 In her aspect she looked regal, though her words were few and feeble, 
 But she vowed his logic legal and as pure as golden ore, 
 And indorsed the Index editor in every word he swore, 
 And then said nothing more. 
 
 Then a tall and red-faced member, large and loose and somewhat limber 
 
 (And though his creed was shaky, he the name of Bishop bore), 
 Said that if he lived forever, he should forget, ah ! never, 
 The Radicals so clever, in Boston by the shore ; 
 But a bad gold in his 'ead bust stop his saying bore, 
 
 And we all cried encore. 
 
 ******* 
 Then a rarely gifted mortal, to whom the triple portal 
 
 Of Music, Art, and Poesy had opened years before, 
 With a look of sombre feeling, depths within his soul revealing, 
 Leaving room for no appealing, he decided o'er and o'er 
 The old, old vexing questions of the why and the wherefore, 
 And taught us nothing more. 
 
 There are others I could mention who took part in this contention, 
 
 And at first 'twas my intention, but at present I forbear ; 
 There's young Look-sharp, and Wriggle, who would make an angel 
 
 giggle, 
 
 And a young conceited Zeigel, who was seated near the door ; 
 If you could only see them, you'd laugh till you were sore, 
 And then you'd laugh some more. 
 
 But, dear friends, I now must close, of these Radicals dispose, 
 For I am sad and weary as I view their follv o'er ; 
 
 Jn their wild Utopian dreaming, and impracticable scheming 
 For a sinful world's redeeming, common sense flies out the door, 
 And the long-drawn dissertations come to words and nothing more ; 
 Only words, and nothing more. 
 
 Mary Clemmer Hudson has spoken of Phoebe Gary as 
 " the wittiest woman in America." But she truly adds :
 
 WALt 
 
 A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN. L 
 
 " A flash of wit, like a flash of lightning, can only be 
 remembered, it cannot be reproduced. Its very marvel 
 lies in its spontaneity and evanescence ; its power is in 
 be'ing struck from the present. Divorced from that, the 
 keenest representation of it seems cold and dead. We read 
 over the few remaining sentences which attempt to embody 
 the repartees and bon mots of the most famous wits of 
 society, such as Beau l^ash, Beau Brummel, Madame du 
 Deffand, and Lady Mary Montagu ; we wonder at the pov- 
 erty of these memorials of their fame. Thus it must be 
 with Phoabe Gary. Her most brilliant sallies were per- 
 fectly unpremeditated, and by herself never repeated or 
 remembered. When she was in her best moods they came 
 like flashes of heat lightning, like a rush of meteors, so 
 suddenly and constantly you were dazzled while you were 
 delighted, and afterward found it difficult to single out any 
 distinct flash or separate meteor from the multitude. . . . 
 This most wonderful of her gifts can only be represented 
 by a few stray sentences gleaned here and there from the 
 faithful memories of loving friends. . . . 
 
 " One tells how, at a little party, where fun rose to a 
 great height, one quiet person was suddenly attacked by a 
 gay lady with the question : ' Why don't you laugh ? You 
 sit there just like a post ! ' 
 
 " ' There ! she called you a post ; why don't you rail at 
 her ? ' was Phoebe's quick exclamation. 
 
 " Mr. Barnum mentioned to her that the skeleton man 
 and the fat woman then on exhibition in his ' greatest show 
 on earth ' were married. 
 
 " ' I suppose they loved through thick and thin, ' was her 
 comment.
 
 102 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 " ' On one occasion, when Plioebe was at the Museum 
 looking about at the curiosities,' says Mr. Barnum, ' I pre- 
 ceded her and had passed down a couple of steps. She, 
 intently watching a big anaconda in a case at the top of the 
 stairs, walked off, not noticing them, and fell. I was just 
 in time to catch her in my arms and save her from a good 
 bruising. 
 
 " ' I am more lucky than that first woman \vas who fell 
 through the influence of the serpent,' said Phcebe, as she 
 recovered herself. 
 
 " And when asked by some one at a dinner-party what 
 brand of champagne they, kept, she replied : ' Oh, we drink 
 Heidsieck, but we keep Mum.' 
 
 " Again, a certain well-known actor, then recently de- 
 ceased, and more conspicuous for his professional skill than 
 for his private virtues, was discussed. 'We shall never,' 
 
 remarked some one, ' see again.' 
 
 " ' No,' quietly responded Plioebe, ' not unless we go to 
 the pit.'". 
 
 These stray shots may not fairly represent Miss Gary's 
 brilliancy, but we are grateful for what has been preserved, 
 meagre as it would seem to those who had the privilege of 
 knowing her intimately and enjoying those Sunday evening 
 receptions, where, unrestrained and happy, every one was 
 at his best. 
 
 Her verses on the subject of Woman's Rights, as dis- 
 cussed in masculine fashion, with masculine logic, by Chan- 
 ticleer Dorking, are capital, and her parodies, shockingly 
 literal, have been widely copied. Enjoy these as given in 
 her life, written by Mary Clemmer.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 GINGER-SNAPS. 
 
 I WILL now offer you some good things of various degrees 
 of humor. I do not feel it necessary to impress their merits 
 upon you, for they speak for themselves. Here is a quaint 
 bit of satire from a bright Boston woman, which those on 
 her side of the vexed Indian question will enjoy : 
 
 THE INDIAN AGENT. 
 
 BY LOUISA HALL. 
 
 He was a long, lean man, with a sad expression, as if 
 weighed down by pity for poor humanity. His heart was 
 evidently a great many sizes too large for him. He yearned 
 to enfold all tribes and conditions of men in his encircling 
 arms. He surveyed his audience with such affectionate in- 
 terest that he seemed to look into the very depths of their 
 pockets. 
 
 A few resolute men buttoned their coats, but the major- 
 ity knew that this artifice would not save them, and they 
 rather enjoyed it as a species of harmless dissipation. 
 They liked to be talked into a state of exhilaration which 
 obliged them to give without thinking much about it, and 
 they felt very good and benevolent afterward. So they 
 cheered the agent enthusiastically, as a signal for him to 
 begin, and he came forward bowing, while the three red
 
 104 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 brothers who accompanied him remained seated on the 
 platform. He appeared to smile on every one present as 
 he said : 
 
 " Friends and Fellow-Citizens, I have the honor to intro- 
 duce to yon these chiefs of the Laughing Dog Nation. 
 Twenty-five years ago this tribe was one of the fiercest on 
 our Western plains. Snarling Bear, the most noted chief 
 of his tribe, was a great warrior. Fifty scalps adorned his 
 wigwam. Some of them had once belonged to his best 
 friends. He was murdered while in the prime of life by a 
 white man whose wife he had accidentally shot at the door 
 of her cabin. He was one of the first to u-elcome the white 
 men and adopt the improvements they brought with them. 
 When lie became sufficiently civilized to understand that 
 polygamy was unlawful, he separated from his oldest wife. 
 Her scalp was carefully preserved among those of the great 
 warriors he had conquered. His son, Flying Deer, who is 
 with us to-day, will address you in his own language, which 
 I shall interpret for you. The last twenty years have made 
 a great change in their condition. These men are not 
 savages, but educated gentlemen. They are all graduates 
 of Tomahawk College, at Bloody .Mountain, near the Gray 
 Wolf country. They are chiefs of their tribes, eacb one 
 holding a position equal to the Governor of our own State. 
 Their influence at the West is great. Last year they sent a 
 small party of missionaries to the highlands of the Wolf 
 country, where the women and children pasture the ponies 
 during the dry season. Not one of these noble men ever 
 returned. Unfortunately for the success of this mission, 
 the Gray Wolf warriors were at home. The medicine 
 man's dreams had been unfavorable, and they dared not set
 
 GINGER SNAPS. 105 
 
 out on their annual hunt. This year they will send a larger 
 party well armed. 
 
 " These devoted men have left their Western homes and 
 come here to assure you of their confidence in your affec- 
 tion, and the love and gratitude they feel toward you. 
 They come to ask for churches and schools, that their chil- 
 dren may grow up like yours. But these things require 
 money. On account of the great scarcity of stone in the 
 Rocky Mountains, and the necessity of preserving standing 
 timber for the Indian hunting-grounds, all building mate- 
 rials for churches and school-houses must be carried from 
 the East at great expense. The door-steps of the third 
 orthodox Kickapoo church cost one hundred and fifty dol- 
 lars. But it is money well invested. The gradual decrease 
 of crime at the West has convinced the most sceptical that 
 a great work can be done among these people. The num- 
 ber of murders committed in this country last year was one 
 hundred and twenty-five ; this year only one hundred and 
 twenty-three. 
 
 " Although a great deal has been done for these people, 
 you will be surprised to learn how much remains to be 
 done. I need not tell you that every dollar intrusted to me 
 will be spent, and I hope you will live to see the result of 
 your generosity. 
 
 " I wish to build at least fifteen churches and school- 
 houses before the cold weather sets in. The cost of build- 
 ing has been greatly lessened by employing native work- 
 men, who are capable of designing and erecting simple edi- 
 fices. The pulpits will be supplied by native preachers, 
 and the expense of light and heat will be paid by the con- 
 gregation.
 
 106 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 " We have at least twenty-five well-qualified native 
 teachers, who will require no salary beyond the necessary 
 expense of food and clothing. 
 
 " A few boarding-houses must be built and tastefully 
 furnished. We have a large number of Laughing Dog 
 widows, w"ho would gladly take charge of such establish- 
 ments. 
 
 " The native committee will make a careful selection of 
 such matrons as are most capable of guiding and encourag- 
 ing young people. 
 
 " All money for the benefit of these people has been used 
 with the strictest economy, and will be while I retain the 
 agency. I have secured a slender provision for my declin- 
 ing years, and shall return to spend my days with my 
 adopted people. 
 
 " But I will let these men who once owned this great 
 country speak for themselves. Flying Deer, who will now 
 address you, is about forty years of age. He lives with his 
 wife and ten children near the agency, at a place called 
 Plumanketchet. ' ' 
 
 Flying Deer came forward and spoke very distinctly, 
 though rapidly. 
 
 " O hoo bree-gutchee, gumme maw r choo kibbe showain 
 nemeshin. Dawmasse choochugah goo waugh ; kawboo. 
 Nokka brewisgoo, honowin nudwag moonoo shugh kawmun 
 menjeis. Babas kwasind waugh muskoday, wawa gesson- 
 won goo. Nahma naskeen oza yenadisse may ben mud jo, 
 kenemoosha. Wawconassee nushka kahgagoo, jossahut, 
 wabenas ogu winemon juba. Ahmuck wana wayroossen 
 chooponnuk segwan maysen. Opeechee annewayman, 
 kewadoda shenghen kad goo tagamengow."
 
 GINGER-SNAPS. 10 < 
 
 " He says, my friends, that he has always loveu and 
 trusted the white people. He says that since he has seen 
 the great cities and towns of the East, he loves his white 
 brothers more than before. His red brothers, White Crow 
 and the Rock on End, wish him to say that they also love 
 you. He says the savage Gray Wolf tribe threaten to shoot 
 and scalp them if they continue friendly to the whites. He 
 asks for powder, guns, and ponies, that they may defend 
 themselves from their enemies. He wants to convince you 
 that they are rapidly becoming a civilized nation. The 
 assistance you are about to give will only be required for a 
 short time. They will soon become self-supporting, and 
 relieve the Government of a heavy tax. They thank you 
 for the kindness you have shown, and for the generous col- 
 lection which will now be taken up. 
 
 " Will some friend close the doors while we give every 
 one an opportunity to contribute to this good cause ? Re- 
 member that he who shutteth up his ears to the cry of the 
 poor, he shall also cry himself and shall not be heard. 
 Those who prefer can leave a check with Deacon Meekham 
 at the door, or with me at the hotel. These substantial 
 tokens of your regard will cause the wilderness to blossom 
 as the rose. 
 
 " In the name of our red brethren, let me again thank 
 you." 
 
 If one inclines to Irish fun, try this burlesque from Mrs. 
 Lippincott.
 
 108 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 MISTRESS O'RAFFERTY ON THE WOMAN QUESTION. 
 
 BY GBACE GREENWOOD. 
 
 No ! I wouldn't demane myself, Bridget, 
 Like you, in disputin' with men 
 
 Would I fly in the face of the blissed 
 Apostles, an' Father Maginn ? 
 
 It isn't the talent I'm wantin' 
 
 Sure my father, ould Michael McCrary, 
 
 Made a beautiful last spache and confession 
 When they hanged him in ould Tipperary. 
 
 So, Bridget Muldoon, howld yer talkin' 
 About Womins' Rights, and all that ! 
 
 Sure all the rights I want is the one right, 
 To be a good helpmate to Pat ; 
 
 For he's a good husband and niver 
 Laj s on me the weight of his hand 
 
 Except when he's far gone in liquor, 
 And I nag him, you'll plase understand. 
 
 Thrue for ye, I've one eye in mournin', 
 That's becaze I disputed hin right, 
 
 To tak' and spind all my week's earnin's 
 At Tim Mulligan's wake, Sunday night. 
 
 But it's sildom when I've done a washin', 
 He 11 ask for more'n half of the pay ; 
 
 An' he'll toss me my share, wid a smile, dear, 
 That's like a swate mornin' in May ! 
 
 Now where, if I rin to convintions, 
 
 Will be Patrick's home-comforts and joys? 
 
 Who'll clane up his broghans for Sunday, 
 Or patch up his ould corduroys. 
 
 If we tak' to the polls, night and mornin', 
 Our dilicate charms will all flee 
 
 The dew will be brushed from the rose, dear, 
 The down from the pache don't you see ?
 
 GINGER-SNAPS. 109 
 
 We'll soon tak' to shillalahs and shindies 
 
 Whin we get to be sovereign electors, 
 And turn all our husbands' hearts from us, 
 
 Thin what will we do for protectors? 
 
 We'll have to be crowners an' judges, 
 
 An' such like ould malefactors, 
 Or they'll make Common Councilmin of us ; 
 
 Thin where will be our char-acters ? 
 
 Oh, Bridget, God save us from votin' ! 
 
 For sure as the blissed sun rolls, 
 We'll land in the State House or Congress, 
 
 Thin what will become of our sowls ? 
 
 Or the triumphs of a quack, by Miss Amanda T. Jones. 
 
 DOCHTHEK O'FLANNIGAN AND HIS WONDHEEFUL CURES. 
 
 I. 
 
 I'm Barney O'Flannigan, lately from Cork ; 
 I've crossed the big watther as bould as a shtork. 
 'Tis a dochther I am and well versed in the thrade ; 
 I can mix yez a powdher as good as is made. 
 Have yez pains in yer bones or a throublesome ache 
 In yer jints afther dancin' a jig at a wake ? 
 Have yez caught a black eye from some blundhering whack? 
 Have yez vertebral twists in the sphine av yer back? 
 Whin ye're walkin' the shtrates are yez likely to fall ? 
 Don't whiskey sit well on yer shtomick at all? 
 Sure 'tis botherin' nonsinse to sit down and wape 
 Whin a bit av a powdher ull put yez to shlape. 
 Shtate yer symptoms, me darlins, and niver yez doubt 
 But as sure as a gun I can shtraighten yez out ! 
 Thin don't yez be gravin' no more ; 
 
 Arrah ! quit all yer sighin' forlorn ; 
 Here's Barney O'Flannigan right to the fore, 
 
 And bedad ! he's a gintleman born !
 
 110 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ooom thin, ye poor craytnres and don't yez be scairt ! 
 Have yez batin' and lumberin' thumps at the hairt, 
 Wid ossification, and acceleration, 
 Wid fatty accration and bad vellication, 
 Wid liver inflation and hapitization, 
 Wid lung inflammation and brain-adumbration, 
 Wid black aruptation and schirrhous formation, 
 Wid nerve irritation and paralyzation, 
 Wid extravasation and acrid sacration, 
 Wid great jactitation and exacerbation, 
 Wid shtrong palpitation and wake circulation, 
 Wid quare titillation and cowld perspiration ? 
 Be the powers ! but I'll bring all yer woes to complation, 
 Onless yer in love thin jer past all salvation ! 
 
 Coom, don't yez be gravin' no moie ! 
 Be quit wid yer sighin' forlorn ; 
 
 Here's the man all yer haling potations to pour, 
 And ye'll prove him a gintleman born ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Sure, me frinds, 'tis the wondherful luck I have had 
 In the thratement av sickness no mtttther how bad. 
 All the hundhreds I've cured 'tis not aisy to shpake, 
 And if any sowl dies, faith I'm in at the wake ; 
 There was Misthriss O'Toole was tuck down mighty quare, 
 That wild there was niver a one dared to lave her ; 
 And phat was the matther ? Ye'll like for to hare ; 
 'Twas the double quotidian humerous faver. 
 Well, I tuck out me lancet and pricked at a vein, 
 (Och, murther ! but didn't she howl at the pain !) 
 Six quarts, not a dhrap less I drew widout sham, 
 And troth she shtopped howlin', and lay like a lamb. 
 Thin for fare sich a method av thratement was risky, 
 I hasthened to fill up the void wid ould whiskey. 
 Och ! niver be gravin' no more ! 
 
 Phat use av yer sighiii' forlorn ? 
 Me patients are proud av me midical lore 
 
 They'll shware I'm a gintleman born.
 
 GINGER-SNAPS. Ill 
 
 IV. 
 
 Well, Misthriss O'Toole was tuck betther at once, 
 
 For she riz up in bed and cried : " Paddy, ye dunce ! 
 
 Give the dochther a dhram. So I sat at me aise 
 
 A brewin' the punch jist as fine as ye plaze. 
 
 Thin I lift a prascription all written down nate 
 
 Wid ametics and diaphoretics complate ; 
 
 Wid anti-shpasmodics to kape her so quiet, 
 
 And a toddy so shtiff that ye'd all like to thry it. 
 
 So Paddy O'Toole mixed 'em well in a cup 
 
 All barrin' the toddy, and that he dhrunk up ; 
 
 For he shwore 'twas a shame sich good brandy to waste 
 
 On a double quotidian faverish taste ; 
 
 And troth we agrade it was not bad to take, 
 
 Whin we dhrank that same toddy nixt night at the wake I 
 
 Arrah ! don't yez be gravin' no more, 
 Wid yer moanin" and sighin' forlorn ; 
 
 Here's Barney O'Flannigan thrue to the core 
 Av the hairt of a gintleman born ! 
 
 V. 
 
 There was Michael McDonegan down wid a fit 
 
 Caught av dhrinkin' cowld watther whin tipsy a bit. 
 
 'T would have done yer hairt good to have heard him cry out 
 
 For a cup of potheen or a tankard av shtout, 
 
 Or a wee dhrap av whiskey, new out av the shtill ; 
 
 And the shnakes that he saw troth 'twas jist fit to kill ! 
 
 It was Mania Pototororum, bedad ! 
 
 Holy Mithor av Moses ! the divils he had ! 
 
 Thin to scare 'em away we surroonded his bed, 
 
 Clapt on forty laches and blisthered his head, 
 
 Bate all the tin pans and set up sich a howl, 
 
 That the last fiery divil ran off, be me sowl ! 
 
 And we writ on his tombsthone, " He died av a shpell 
 
 Caught av dhrinkin' cowld watther shtraight out av a well." 
 
 Now don't yez be gravin' no more, 
 Surrinder yer sighin' forlorn ! 
 
 'Twill be fine whin ye cross to the Stygian shore, 
 To be sint by a gintleman born.
 
 112 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There was swate Ellen Mulligan, sazed wid a cough, 
 And ivery one said it would carry her off. 
 
 " "Whisht," says I, " thrust to me, now, and don't yez go crazy ; 
 If the girlie must die, sure I'll make her die aisy !" 
 So I sairched through me books for the thrue diathasis 
 Of morbus dyscrasia tuburculous pbthasis ; 
 And I boulsthered her up wid the shtrongest av tonics. 
 Wid iron and copper and hosts av carbonics ; 
 Wid whiskey sarved shtraight in the finest av shtyle, 
 And I grased all her inside wid cod-liver ile ! 
 And says she (whin she died), ' ' Och, dochiher, me honey, 
 'Tis you as can give us the worth av our money ; 
 And begorra, I'll shpake to the divil this day 
 Not to kape yez a-waitin' too long for yer pay." 
 
 So don't yez be gravin' no more ! 
 To the dogs wid yer sighin' forlorn ! 
 
 Here's dhrugs be the handful and pills be the score, 
 And to dale thim a gintleman born. 
 
 VII. 
 
 There was Teddy Maloney who bled at the nose 
 Afther blowin' the fife ; and mayhap ye'd suppose 
 'Twas no matther at all ; but the books all agrade 
 Twas a sarious visceral throuble indade ; 
 Wid the blood swimmin' roond in a circle elliptic, 
 The Schneidarian membrane was wantin' a shtyptic ; 
 The antarior nares were nadin' a plug, 
 And Teddy himself was in nade av a jug. 
 Thin I rowled out a big pill av sugar av lead, 
 And I dosed him, and shtood him up firm on his head, 
 And says I : " Now, me lad, don't be atin' yer lingth, 
 But dhrink all ye plaze, jist to kape up yer shtringth." 
 Faith ! His widdy's a jewel ! But whisht ! don't ye shpake ! 
 She'll be Misthriss O'Flannigan airly nixt wake. 
 
 Coom, don't yez be gravin' no more ! 
 Shmall use av yer sighin' forlorn ; 
 
 For yer widdies, belike, whin their mournin' is o'er, 
 May marry some gintleman born.
 
 GINGEK-SNAPS. 113 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ould Biddy O' Cardigan lived all alone, 
 
 And she felt mighty nate wid a house av her own 
 
 Shwate-smellin' and houlsome, swaped clane wid a rake, 
 
 Wid two or thray pigs jist for company's sake. 
 
 Well, phat should she get but the malady vile 
 
 Av cholera-phobia-vomitus-bile ! 
 
 And she sint straight for me : " Dochther Barney, me lad," 
 
 Says she, " I'm in nade av assistance, bedad ! 
 
 Have yez niver a powdher or bit av a pill ? 
 
 Me shtomick's a rowlin' ; jist make it kape shtill !" 
 
 " I'm the boy can do that," says I ; " hould on a minit, 
 
 Here's me midicine-chist wid me calomel in it, 
 
 And I'll make yez a bowle full av rid pipper tay 
 
 So shtrong ye'll be thinkin' the divils to pay." 
 
 Now don't yez be gravin' no more ! 
 Be quit wid yer sighin' forlorn, 
 
 Wid shtrychnine and vitriol and opium galore, 
 Behould me a gintleman born. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Wid a gallon av rum thin a flip I created, 
 Shwate. wid musthard and shpice ; and the poker I hated 
 As rid as a guinea jist out av the mint 
 And into her shtomick, begorra, it wint ! 
 Och, niver belave me, but didn't she roar ! 
 I'd have kaped her alive wid a quart or two more ; 
 And the thray little pigs iu that house av her own 
 Wouldn't now be a-shtarvin' and shqualin' alone. 
 And that gossoon, her boy the shpalpeen altogither ! 
 Would niver have shworn that I murdhered his mither. 
 Troth, for sayin' that same, but I sarved him a thrick, 
 Whin I met him by chance wid a bit av a shtick. 
 Faith, I dochthered him well till the cure I complated, 
 And, be jabers ! there's one man alive that I thrated I 
 So don't yez be gravin' no more ; 
 
 To the dogs wid yez sighin' forlorn ! 
 Arrah ! knock whin ye're sick at O'Flannigan's door, 
 
 And dio for a gintleman born ! 
 
 Magazine,. 1880.
 
 114: THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Or, if one prefers to laugh at the experience of a " culled " 
 brother, what can be found more irresistible than this ? 
 
 THE OLD-TIME RELIGION. 
 
 BY JULIA PICKERING. 
 
 Brother Simon. I say, Brover Horace, I hearn you give 
 Meriky de terriblest beating las' nite. What you and she 
 hab a fallin'-out about ? 
 
 Brother Horace. Well, Brover Simon, you knows your- 
 se''f I never has no dejection to splanifying how 1 rules my 
 folks at home, and 'stablishes order dar when it's p'intedly 
 needed ; and 'fore gracious ! I leab you to say dis time ef 
 'twant needed, and dat pow'ful bad. 
 
 You see, I'se allers been a plain, straight-sided nigger, 
 an' hain't never had no use for new fandangles, let it be 
 what it mout ; 'ligion, polytix, bisness don't ker what. 
 Ole Horace say : " De ole way am de bes' way, an' you 
 niggers dat's all runnin' teetotleum crazy 'bout ebery new 
 gimcrack dat's started, better jes' stay whar you is and let 
 them things alone." But dey won't do it ; no 'mount of 
 preaching won't sarve um. And dat is jes' at this particke- 
 ler pint dat Meriky got dat dressin'. She done been off to 
 Richmun town, a-livin' in sarvice dar dis las' winter, and 
 Saturday a week ago she earned home ter make a visit. 
 Course we war all glad to see our darter. But you b'l'eve 
 dat gal hadn't turned stark bodily naked fool ? Yes, sir ; 
 she wa'n't no more like de Meriky dat went away jes' a few 
 munts ago dan chalk's like cheese. Dar she come in wid 
 her close pinned tight enuff to hinder her from squattin', 
 an' her ha'r a-danglin' right in her eyes, jes' for all de
 
 GINGER-SNAPS. 1 15 
 
 worl' like a ram a-looking fru a brush-pile, and you think 
 dat nigger hain't forgot how to talk ! She jes' rolled up 
 her eyes ebery oder word, and fanned and talked like she 
 'spected to die de nex' breff. She'd toss dat mush-head ob 
 hern and talk proper as two dixunarys. 'Stead ob she call- 
 in' ob me " daddy" and her mudder " mammy," she say : 
 " Par and mar, how can you bear to live in sech a one-hoss 
 town as this? Oh! I think 1 should die." And right 
 about dar she hab all de actions ob an' old drake in a thun- 
 der-storm. I jes' stared at dat gal tell I make her out, an' 
 says I to myself : " It's got to come ;" but I don't say 
 nothin' to nobody 'bout it all de same I knowed it had to 
 come fus' as las'. Well, I jes' let her hab more rope, as de 
 sayin' is, tell she got whar I 'eluded war 'bout de end ob 
 her tedder. Dat was on last Sunday mornin', when she 
 went to meetin' in sich a rig, a-puttin' on airs, tell she 
 couldn't keep a straight track. When she earned home she 
 brung kumpny wid her, and, ob course, I couldn't do 
 nuthin' then ; but I jes' kept my ears open, .an' ef dat gal 
 didn't disqaollify me dat day, you ken hab my hat. 
 Bimeby dey all gits to talkin' 'bout 'ligion and de churches, 
 and den one young buck he step up, an 1 says he : " Miss 
 Meriky, give us your 'pinion 'bout de matter." Wid dat 
 she flung up her head proud as de Queen Victory, an' says 
 she : " I takes no intelligence in sich matters ; dey is all too 
 common for me. Baptisses is a foot or two below my 
 grade. I 'tends de 'Pisclopian Church whar I resides, an' 
 'specs to jine dat one de nex' anniversary ob de bishop. 
 Oh ! dey does eberything so lovely, and in so much style. 
 I declar' nobody but common folks in de city goes to de 
 Babtiss Church. It made me sick 't my stomuck to see so
 
 116 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 much slioutin' and groanin' dis mornin' ; 'tis so nngenteel 
 wid us to make so much sarcumlocutions in meetin\" 
 And thar she went a-giratin' 'bout de preacher a-comin' 
 out in a white shirt, and den a-ruimin' back and gittin' on 
 a black one, and de people a-jumpin' up and a-jawin' ob de 
 preacher on ten a book, and a -bo win' ob deir heads, and 
 a-saying long rigmaroles o' stuff, tell my head fairly buzzed, 
 and were dat mad at de gal 1 jes' couldn't see nutrm' in dat 
 room. Well, I jes' \vaited tell the kumpny riz to go, and 
 den I steps up, and says I : " Young folks, you needn't let 
 what Meriky told you 'bout dat church put no change inter 
 you. She's sorter out ob her right mine now, but de nex' 
 time you comes she'll be all right on dat and seberal oder 
 subjicks ;" and den dey stared at Meriky mighty hard and 
 goed away. 
 
 Well, I jes' walks up to her, and I says: "Darter," 
 says I, " what chu'ch are dat you say you gwine to jine ?" 
 And says she, very prompt like: " De 'Pisclopian, pa." 
 And says I : "Meriky, I'se mighty consarned 'bout you, 
 kase I knows your mine ain't right, and I shall jes' hab to 
 bring you roun' de shortest way possible." So I retch me a 
 fine bunch of hick'ries I done prepared for dat 'casion. And 
 den she jumped up, and says she : " What make you think 
 I loss my senses?" " Bekase, darter, you done forgot how 
 to walk and to talk, and dem is sure signs." And wid dat 
 I jes' let in on her tell I 'stonished her 'siderably. 'Fore I 
 were done wid her she got ober dem dying a'rs, and jumped 
 as high as a hopper-grass. Bimeby she 'gins to holler : 
 " Oh, Lordy, daddy ! daddy ! don't give me no more." 
 
 And says I : " You're improving dat's a fac' ; done got 
 your natural voice back. What chu'ch does you 'long to,
 
 GINGER-SNAPS. 117 
 
 Meriky?" And says she, a-cryin' : "1 don't 'long to 
 none, par." 
 
 "Well, I gib her anodder leetle tetch, and says I : " "What 
 chu'ch does you 'long to, darter?" And says she, all 
 choked like : " I doesn't 'long to none." 
 
 Den I jes' make dem hick'ries ring for 'bout five min- 
 utes, and den I say : " What chu'ch you 'longs to NOW, 
 Meriky ?" And says she, fairly shoutin' : " Baptiss ; I'se 
 a deep-water Baptiss." "Berry good," says I. "You 
 don't 'spect to hab your name tuck often dem chu'ch 
 books?" And says she: "No, sar ; I allus did despise 
 dem stuck-up 'Pisclopians ; dey ain't got no 'ligion 
 nohow. " 
 
 Brover Simon, you never see a gal so holpen by a good 
 genteel thrashin' in all your days. 1 boun' she won't neber 
 stick her nose in dem new-fandangle chu'ches no more. 
 Why, she jes' walks as straight dis morning, and looks as 
 peart as a sunflower. I'll lay a tenpence she'll be a-singin' 
 before night dat good ole hyme she usened to be so fond 
 ob. You knows, Brover Simon, how de words run : 
 
 " Baptis, Baptis is my name, 
 
 My name is written on high ; 
 'Spects to lib and die de same, 
 My name is written on high." 
 
 Brother Simon. Yes, dat she will, I be boun' ; ef I does 
 say it, Brover Horace, you beats any man on church guber- 
 ment an' family displanement ob anybody I ever has seen. 
 
 Brother Horace. Well, Brover, I does my bes'. Yon 
 mus' pray for me, so dat my han's may be strengthened. 
 Dey feels mighty weak after dat conversion I give dat 
 Meriky las' night. Scribner's Monthly, Bric-a-Brac, 1876.
 
 118 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 If it is unadulterated consolation that you need, try 
 AUNTY DOLEFUL' S VISIT. 
 
 BY MARY KYLE DALLAS. 
 
 How do you do, Cornelia ? I heard you were sick, and 
 1 stepped in to cheer you up a little. My friends often 
 say : " It's such a comfort to see you, Aunty Doleful. 
 Yon have such a flow of conversation, and are so lively." 
 Besides, 1 said to myself, as I came up the stairs : " Per- 
 haps it's the last time I'll ever see Cornelia Jane alive." 
 
 You don't mean to die yet, eh ? Well, now, how do you 
 know ? You can't tell. You think you are getting better, 
 but there was poor Mrs. Jones sitting up, and every one 
 saying how smart she was, and all of a sudden she was 
 taken with spasms in the heart, and went off like a flash. 
 Parthenia is young to bring the baby up by hand. But you 
 must be careful, and not get anxious or excited. Keep 
 quite calm, and don't fret about anything. Of course, 
 things can't go on jest as if you were down-stairs ; and I 
 wondered whether you knew your little Billy was sailing 
 about in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your little Sammy 
 was letting your little Jimmy down from the veranda-roof 
 in a clothes-basket. 
 
 Gracious goodness, what's the matter? I guess Provi- 
 dence'll take care of 'em. Don't look so. You thought 
 Bridget was watching them ? "Well, no, she isn't. 1 saw 
 lier talking to a man at the gate. He looked to me like a 
 burglar. No doubt she'll let him take the impression of 
 the door-key in wax, and then he'll get in and murder you 
 all. There was a family at Kobble Hill all killed last week
 
 GINGER-SNAPS. 119 
 
 for fifty dollars. Now, don't fidget so ; it will be bad for 
 the baby. 
 
 Poor,- little dear ! How singular it is, to be sure, that 
 you can't tell whether a child is blind, or deaf and dumb, 
 or a cripple at that age. It might be all, and you'd never 
 know it. 
 
 Most of them that have their senses make bad use of 
 them though ; that ought to be your comfort, if it does 
 turn out to have anything dreadful the matter with it. 
 And more don't live a year. I saw a baby's funeral down 
 the street as I came along. 
 
 How is Mr. Kobble ? Well, but finds it warm in town, 
 eh ? Well, 1 should think he would. They are dropping 
 down by hundreds there with sun-stroke. You must pre- 
 pare your mind to have him brought home any day. Any- 
 how, a trip on these railroad trains is just risking your life 
 every time you take one. Back and forth every day as he 
 is, it's just trifling with danger. 
 
 Dear ! dear ! now to think what dreadful things hang 
 over us all the time ! Dear ! dear ! 
 
 Scarlet fever has broken out in the village, Cornelia. 
 Little Isaac Potter has it, and I saw your Jimmy playing 
 with him last Saturday. 
 
 Well, I must be going now. I've got another sick 
 friend, and I sha'n't think my duty done unless I cheer her 
 up a little before I sleep. Good-by. How pale you look, 
 Cornelia ! I don't believe you have a good doctor. Do 
 send him. away and try some one else. You don't look so 
 well as you did when I came in. But if anything happens, 
 send for me at once. If I can't do anything else, I can 
 cheer you up a little.
 
 120 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Mrs. Dallas, who lives in New York City, is a regular 
 correspondent of the New York Ledger, having taken Fanny 
 Fern's place on that widely circulated paper, is a prom- 
 inent member of " Sorosis, " and her Tuesday evening re- 
 ceptions draw about her some of the brightest society of 
 that cosmopolitan centre. 
 
 All these selections are prizes for the long-suffering elo- 
 cutionist who is expected to entertain his friends with some- 
 thing new, laughter-provoking, and fully up to the mark. 
 
 Mrs. Ames, of Brooklyn, known to the public as " Eleanor 
 Kirk," has revealed In her " Thanksgiving Growl " a bit 
 of honest experience, refreshing with its plain Saxon and 
 homely realism, which, when recited with proper spirit, is 
 most effective. 
 
 A THANKSGIVING GKOWL. 
 
 Oh, dear ! do put some more chips on the fire, 
 
 And hurry up that oven ! Just my luck 
 To have the bread slack. Bet that plate up higher ! 
 
 And for goodness' sake do clear this truck 
 Away ! Frogs' legs and marbles on my moulding-board ! 
 
 What next I wonder ? John Henry, wash your face ; 
 And do get out from under foot, ' ' Afford more 
 
 Cream ?" Ussd all you had ? If that's the case, 
 Skim all the pans. Do step a little spryer ! 
 
 I wish I hadn't asked so many folks 
 To spend Thanksgiving. Good gracious ! poke the fire 
 
 And put some water on. Lord, how it smokes ! 
 I never was so tired in all my life ! 
 
 And there's the cake to frost, and dough to mix 
 For tarts. I can't cut pumpkin with this knife ! 
 
 Some women's husbands know enough to fix 
 The kitchen tools ; but, for all mine would care, 
 
 I might tear pumpkin with my teeth. John Henry,
 
 GINGER-SNAPS. 121 
 
 If you don't plant yourself on that ' ere chair, 
 
 I'll set you down so hard that you'll agree 
 You're stuck for good. Them cranberries are sour, 
 And taste like gall beside. Hand me some flour, 
 And do fly round. John Henry, wipe your nose ! 
 
 I wonder how 'twill be when I am dead? 
 ' ' How my nose '11 be ?' ' Yes, how your nose 'II be, 
 
 And how your back '11 be. If that ain't red 
 I'll miss my guess. I don't expect you'll see 
 
 You nor your father neither what I've done 
 And suffered in this house. As true's I live 
 
 Them pesky fowl ain't stuffed ! The biggest one 
 Will hold two loaves of bread. Say, wipe that sieve, 
 
 And hand it here. You are the slowest poke 
 In all Fairinount. Lor' ! there's Deacon Gubben's wife ! 
 
 She'll be here to-morrow. That pan can soak 
 A little while. I never in my life 
 
 Saw such a lazy critter as she is. 
 If she stayed home, there wouldn't be a thing 
 
 To eat. You bet she'll fill up here ! ' ' It's riz ?" 
 Well, so it has. John Henry ! Good king ! 
 
 How did that boy get out ? You saw him go 
 With both fists full of raisins and a pile 
 
 Behind him, and you never let me know ! 
 There ! you've talked so much I clean forgot the rye. 
 
 I wonder if the Governor had to slave 
 As I do, if he would be so pesky fresh about 
 
 Thanksgiving Day ? He'd been in his grave 
 With half my work. What, get along without 
 
 An Indian pudding? Well, that would be 
 A novelty. No friend or foe shall say 
 
 I'm close, or haven't as much variety 
 As other folks. There ! I think I see my way 
 
 Quite clear. The onions are to peel. Let's see : 
 Turnips, potatoes, apples there to stew, 
 
 This squash to bake, and lick John Henry ! 
 And after that I really think I'm through.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 
 
 MRS. ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS, in those interesting arti- 
 cles in the Critic which induced me to look further, says : 
 
 " We claim high rank for the humor of women because 
 it is almost exclusively of this higher, imaginative type. A 
 woman rarely tells an anecdote, or hoards up a good story, 
 or comes in and describes to you something funny that she 
 has seen. Her humor is like a flash of lightning from a 
 clear sky, coming when you least expect it, when it could 
 not have been premeditated, and when, to the average con- 
 sciousness, there is not the slightest provocation to humor, 
 possessing thus in the very highest degree that element of 
 surprise which is not only a factor in all humor, but to our 
 mind the most important factor. You tell her that you 
 cannot spend the winter with her because you have prom- 
 ised to spend it with some one else, and she exclaims : 
 ' Oh, Ellen ! why were you not born twins ! ' She has, 
 perhaps, recently built for herself a most charming home, 
 and coming to see yours, which happens to be just a trifle 
 more luxurious and charming, she remarks as she turns 
 away : ' All I can say is, when you want to see squalor*, 
 come and visit me in Oxford Street ! ' She puts down her 
 heavy coffee-cup of stone- china with its untasted coffee at 
 a little country inn, saying, with a sigh : 'It's no use ; I
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 123 
 
 can't get at it ; it's like trying to drink over a stone wall.' 
 She writes in a letter : ' We parted this morning with 
 mutual satisfaction ; that is, I suppose we did ; I know my 
 satisfaction was mutual enough for two.' She asks her 
 little restless daughter in the most insinuating tones if she 
 would not like to ' sit in papa's lap and have him tell her 
 a story ; ' and when the little daughter responds with a 
 most uncompromising ' no ! ' turns her inducement into a 
 threat, and remarks with severity : i Well, be a good girl, 
 or you will have to ! ' She complains, when you have kept 
 her waiting while you were buying undersleeves, that you 
 must have bought.' undersleeves enough for a centipede.' 
 
 You ask how poor Mr. X is the disconsolate widower 
 
 who a fortnight ago was completely prostrated by his wife's 
 death, and are told in calm and even tones that he is ' be- 
 ginning to take notice.' You tell her that one of the best 
 fellows in the class has been unjustly expelled, and that the 
 class are to wear crape on their left arms for thirty days, 
 and that you only hope that the President will meet you in 
 the college-yard and ask why you wear it ; to all of which 
 she replies soothingly, * I wouldn't do that, Henry ; for the 
 President might tell you not to mourn, as your friend was 
 not lost, only gone before.' You tell her of your stunned 
 sensation on finding some of your literary work compli- 
 mented in the Nation, and she exclaims : ' I should think 
 so ! It must be like meeting an Indian and seeing him put 
 his hand into his no-pocket to draw out a scented pocket- 
 handkerchief, instead of a tomahawk.' Or she writes that 
 two Sunday-schools are trying to do all the good they can, 
 but that each is determined at any cost to do more good 
 than the other."
 
 124 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 I have selected several specimens of this higher type of 
 humor. 
 
 Mrs. Ellen H. Rollins was pre-eminently gifted in this 
 direction. The humor in her exquisite "New England 
 Bygones" is so interwoven with the simple pathos of her 
 memories that it cannot be detached without detriment to 
 both. But I will venture to select three sketches from 
 
 OLD-TIME CHILD LIFE. 
 
 BY E. H. ARR. 
 
 Betsy had the reddest hair of any girl I ever knew. It 
 was quite short in front, and she had a way of twisting it, 
 on either temple, into t\vo little buttons, which she fastened 
 with pins. The rest of it she brought quite far up on the 
 top of her head, where she kept it in place with a large- 
 sized horn comb. Her face was covered with freckles, and 
 her eyes, in winter, were apt to be inflamed. She always 
 seemed to. have a mop in her hand, and she had no respect 
 for paint. She was as neat as old Dame Safford herself, 
 and was continually "straightening things out," as she 
 called it. Her temper, like her hair, was somewhat fiery ; 
 and when her work did not suit her, she was prone to a 
 gloomy view of life. If she was to be believed, things 
 were always " going to wrack and ruin" about the house ; 
 and she had a queer way of taking time by the forelock. 
 In the morning it was " going on to twelve o'clock," and 
 at noon it was " going on to midnight." 
 
 She kept her six kitchen chairs in a row on one side of 
 the room, and as many flatirons in a line on the mantel-
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 125 
 
 piece. Everything where she was had, she said, to " stand 
 just so ;" and woe to the child who carried crookedness into 
 her straight lines ! Betsy had a manner of her own, and 
 made a wonderful kind of a courtesy, with which her skirts 
 puffed out all around like a cheese. She always courtesied 
 to Parson Meeker when she met him, and said : " I hope 
 to see you well, sir." Once she courtesied in a prayer- 
 meeting to a man who offered her a chair, and told him, in 
 a shrill voice, to " keep his setting," though she was "ever 
 so much obleeged " to him. This was when she was under 
 conviction, and Parson Meeker said he thought she had met 
 with a change of heart. Father Lathem's wife hoped so 
 too, for then " there would be a chance of having some 
 Long-noses and Pudding-sweets left over in the orchard." 
 
 It was in time of the long drought, when fire ran over 
 Grayface, and a great comet appeared in the sky. Some of 
 the people of Whiten" eld thought the world was coming to 
 an end. The comet stayed for weeks, visible even at noon- 
 day, stretching its tail from the zenith far toward the west- 
 ern horizon, and at night staring in at windows with its eye 
 of fire. It was the talk of the people, who pondered over 
 it with a helpless wonder. I recall two Whitefield women 
 as they stood, one morning, bare-armed in a doorway, star- 
 ing at and chattering about it. One says they " might as 
 well stop work" and " take it easy" while they can. The 
 other thinks the better way is to " keep on a stiddy jog 
 until it comes." They wish they knew "how near it is," 
 and " what the tail means anyway." 
 
 Betsy comes along with a pail, which she sets down, and 
 then looks up to the comet. The air is dense with smoke 
 from Grayface, and the dry earth is full of cracks. Betsy
 
 126 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 declares that it is " going on two months since there has 
 heen any rain." Everything is "going to wiack and 
 ruin," and " if that thing up there should burst, there'll be 
 an end to Whitefield." 
 
 Then she catches sight of me listening wide-mouthed, 
 and she tells me that I needn't suppose she is " going home 
 to iron my pink muslin," for she thinks the tail of the 
 comet " has started, and is coming right down to whisk it 
 off from the line." I believe her, and distinctly remember 
 the terror that took hold of me as I rushed home and tore 
 the pink muslin from the line, lest it should be whisked off 
 by the comet's tail. 
 
 When the drought broke, a single day's rain washed all 
 the smoke from the air. Directly, the tail of the comet 
 began to fade, and all of a sudden its fiery eye went out 
 of the sky. 
 
 Some of the villagers thought it had " burst," others that 
 it had " burned out." Betsy said : " Whatever it was, it 
 was a humbug ;" and the wisest man in W T hiteh'eld could 
 neither tell whence it came nor whither it went. One 
 thing, however, was certain : Farmer Lathem said that 
 never, since his orchard began to bear, had he gathered 
 such a crop of apples as he did, despite the drought, in the 
 year of the great comet. 
 
 MRS. MEEKER. 
 
 BY E. H. ARK. 
 
 When I read of Roman matrons I always think of Mrs. 
 Meeker. Her features were marked, and her eyes of deep- 
 est blue. She wore her hair combed closely down over her
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 127 
 
 ears, so that her forehead seemed to run up in a point high 
 upon her head. Its color was of reddish-brown, and, I a;n 
 sorry to say, so far as it was seen, it was not her own. It 
 was called a scratch, and Betsy said Mrs. Meeker " would 
 look enough sight better if she would leave it off. " Whether 
 any hair at all grew upon Mrs. Meeker's head was a great 
 problem with the village children, and nothing could better 
 illustrate the dignity of this woman than the fact that for 
 more than thirty years the whole neighborhood tried in 
 vain to find out. 
 
 PARSON MEEKER. 
 
 BY E. H. ARR. 
 
 Every Sunday he preached two long sermons, each with 
 five heads, and each head itself divided. After the fifthly 
 came an application, with an exhortation at its close. The 
 sermons were called very able, or, more often, " strong dis- 
 courses." I used to think this was because Mrs. Meeker 
 had stitched their leaves fast together. Betsy said they 
 were just like Deacon Saunders's breaking-up plough, 
 " and went tearing right through sin." The parson, when 
 I knew him, was a little slow of speech and dull of sight. 
 He sometimes lost his place on his page. How afraid I 
 used to be Itst, not finding it, he should repeat his heads ! 
 He always brought himself up with a jerk, however, and 
 sailed safely through to the application. 
 
 "When that came, Benny almost always gave me a jog with 
 his elbow or foot. Once he stuck a pin into my arm, 
 which made me jump so that Deacon Saunders, who sat 
 behind, waked up with a loud snort. The deacon was
 
 128 THE WIT OF WOMEN. . 
 
 always talking about the sermons being " powerful in doc- 
 trine." When Benny asked Betsy what doctrines were, 
 she told him to " let doctrines alone ;" that they were 
 " pizen things, only tit for hardened old sinners." 
 
 There are many delightful articles which must be merely 
 alluded to in passing, as the " Old Salem Shops," by 
 Eleanor Putnam, so delicate and delicious that, once read, 
 it will ever be a fragrant memory ; Louise Stockton's 
 " Woman in the Restaurant" I want to give you, and Mrs. 
 Barrow's " Pennikitty People ;" a chapter from Miss Bay- 
 lor's " On This Side," and the opening chapters of Miss 
 Phelps's " Old Maids' Paradise ;" also the description of 
 " Joppa," by Grace Denio Litchfield, in " Only an Inci- 
 dent." There are others from which it is not possible to 
 make extracts. Miss Woolson's admirable " For the Ma- 
 jor," though pathetic, almost tragic, in its underlying feel- 
 ing, is, at the same time, a story of exquisite humor, from 
 which, nevertheless, not a single sentence could be quoted 
 that would be called "funny." Her work, and that of 
 Fiances Hodgson Burnett, as well as that of Miss Phelps 
 and Mrs. Spofford, shine with a silver thread of humor, 
 worked too intimately into the whole warp and woof to be 
 extracted without injuring both the solid material and the 
 tinsel. To appreciate the point and delicacy of their finest 
 wit, you must read the whole story and grasp the entire 
 character or situation. 
 
 Mrs. E. W. Bellamy, a Southern lady, published in last 
 year's Atlantic Monthly a sketch called " At Bent's 
 Hotel," which ought to have a place in this volume ; but 
 my publisher says authoritatively that there must be a limit
 
 PEO8E, BUT NOT PRO8T. 129 
 
 somewhere ; so this gem must be included in a second 
 series ! 
 
 There is so much truth as well as humor in the following 
 article, that it must be included. It gives in prose the 
 agonies which Saxe told so feelingly in verse : 
 
 A FATAL REPUTATION. 
 
 BY ISABEL PRANCES BELLOWS. 
 
 I am impelled to write this as an awful warning to young 
 men and svomen who are just entering upon life and its 
 responsibilities. Years ago I thoughtlessly took a false 
 step, which at the time seemed trivial and of little import, 
 but which has since assumed colossal proportions that 
 threaten to overshadow much of the innocent happiness of 
 my otherwise placid existence. What wonder, then, that I 
 try to avert this danger from young and inexperienced 
 minds who in their gay thoughtlessness rush into the very 
 jaws of the disaster, and before they are well aware find 
 they are entrapped for life, as there is no escape for those 
 who have thus brought their doom upon themselves. 
 
 I will try and relate how, like the Lady of Shalott, when 
 I first began to gaze upon the world of realities "the 
 curse" came upon me. It was in this wise : 
 
 I lived in my youth an almost cloistral life of seclusion 
 and self-absorption, from which I was suddenly shaken by 
 circumstances, and forced to mingle in the busy world ; to 
 which, after the first shock, I was not at all averse, but 
 found very interesting, and also and there was the weight 
 that pulled me down tolerably amusing. For I met some
 
 130 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 curious people, and saw and heard some remarkable things ; 
 and as I went among my friends I often used to give an 
 account of my observations, until at last I discovered that 
 wherever I went, and under whatever circumstances (ex- 
 cept, of course, at the funeral of a member of the family), 
 I was expected to be amusing ! I found myself in the same 
 relation to society that the clown bears to the circus-master 
 who has engaged him he must either be funny or leave 
 the troupe. 
 
 Now, I am unfortunate in having no particular accom- 
 plishments. I cannot sing either the old songs or the new ; 
 neither am I a performer on divers instruments. I can 
 paint a little, but my paintings do not seem to rouse any 
 enthusiasm in the beholder, nor do they add an inspiring 
 strain to conversation. I can, indeed, make gingerbread 
 and six different kinds of pudding, but I hesitate to men- 
 tion it, because the cook is far in advance of me in all these 
 particulars, not to mention numerous other ways in which 
 she excels. I have thus but one resource in life ; and when 
 I give one or two instances of the humiliation and distress 
 of mind to which I have been subjected on its account I am 
 sure I shall win a sympathizing thought even from those 
 who are more favored by nature, and possibly save a few 
 young spirits from the pain of treading in my footsteps. 
 
 In the first place, I am not naturally witty. Epigrams 
 do not rise spontaneously to my lips, and it sometimes takes 
 days and even weeks of consideration after an opportunity 
 of making one has occurred before the appropriate words 
 finally dawn upon me. By that time, of course, the retort 
 is* what the Catholics call " a work of supererogation." I 
 perhaps possess a slight "sense of the humorous," which
 
 PKOSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 131 
 
 has undoubtedly given rise to the fatal demand upon me, 
 but I do not remember ever having been very fanny. 
 There never was any danger of my experiencing difficulties 
 like Dr. Holmes on that famous occasion when he was as 
 funny as he could be. I have often been as funny as I 
 could be, but the smallest of buttons on' the slenderest of 
 threads never detached itself on my account. I have never 
 had to restrain my humorous remarks in the slightest de- 
 gree, but on the contrary have sometimes been driven into 
 making the most atrocious jokes, and even puns, because it 
 was evident something of the sort was expected from me 
 only, of course, something better. 
 
 One occurrence of this kind will remain forever fixed in 
 my memory. I was invited to a picnic, that most ghastly 
 device of the human mind for playing at having a good 
 time. At first I had declined to go, but it was represented 
 to me that no less than three families had company for 
 whose entertainment something must be done ; that two 
 young and interesting friends of mine just about to be en- 
 gaged to each other would be simply inconsolable if the 
 plan were given up ; and, in short, that 1 should show by 
 not going an extremely hateful and unseemly spirit " be- 
 sides, it wouldn't do to have it without you, my dear," con- 
 tinued my amiable friend, " because you know you are al- 
 ways the lite of the party." So I sighed and consented. 
 
 The day arrived, and before nine o'clock in the morning 
 the mercury stood at ninety degrees in the shade. The 
 cook overslept herself, and breakfast was so late that Wil- 
 liam Henry missed the train into the city, which didn't make 
 it pleasanter for any of us. I had made an especially deli- 
 cate cake to take with me as my share of the feast, and
 
 132 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 while we were at breakfast I heard a crash in the direction 
 of the kitchen, and hastening tremblingly to discover the 
 origin of it I found the cake and the plate containing it in 
 one indistinguishable heap on the floor. 
 
 " It slipped between me two hands as if it was alive, bad 
 luck to it," said the cook ; " and It was meself that saw 
 the heavy crack in the plate before you set the cake onto it, 
 mum !" 
 
 I took cookies and boiled eggs to the picnic. 
 
 The wreck had hardly been cleared away before my son 
 and heir appeared in the doorway with a hole of un imag- 
 ined dimensions in his third worst trousers. His second 
 worst were already in the mending basket, so nothing re- 
 mained for me but to clothe him in his best suit and wonder 
 all day in which part of them I should find the largest hole 
 when I came home. 
 
 Lastly, I had just put on my hat, and was preparing to 
 set forth, warm, tired and demoralized, when my youngest, 
 in her anxiety to bid me a sufficiently affectionate farewell, 
 lost her small balance, and came rolling down-stairs after 
 me. No serious harm was done, but it took nearly an hour 
 before I succeeded in soothing and comforting her suffi- 
 ciently to be able to leave her, with two brown-paper 
 patches on her head and elbow, in the care of the nurse. 
 
 When I arrived late, discouraged and with a headache, at 
 the picnic grounds, I found the assembled company sitting 
 "vapidly about among mosquitoes and beetles, already look- 
 ing bored to death, and I soon perceived that it was ex- 
 pected of me to provide amusement and entertainment for 
 the crowd. I tried to rally, therefore, and proposed a few 
 games, which went off in a spiritless manner enough, and
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 133 
 
 apparently in consequence I began to be assailed with ques- 
 tions and remarks of a reproachful character. 
 
 i Don't you feel well to-day i" 1 " Has anything hap- 
 pened ?" " You don't seem as lively as usual !" No one 
 took the slightest notice of my explanations, until at last, 
 goaded into desperation by one evil-minded old woman, 
 who asked me if it were true that my husband was involved 
 in the failure of Smith, Jones & Co., I launched out and 
 became wildly and disgracefully silly. Xothing seemed too 
 foolish, too senseless to say if it only answered the great 
 purpose of keeping off the attack of personal questions. 
 
 Thus the wretched day wore on, until at last it was time 
 to go home, and the first feeling approaching content was 
 stealing into my weary bosom as I gathered up my basket 
 and shawls, when it was rudely dashed by the following 
 conversation, conducted by two ladies 'to whom I had been 
 introduced that day. They were standing at a little dis- 
 tance from the rest of the company and from me, and evi- 
 dently thought ihemselves far enough away to talk quite 
 loud, so that these words were plainly borne to my ears : 
 
 u I hate to see people try to make themselves so conspic- 
 uous, don't you ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; and to try to be funny when they 
 haven't any fun in them." 
 
 " I can't imagine what Maria was thinking about to call 
 her witty !" 
 
 ' ' I know it. I should think such people had better keep 
 quiet when they haven't anything to say. I'm glad it's 
 time to go home. Picnics are such stupid things !' ' 
 
 What more was said I do riot know, for I left the spot as 
 quickly as possible, making an inward resolution to avoid
 
 13-i THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 all picnics in the future till I should arrive at my second 
 childhood. 
 
 1 cannot refrain from giving one other little instance of 
 my sufferings from this cause. I was again invited out ; 
 this time to a lunch party, specially to meet the friend of a 
 friend of mine. The very morning of the day it was to 
 take place 1 received a telegram stating that rny great-aunt 
 had died suddenly in California. Xow people don't usually 
 care much about their great-aunts. They can bear to be 
 chastened in this direction very comfortably ; but I did 
 care about mine. She had been very kind to me, and 
 though the width of a continent had separated us for the 
 last ten years her memory was still dear to me. 
 
 I sat down immediately to write a note excusing myself 
 from my friend's lunch party, when, just as I took the 
 paper, it occurred to me that it was rather a selfish thing to 
 do. My friend's guests were invited, and her arrangements 
 all made ; and as the visit of her friend was to be very 
 short the opportunity of our meeting would probably be 
 lost. So I wrote instead a note to the daughter of my 
 great aunt, and when the time came I went to the lunch 
 party with a heavy heart. I had no opportunity of telling 
 my friend of the sad news 1 had* received that morning, 
 and I suppose I may have been quiet ; perhaps I even 
 seemed indifferent, though I tried not to be. I could not 
 have been very successful, however, for I was just going 
 up-stairs to put on my " things" to go home, when I heard 
 this little conversation in the dressing-room : 
 
 " It's too bad she wasn't more interesting to-day, but 
 you never can tell how it \vill be. She will do as she likes, 
 and that's the end of it."
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 135 
 
 " Yes," said another voice, " 1 think she is rather a 
 moody person anyway ; she won't say a word if she doesn't 
 feel like it." 
 
 " 'Sh-'sh here she comes," said another, with the tone 
 and look that told me it was I of whom they were talking. 
 
 And so 1 adjure all youthful and hopeful persons, who 
 have a tendency to be funny, to keep it a profound secret 
 from the world. Indulge in your propensities to any ex- 
 tent in your family circle ; keep your immediate relatives, 
 if you like, in convulsions of inextinguishable laughter all 
 the time ; but when you mingle in society guard your secret 
 with your life. Is ever make a joke, and, if necessary, never 
 take one ; and by so doing you shall perad venture escape 
 that wrath to come to which I have fallen an innocent vic- 
 tim, and which I doubt not will bring me to an untimely 
 end. The Independent. 
 
 And a few pages from Miss Murfree, who has shown such 
 rare power in her short character sketches. 
 
 A BLACKSMITH IN LOVE. 
 
 BY CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
 
 The pine-knots flamed and glistened under the great 
 wash-kettle. A tree-toad was persistently calling for rain 
 in the dry distance. The girl, gravely impassive, beat th6 
 clothes with the heavy paddle. Her mother shortly ceased 
 to prod the white heaps in the boiling water, and presently 
 took up the thread of her discourse. 
 
 " An' 'Vander hev got ter be a mighty suddint man. I 
 hearn tell, when I war down ter M'ria's house ter the quilt-
 
 136 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 in', ez how in that sorter fight an' scrimmage they hed at 
 the mill las' month, he war powerful ill-conducted. No- 
 body hed thought of hevin' much of a fight thar hed been 
 jes' a few licks passed atwixt the men thar ; but the fust 
 finger ez war laid on this boy, lie jes' lit out, an' fit like a 
 catamount. Right an' lef he lay about him with his fists, 
 an' he drawed his him tin' -knife on some of 'em. The men 
 at the mill war in no wise pleased with him." 
 
 "'Pears like ter me ez 'Yander air a peaceable boy 
 enough, ef he ain't jawed at an' air lef be," drawled 
 Cynthia. 
 
 Her mother was embarrassed for a moment. Then, with 
 a look both sly and wise, she made an admission a qualified 
 admission. " Waal, wimmen ef ef ef they air young 
 an' tolerable hard-headed yit, air likely ter jaw some, enny- 
 how. An' a gal oughtn't ter marry a man ez hev sot his 
 heart on bein' lef in peace. He is apt ter be a mighty 
 sour an' disapp'inted critter." 
 
 This sudden turn to the conversation invested all that 
 had been said with new meaning, and revealed a subtle 
 diplomatic intention. The girl seemed deliberately to 
 review it as she paused in her work. Then, with a rising 
 flush : " I ain't studyin' 'bout marryin' nobody," she 
 asserted staidly. " I hev laid off ter live single." 
 
 Mrs. Ware had overshot the mark, but she retorted, gal- 
 lantly reckless : " That's what yer Aunt Malviny useter 
 declar' fur gospel sure, when she war a gal. An' she hev 
 got ten chil'ren, an' hev buried two husbands ; an' ef all 
 they say air true, she's tollin' in the third man now. She's 
 a mighty spry, good -featured woman, an' a fust-rate man- 
 ager, yer Aunt Malviny air, an' both her husbands lef
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 137 
 
 her suthin cows, or wagons, or land. An' they war quiet 
 men when they war alive, an' stays whar they air put now 
 that they air dead ; not like old Parson Hoodenpyle, what 
 his wife hears stumpin' round the house an' preachin' every 
 night, though she air ez deef ez a post, an' he hev been in 
 glory twenty year twenty year an' better. Yer Aunt 
 Malviny hed luck, so mebbe 'tain't no kiilin' complaint fur 
 a gal ter git ter talking like a fool about marryin' an' sech. 
 Leastwise I ain't minded ter sorrow." 
 
 She looked at her daughter with a gay grin, which, dis- 
 torted by her toothless gums and the wreathing steam from 
 the kettle, enhanced her witch-like aspect and was spuri- 
 ously malevolent. She did not notice the stir of an ap- 
 proach through the brambly tangles of the heights above 
 until it was close at hand ; as she turned, she thought only 
 of the mountain cattle and to see the red cow's picturesque 
 head and crumpled horns thrust over the sassafras bushes, or 
 to hear the brindle's clanking bell. It was certainly less un- 
 expected to Cynthia when a young mountaineer, clad in 
 brown jean trousers and a checked homespun shirt, emerged 
 upon the rocky slope. He still wore his blacksmith's 
 leather apron, and his powerful corded hammer-arm was 
 bare beneath his tightly -rolled sleeve. He was tall and 
 heavily built ; his sunburned face was square, with a 
 strong lower jaw, and his features were accented by fine 
 lines of charcoal, as if the whole were a clever sketch. 
 
 His black eyes held fierce intimations, but there was 
 mobility of expression about them that suggested changing 
 impulses, strong but fleeting. He was like his forge-fire ; 
 though the heat might be intense for a time, it fluctuated 
 with the breath of the bellows. Just now he was meekly
 
 138 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 quailing before the old woman, whom he evidently had not 
 thought to find hero. It was as apt an illustration as might 
 be, perhaps, of the inferiority of strength to h'nesse. She 
 seemed an inconsiderable adversary, as, haggard, lean, and 
 prematurely aged, she swayed on her prodding-stick about 
 the huge kettle ; but she was as a veritable David to this 
 big young Goliath, though she, too, flung hardly more than 
 a pebble at him. 
 
 " Laws-a-me !" she cried, in shrill, toothless glee ; " ef 
 hyar ain't 'Vander Price ! What brung ye down hyar 
 along o' we-uns, 'Vander ?" she continued, with simulated 
 anxiety. " Hev that thar red heifer o' ourn lept over the 
 fence agin, an' got inter Pete's corn ? Waal, sir, ef she 
 ain't the headin'est heifer !" 
 
 11 1 hain't seen none o' yer heifer, ez 1 knows on," 
 replied the young blacksmith, with gruff, drawling depreca- 
 tion. Then he tried to regain his natural manner. " I 
 kem down hyar," he remarked, in an off-hand way, "ter 
 git a drink o' water." He glanced furtively at the girl, 
 then looked quickly away at the gallant red-bird, still gayly 
 parading among the leaves. 
 
 The old woman grinned with delight. " Now, ef that 
 ain't s'prisin'," she declared. " Ef we hed knowed ez 
 Lost Creek war a-goin' dry over yander a-nigli the shop, so 
 ye an' Pete would hev ter kem hyar thirstin' fur water, 
 we-uns would hev brung suthin' down hyar ter drink out'n. 
 We-uns hain't got no gourd hyar, hev we, Cynthy ?" 
 
 " 'Thout it air the little gourd with the saft-soap in it," 
 said Cynthia, confused and blushing. Her mother broke 
 into a high, loud laugh. 
 
 " Ye ain't wantin' ter gin 'Vander the soap-gourd ter
 
 PKOSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 
 
 drink out'n, Cynthy ! Leastwise, 1 ain't goin' ter gin it 
 ter Pete. Fur I s'pose ef ye hev ter kein a haffen mile ter 
 git a drink, 'Yander, ez surely Pete' 11 hev ter kein, too. 
 Waal, waal, who would liev b'lieved ez Lost Creek would 
 go dry nigh the shop, an' yit be a-scuttlin' along like that 
 hyarabouts !" and she pointed with her bony finger at the 
 swift flow of the water. 
 
 He was forced to abandon his clumsy pretence of thirst. 
 " Lost Creek ain't gone dry nowhar, ez I knows on," he 
 admitted, mechanically rolling the sleeve of his hammer- 
 arm up and down as he talked. 
 
 From Miss Woolson's story of '* Anne," I give the pen- 
 portrait of the precise 
 
 "MISS LOIS." 
 
 " Codfish balls for breakfast on Sunday morning, of 
 course," said Miss Lois, " and fried hasty-pudding. On 
 Wednesdays, a boiled dinner. Pies on Tuesdays and Satur- 
 days." 
 
 The pins stood in straight rows on her pincushion ; three 
 times each week every room in the house was swept, and 
 the floors, as well as the furniture, dusted. Beans were 
 baked in an iron pot on Saturday night, and sweet-cake 
 was made on Thursday. Winter or summer, through 
 scarcity or plenty, Miss Lois never varied her established 
 routine, thereby setting an example, she said, to the idle 
 and shiftless. And certainly she was a faithful guide-post, 
 continually pointing out an industrious and systematic way, 
 which, however, to the end of time, no French -blooded, 
 French-hearted person will ever travel, unless dragged by
 
 14:0 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 force. The villagers preferred their lake trout to Miss 
 Lois's salt codfish, their tartines to her corn-meal pud- 
 dings, and their eau-de-vie to her green tea ; they loved 
 their disorder and their comfort ; her bar soap and scrub- 
 bing-brush were a horror to their eyes. They washed the 
 household clothes two or three times a year. Was not that 
 enough ? Of what use the endless labor of this sharp-nosed 
 woman, with glasses over her eyes, at the church-house ? 
 Were not, perhaps, the glasses the consequence of such 
 toil ? And her figure of a long leanness also ? 
 
 The element of real heroism, however, came into Miss 
 Lois's life in her persistent effort to employ Indian ser- 
 vants. Through long years had she persisted, through long 
 years would she continue to persist. A succession of Chip- 
 pewa squaws broke,'stole, and skirmished their way through 
 her kitchen, with various degrees of success, generally in 
 the end departing suddenly at night with whatever booty 
 they could lay their hands on. It is but justice to add, 
 however, that this Avas not much, a rigid systejn of keys 
 and excellent locks prevailing in the well- watched house- 
 hold. Miss Lois's conscience would not allow her to em- 
 ploy half-breeds, who were sometimes endurable servants ; 
 duty required, she said, that she should have full-blooded 
 natives. And she had them. She always began to teach 
 them the alphabet within three days after their arrival, and 
 the spectacle of a tearful, freshly-caught Indian girl, very 
 wretched in her calico dress and white apron, worn out 
 with the ways of the kettles and the brasses, dejected over 
 the fish-balls, and appalled by the pudding, standing con- 
 fronted by a large alphabet on the well-scoured table, and 
 Miss Lois by her side with a pointer, was frequent and even
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 141 
 
 regular in its occurrence, the only change being in the per- 
 sonality of the learners. No one of them had ever gone 
 through the letters, but Miss Lois was not discouraged. 
 
 THE CIRCUS AT DENBY. 
 
 BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT. 
 
 I cannot truthfully say that it was a good show ; it was 
 somewhat dreary, now that I think of it quietly and with- 
 out excitement. The creatures looked tired, and as if they 
 had been on the road for a great many years. The animals 
 were all old, and there was a shabby great elephant whose 
 look of general discouragement went to my heart, for it 
 seemed as if he were miserably conscious of a misspent life. 
 He stood dejected and motionless at one side of the tent, 
 and it was hard to believe that there was a spark of vitality 
 left in him. A great number of the people had never seen 
 an elephant before, and we heard a thin, little old man, 
 who stood near us, say delightedly : " There's the old 
 creatur', and no mistake, Ann 'Liza. I wanted, to see him 
 most of anything. My sakes alive, ain't he big !" 
 
 And Ann 'Liza, who was stout and sleepy-looking, 
 droned out : " Ye-es, there's consider'ble of him ; but he 
 looks as if he ain't got no animation." 
 
 Kate and I turned away and laughed, while Mrs. Kew 
 said, confidentially, as the couple moved away: . tl She 
 needn't be a reflectin' on the poor beast. That's Mis' Seth 
 Tanner, and there isn't a woman in Deep Haven nor East 
 Parish to be named the same day with her for laziness. 
 I'm glad she didn't catch sight of me ; she'd have talked 
 about nothing for a fortnight." There was a picture of a
 
 142 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 huge snake in Dfeep Haven, and I was just wondering 
 where he could be, or if there ever had been one, when we 
 heard a boy ask the same question of the man whose thank- 
 less task it was to stir up the lions with a stick to make 
 them roar. " The snake's dead," he answered, good- 
 naturedly. " Didn't you have to dig an awful long grave 
 for him ?" asked the boy ; but the man said he reckoned 
 they curled him up some, and smiled as he turned to his 
 lions, that looked as if they needed a tonic. Everybody 
 lingered longest before the monkeys, that seemed to be the 
 only lively creatures in the whole collection. . . . 
 
 Coming out of the great tent was disagreeable enough, 
 and we seemed to have chosen the worst time, for the 
 crowd pushed fiercely, though I suppose nobody was in the 
 least hurry, and we were all severely jammed, while from 
 somewhere underneath came the wails of a deserted dog. 
 We had not meant to see the side shows ; but when we 
 came in sight of the picture of the Kentucky giantess, we 
 noticed that Mrs. Kew looked at it wistfully, and we imme- 
 diately asked if she cared anything about going to see the 
 wonder, whereupon she confessed that she never heard of 
 such a thing as a woman's weighing six hundred and fifty 
 pounds ; so we all three went in. There were only two or 
 three persons inside the tent, beside a little boy who played 
 the hand -organ. 
 
 The Kentucky giantess sat in two chairs on a platform, 
 and there was a large cage of monkeys just beyond, toward 
 which Kate and I went at once. " Why, she isn't more 
 than two thirds as big as the picture," said Mrs. Kew, in a 
 regretful whisper ; " but 1 guess she's big enough ; doesn't 
 she look discouraged, poor creatur' ?" Kate and I felt
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 14:3 
 
 ashamed of ourselves for being there. ' Xo matter if she 
 had consented to be carried round for a show, it must have 
 been horrible to be stared at and joked about day after day ; 
 and we gravely looked at the monkeys, and in a few min- 
 utes turned to see if Mrs. Kew were not ready to come 
 away, when, to our surprise, we saw that she was talking to 
 the giantess with great interest, and we went nearer. 
 
 " I thought your face looked natural the minute I set 
 foot inside the door," said Mrs. Kew ; " but you've altered 
 some since I saw you, and I couldn't place you till I heard 
 you speak. Why, you used to be spare. I am amazed, 
 Mar illy ! Where are your folks ?" 
 
 " I don't wonder you are surprised," said the giantess. 
 " I was a good ways from this when you knew me, wasn't 
 I ? But father, he ran through with every cent he had be- 
 fore he died, and ' he ' took to drink, and it killed him after 
 a while ; and then 1 begun to grow worse and worse, till I 
 couldn't do nothing to earn a dollar, and everybody was 
 a-coming to see me, till at last I used to ask 'em ten cents 
 apiece, and I scratched along somehow till this man came 
 round and heard of me ; and he offered me my keep and 
 good pay to go along with him. He had another giantess 
 before me, but she had begun to fall away considerable, so 
 he paid her off and let her go. This other giantess was an 
 awful expense to him, she was such an eater ; now, I don't 
 have no great of an appetite" this was said plaintively 
 " and he's raised my pay since I've been with him because 
 we did so well." . . . 
 
 " Have you been living in Kentucky long ?" asked Mrs. 
 Kew. " I saw it on the picture outside." 
 
 " No," said the giantess ; " that was a picture the man
 
 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 bought cheap from another show that broke up last year. 
 It says six hundred and fifty pounds, but I don't weigli 
 more than four hundred. I haven't been weighed for 
 some time past. Between you and me, I don't weigh as 
 much as that, but you mustn't mention it, for it would 
 spoil my reputation and might hinder my getting another 
 engagement." 
 
 Then they shook hands in a way that meant a great deal, 
 and when Kate and I said good-afternoon, the giantess 
 looked at us gratefully, and said : "I'm very much obliged 
 to you for coming in, young ladies." 
 
 " Walk in ! Walk in !" the man was shouting as we 
 came away. " Walk in and see the wonder of the world, 
 ladies and gentlemen the largest woman ever seen in 
 America the great Kentucky giantess !" 
 
 NEW YORK TO NEWPORT. 
 A Trip of Trials. 
 
 BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 The Jane Moseley was a disappointment most Janes are. 
 If they had called her Samuel, no doubt she would have 
 behaved better ; but they called her Jane, and the natural 
 consequences of our mistakes cannot be averted from our- 
 selves or others. A band was playing wild strains of wel- 
 come as we approached. Come and sail with us, it said it 
 is summer, and the days are long. Care is of the land 
 here the waves flow, and the winds blow, and captain 
 smiles, and stewardess beguiles, and all is music, music, 
 music. How the wild, exultant strains rose and fell but 
 everything rose and fell on that boat, as we found out after- 
 ward. Just here a spirit of justice falls on me, like the
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PEOSY. 145 
 
 gentle dew from heaven, and forces me to admit that it 
 rained like a young doluge ; that it had been raining for 
 two days, and the bosom of the deep was heaving with 
 responsive sympathy ; as what bosom would not on which 
 so many tears had been shed ? Perhaps responsive sympa- 
 thy was the secret of the Jane Moseley's behavior ; but I 
 would her heart had been less tender. Then, too, the pas- 
 sengers were few ; and of course as we had to divide the 
 roll and tumble between us, there was a great deal for each 
 one. 
 
 There w r as a Pretty Girl, and she had a sister who was 
 not pretty. It seemed to me that even the sad sea waves 
 were kinder to the Pretty Girl, such is the influence of 
 youth and beauty. There were various men heavy swells 
 I should call some of them, only that that would be slang ; 
 but heavy swells were the order of the day. Then there 
 was a benevolent old lady who believed in everything in 
 the music, and the Jane Moseley, and the long days, and 
 the summer. There was another old lady of restless mind, 
 who evidently believed in nothing, hoped for nothing, ex- 
 pected nothing. She tried all the lounges and all the cor- 
 ners, and found each one a separate disappointment. There 
 was a fat, fair one, of friendly face, and beside her her grim 
 guardian, a man so thin that you at once cast him for the 
 part of Starveling in this Midsummer Day's Dream of De- 
 lusion. 
 
 We put out from shore quite out of sight of shore, in 
 short and then the perfidious music ceased. To the peo- 
 ple on land it had sung, " Come and make merry with us," 
 but from us, trying in vain to make merry, it withheld its 
 deceitful inspiration. For the exceeding weight of sorrow
 
 146 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 that presently settled down upon us it had no balm. When 
 you are on a pleasure trip it is unpleasant to be miserable ; 
 so I tried hard to shake off the mild melancholy that began 
 to steal over me. 1 said to myself, I will not affront the 
 great deep with my personal woes. I am but a woman, yet 
 perhaps on this so great occasion magnanimity of soul will 
 be possible even to me. I will consider my neighbors and 
 be wise. At one end of the long saloon a banquet-board 
 was spread. Its hospitality was, like the other attractions 
 of the Jane Moseley, a perfidious pageant. Nobody sought 
 its soup or claimed its clams. One or two sad-eyed young 
 men made their way in that direction from time to time- 
 after their sea-legs, perhaps. From their gait when they 
 came back 1 inferred they did not find them. The human 
 nature in the saloon became a weariness to me. Even the 
 gentle gambols of the dog Thaddeus, a sportive and spotted 
 pointer in whom I had been interested, failed to soothe my 
 perturbed spirits. De Quincey speaks somewhere of " the 
 awful solitariness of every human soul." No wonder, then, 
 that I should be solitary among the festive few on board the 
 Jane Moseley no wonder I felt myself darkly, deeply, des- 
 pgrately blue. I thought I would go on deck. I clung to 
 my companion with an ardor which would have been flat- 
 tering had it been voluntary. My faltering steps were 
 guided to a seat just within the guards. I sat there think- 
 ing that I had never nursed a dear gazelle, so 1 could not be 
 quite sure whether it would have died or not, but I thought 
 it would. I mused on the changing fortunes of this un- 
 steady world, and the ingratitude of man. I thought it 
 would be easier going to the Promised Land if Jordan did 
 not roll between. Rolling had long ceased to be a pleasant
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY. 147 
 
 figure of speech with me. How frail are all things here 
 below, how false, and yet. how fair ! My mind is naturally 
 picturesque. In the midst of my sadness the force of nat- 
 ure compelled me to grope after an illustration. I could 
 only think that my own foothold was frail, that the Jane 
 Moseley was false, that the Pretty Girl was fair. A dizzi- 
 ness of brain resulted from this rhetorical effort. I silently 
 confided my sorrows to the sympathizing bosom of the sea. 
 I was soothed by the kindred melancholy of the sad sea 
 waves. If the size of the waves were remarkable, other 
 sighs abounded also, and other things waved many of them. 
 
 True to my purpose of studying my fellow-beings, and 
 learning wisdom by observation, I surveyed the Pretty Girl 
 and her sister, who had by that time come on deck. They 
 were surrounded by a group of audacious male creatures, 
 who surrounded most on the side where the Pretty Girl sat. 
 She did not look feeble. She was like the red, red rose. 
 It was a conundrum to me why so much greater anxiety 
 should be bestowed upon her health than upon her sister's. 
 It needed some moral reflection to make it out ; but 1 con- 
 cluded that pretty girls were, by some law of nature, more 
 subject to sea-sickness than plain ones ; therefore, all these 
 careful cares were quite in order. I saw the two old ladies 
 the benevolent one who had believed so implicitly in all 
 things, but over whose benign visage doubt had now begun 
 to settle like a cloud ; and the other, who had hoped noth- 
 ing from the first, and therefore over whom no disappoint- 
 ment could prevail and, seeing, I mildly wondered 
 whether, indeed, 'twere better to have loved and lost, or 
 never to have loved at all. 
 
 My thoughts grew solemn. The green shores beyond the
 
 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 swelling flood seemed farther off than ever. The Jane 
 Moseley had promised to land us at Newport pier at seven 
 o'clock. It was already half-past seven ; oh, perfidious 
 Jane ! Darkness had settled upon the face of the deep. 
 We went inside. The sad-eyed young men had evidently 
 been hunting for their sea-legs again, in the neighborhood 
 of the banqueti ng-table, where nobody banqueted. Failing 
 to find the secret of correct locomotion, they had laid them- 
 selves down to sleep, but in that sleep at sea what dreams 
 did come, and how noisy they were ! The dog Thaddeus 
 walked by dejectedly, sniffing at the ghost of some half-for- 
 gotten joy. At last there rose a cry Newport ! The 
 sleepers started to their feet. I started to mine, but I dis- 
 creetly and quietly sat down again. Was it Newport, at 
 last ? Not at all. The harbor lights were gleaming from 
 afar ; and the cry was of the bandmaster shouting to his 
 emissaries, arousing fiddle and flute and bassoon to their 
 deceitful duty. They had played us out of port they 
 would play us in again. They had promised us that all 
 should go merry as a marriage- bell, and I would not be 
 understood to complain, but it had been a sad occasion. 
 Now the deceitful strains rose and fell again upon the salt 
 sea wind. The many lights glowed and twinkled from the 
 near shore. We are all at play, come and play with us, 
 screamed the soft waltz music. It is summer, and the days 
 are long, and trouble is not, and care is banished. If the 
 waves sigh, it is with bliss. Our voyage is ended. It is 
 sad that you did not sail with us, but we will invite you 
 again to-morrow, and the band shall play, and the crowd be 
 gay, and airs beguile, and blue skies smile, and all shall be 
 music, music, music. But I have sailed with you, on a
 
 PROSE, BUT NOT PROSV. 141) 
 
 summer day, bland master of a faithless band ; and I know 
 how soon jour pipes are dumb I know the tricks and man- 
 ners of the clouds and the wind, and the swelling sea, and 
 Jane Moseley, the perfidious. 
 
 I must, after all, have strong local attachments, for when 
 at last the time came to land I left the ship with lingering 
 reluctance. My feet seemed fastened to the deck where I 
 had made my brief home on the much rolling deep. I had 
 grown used to pain and resigned to fate. I walked the 
 plank unsteadily. I stood on shore amid the rain and the 
 mist. A hackman preyed upon me. I was put into an 
 ancient ark and trundled on through the queer, irresolute, 
 contradictory old stseets, beside the lovely bay, all aglow 
 with the lighted yachts, as a Southern swamp is with fire- 
 flies. A torchlight procession met and escorted me. To 
 this hour I am at a loss to know whether this attention was 
 a delicate tribute on the part of the pity of Newport to a 
 distinguished guest, or a parting attention from the com- 
 pany who sail the Jane Moseley, and advertise in the Trib- 
 une a final subterfuge to persuade a tortured passenger, by 
 means of this transitory glory, that the sail upon a summer 
 sea had been a pleasure trip. Letter to New York Tribune.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
 I WILL next group a score of poems and doggerel rhymes 
 with their various degrees of humor. 
 
 THE FIRST NEEDLE. 
 
 BY LUCBKTIA 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 rnn ! 
 
 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.
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 151 
 
 Ah, to sew up a seam for them to see 
 What a treat, a delighttul 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 tit 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.
 
 152 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 THE FUNNY STOKY. 
 
 BY JOSEPHINE POLLAHD. 
 
 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 ycur 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 POLLAKD. 
 
 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.
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 153 
 
 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 MINISTEK. 
 
 BY MBS. M. E. Vf. 8KEELS. 
 
 We've a church, tho' the belfry is leaning, 
 
 They are talking I think of repair, 
 And the Ml, 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.
 
 154: THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 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 h is 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.
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS.. 155 
 
 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.
 
 156 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 THE MIDDY OF 1881. 
 
 BY MAY CEOLY KOPEB. 
 
 I'm tho 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, oomes 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, 1 
 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, 
 
 yuite 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 slidj 
 
 First am I in the list of Nature's donkeys ! 
 
 Scribner's Magazine Bric-a-Brac, 1881.
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 157 
 
 INDIGNANT POLLY WOG. 
 
 BY MAEGAKET 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.
 
 158 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Oh, May ! oh, Ry oh, Wog ! 
 Oh, proud Miss Mary Wog ! 
 Oh, goodness gracious ! what a joke 1 
 Hurrah for Mary Wog I" 
 
 "KISS PKETTY POLL!" 
 
 BY MABY D. BBINE. 
 
 " 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.
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 159 
 
 THANKSGIVING-DAY (THEN AND NOW). 
 
 BY MAKT 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 V" 
 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.
 
 160 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 CONCERNING MOSQUITOES. 
 
 Feelingly Dedicated to Jktir Discounted BiU*. 
 
 BY MISS ANNA A. GOEDON. 
 
 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.
 
 HCMOKOUS POEMS. 161 
 
 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. 
 
 THE STILTS OF GOLD. 
 
 BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOB. 
 
 Mrs. Mackerel sat in her little room, 
 
 Back of her husband's grocery store, 
 Trying to see through the evening gloom, 
 
 To finish the baby's pinafore. 
 She stitched away with a steady hand, 
 
 Though her heart was sore, to the very core, 
 To think of the troublesome little Taand, 
 
 (There were seven, or more), 
 And the trousers, frocks, and aprons they wore, 
 Made and mended by her alone. 
 " Slave, slave !" she said, in a mournful tone ; 
 " And let us slave, and contrive, and fret, 
 I don't suppose we shall ever get 
 A little home which is all our own, 
 With my own front door 
 Apart from the store, 
 And the smell of fish and tallow no more." 
 
 These words to herself she sadly spoke, 
 
 Breaking the thread from the last-set stitch, 
 When Mackerel into her presence broke 
 
 "Wife, we're we're we're, wife, we're we're rich,/" 
 " We rich ! ha, ha ! I'd like to see ; 
 I'll pull your hair if you're fooling me." 
 " Oh, don't, love, don't ! the letter is here 
 You can read the news for yourself, my dear. 
 The one who sent you that white crape shawl- 
 There' 11 be no end to our gold he's dead ;
 
 162 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 You know you always would call him stingy, 
 
 Because he didn't invite us to Injy ; 
 And I am his only heir, 'tis said. 
 A million of pounds, at the very least, 
 
 And pearls and diamonds, likely, beside !" 
 Mrs. Mackerel's spirits rose like yeast 
 
 " How lucky I married you, Mac," she cried. 
 Then the two broke forth into frantic glee. 
 
 A customer hearing the strange commotion, 
 Peeped into the little back-room, and he 
 
 Was seized with the very natural notion 
 That the Mackerel family had gone insane ; 
 So he ran away with might and main. 
 
 Mac shook his partner by both her hands ; 
 
 They dance, they giggle, they laugh, they stare ; 
 And now on his head the grocer stands, 
 
 Dancing a jig with his feet in air 
 Eemarkable feat for a man of his age, 
 Who never had danced upon any stage 
 But the High-Bridge stage, when he set on top, 
 And whose green-room had been a green-grocer's shop. 
 But that Mrs. Mac should perform so well 
 Is not very strange, if the tales they tell 
 Of her youthful days have any foundation. 
 
 But let that pass with her former life 
 
 An opera-girl may make a good wife, 
 If she happens to get such a nice situation. 
 
 A million pounds of solid gold 
 
 One would have thought would have crushed them dead ; 
 But dear they bobbed, and courtesied, and rolled 
 
 Like a couple of corks to a plummet of lead. 
 'Twas enough the soberest fancy to tickle 
 To see the two Mackerels in such a pickle ! 
 It was three o'clock when they got to bed ; 
 Even then through Mrs. Mackerel's head 
 Such gorgeous dreams went whirling away, 
 " Like a Catherine-wheel," she declared next day,
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 163 
 
 " That her brain seemed made of sparkles of fire 
 Shot off in spokes, with a ruby tire." 
 
 Mrs. Mackerel had ever been 
 
 One of the upward-tending kind, 
 Regarded by husband and by kin 
 As a female of very ambitious mind. 
 It had fretted her long and fretted her sore 
 To live in the rear of the grocery-store. 
 And several times she was heard to say 
 She would sell her soul for a year and a day 
 To the King of Brimstone, Fire, and Pitch, 
 For the power and pleasure of being rich. 
 
 Now her ambition had scope to work 
 
 Riches, they say, are a burden at best ; 
 Her onerous burden she did not shirk, 
 
 But carried it all with commendable zest ; 
 Leaving her husband with nothing in life 
 But to smoke, eat, drink, and obey his wife. 
 She built a house with a double front-door, 
 
 A marble house in the modern style, 
 With silver planks in the entry floor, 
 
 And carpets of extra-magnificent pile. 
 And in the hall, in the usual manner, 
 " A statue," she said, " of the chased Diana ; 
 Though who it was chased her, or whether they 
 Caught her or not, she could, really, not say." 
 A carriage with curtains of yellow satin 
 A coat-of-arms with these rare devices : 
 " A mackerel sky and the starry Pisces " 
 And underneath, in the purest fish-latin, 
 If fishibus flyabus 
 They may reach the skyabus ! 
 
 Yet it was not in common affairs like these 
 She showed her original powers of mind ; 
 
 Her soul was fired, her ardor inspired, 
 To stand apart from the rest of mankind ;
 
 164: THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 " To be A No. one," her husband said ; 
 At which she turned very angrily red, 
 For she couldn't endure the remotest hint 
 Of the grocery-store, and the mackerels in't. 
 Weeks and months she plotted and planned 
 
 To raise herself from the common level ; 
 Apart from even the few to stand 
 
 Who'd hundreds of thousands on which to revel. 
 Her genius, at last, spread forth its wings 
 Stilts, golden stilts, are the very things 
 "I'll walk on stilts," Mrs. Mackerel cried, 
 In the height of her overtowering pride. 
 Her husband timidly shook his head ; 
 But she did not care" For why," as she said, 
 " Should the owner of -ciore than a million pounds 
 Be going the rotinds 
 On the very same grounds 
 As those low people, she couldn't tell who, 
 They might keep a shop, for all she knew." 
 
 She had a pair of the articles made, 
 Of solid gold, gorgeously overlaid 
 With every color of precious stone 
 Which ever flashed in the Indian zone. 
 She privately practised many a day 
 
 Before she ventured from home at all ; 
 She had lost her girlish skill, and they say 
 
 That she suffered many a fearful fall ; 
 But pride is stubborn, and she was bound 
 On her golden stilts to go around, 
 Three feet, at least, from the plebeian ground. 
 
 'Twas an exquisite day, 
 
 In the month of May, 
 That the stilts came out for a promenade ; 
 
 Their first entree 
 
 Was made on the shilling side of Broadway : 
 The carmen whistled, the boys went mad, 
 The omnibus-drivers their horses stopped. 
 The chestnut-roaster his chestnuts dropped,
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 165 
 
 The popper of corn no longer popped ; 
 The daintiest dandies deigned to stare, 
 And even the heads of women fair 
 Were turned by the vision meeting them there. 
 The stilts they sparkled and flashed and shone 
 Like the tremulous lights of the frigid zone, 
 Crimson and yellow and sapphire and green, 
 Bright as the rainbows in summer seen ; 
 While the lady she strode along between 
 With a majesty too supremely serene 
 For anything but an American queen. 
 A lady with jewels superb as those, 
 And wearing such very expensive clothes, 
 Might certainly do whatever she chose ! 
 And thus, in despite of the jeering noise. 
 And the frantic delight of the little boys, 
 
 The stilts were a very decided success. 
 The creme de la crane paid profoundest attention, 
 
 The merchants' clerks bowed in such wild excess, 
 When she entered their shops, that they strained their spines, 
 And afterward went into rapid declines. 
 The papers, next day, gave her nattering mention : 
 " The wife of our highly-esteemed fellow-citizen, 
 
 A Mackerel, of Codfish Square, in this city, 
 Scorning French fashions, herself has hit on one 
 
 So very piquant and stylish and pretty, 
 We trust our fair friends will consider it treason 
 Not to walk upon stilts, by the close of the season." 
 
 Mrs. Mackerel, now, was never seen 
 
 Out of her chamber, day or night, 
 Unless her stilts were aL>ng her mien 
 
 Was very imposing from such a height, 
 
 It imposed upon many a dazzled wight, 
 Who snuffed the perfume floating down 
 From the rustling folds of her gorgeous gown, 
 But never could smell through these bouquets 
 The fishy odor of former days.
 
 166 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 She went on her golden stilts to pray, 
 
 Which never became her better than then, 
 When her murmuring lips were heard to say, 
 
 " Thank God, I am not as my fellow -men !" 
 Her pastor loved as a pastor might 
 
 His house that was built on a golden rock ; 
 He pointed it out as a shining light 
 
 To the lesser lambs of his fleecy flock. 
 The stilts were a help to the church, no doubt, 
 
 They kindled its self-expiring embers, 
 So that before the season was out 
 
 It gained a dozen excellent members. 
 
 Mrs. Mackerel gave a superb soiree, 
 
 Standing on stilts to receive her guests ; 
 The gas-lights mimicked the glowing day 
 
 So well, that the birds, in their flowery nests, 
 Almost burst their beautiful breasts, 
 Trilling away their musical stories 
 In Mrs. Mackerel's conservatories. 
 She received on stilts ; a distant bow 
 
 Was all the loftiest could attain- 
 Though some of her friends she did allow 
 
 To kiss the hem of her jewelled train. 
 One gentleman screamed himself quite hoarse 
 Kequesting her to dance ; which, of course, 
 Couldn't be done on stilts, as she 
 Halloed down to him rather scornfully. 
 
 The fact is, when Mackerel kept a shop, 
 
 His wife was very fond of a hop, 
 
 And now, as the muhic swelled and rose, 
 
 She felt a tingling in her toes, 
 
 A restless, tickling, funny sensation 
 
 Which didn't agree with her exaltation. 
 
 When the maddened music was at its height* 
 And the waltz was wildest behold, a sight ! 
 The stilts began to hop and twirl 
 Like the saucy feet of a ballet-girl,
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 167 
 
 And their haughty owner, through the air, 
 Was spin, spin, spinning everywhere. 
 Everybody got out of the way 
 To give the dangerous stilts fair play. 
 
 In every corner, at every door, 
 With faces looking like unfilled blanks, 
 They watched the stilts at their airy pranks, 
 
 Giving them, unrequested, the floor. 
 
 They never had glittered so bright before ; 
 The light it flew in flashing splinters 
 Away from those burning, revolving centres ; 
 While the gems on the lady's flying skirts 
 Gave out their light in jets and spirts. 
 Poor Mackerel gazed in mute dismay 
 At this unprecedented display. 
 " Oh, stop, love, stop !" he cried at last ; 
 But she only flew more wild and fast, 
 While the flutes and fiddles, bugle and dram, 
 Followed as if their time had come. 
 
 She went at such a bewildering pace 
 Nobody 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 " 
 'Kound 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 shis own, and the world's no mo*e.
 
 168 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 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, phosphorescent 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 ; 
 "Bound 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 
 
 Biding her stilts like a witch a broom, 
 
 While a phosphorent odor followed her track : 
 
 Be this as it may, Ihe never came back.
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 169 
 
 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 YICTOBIA VICTOE. 
 
 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 assisted.
 
 170 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 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 no thin* 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 ;
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 171 
 
 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 tiirn 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 UNKUFFLED BOSOM. 
 (Story of an old Woman who knew Washington.) 
 
 BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNET. 
 
 An aged negress at her door 
 
 Is sitting in the sun ; 
 Her day of work is almost o'er, 
 
 Her day of rest begun.
 
 172 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Her face is black as darke?t night, 
 
 Her form is bent and thin, 
 And o'er her bony visage tight 
 
 Is stretched her wr.nkled 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 Ihe 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 fought 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 ;
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 173 
 
 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, 
 
 Laabes had dar time to fall. 
 He simply wished to ax, he said, 
 
 As pastor and as friend, 
 If wid unruffled bosom I 
 
 Approached my latter end. 
 Now how he knew dat story I 
 
 Should mightily like to know. 
 
 I 'clar to goodness, Massa Guy, 
 
 If dat ain't really you ! 
 You say dat in your wash I sent 
 
 You only one white vest ; 
 And as you'se passin' by you fought 
 
 You'd call and get de rest. 
 Now, Massa Guy, about your shirts, 
 
 At least, it seems to me 
 Dat you is more particular 
 
 Dan what you used to be. 
 Your family pride is stiff as starch, 
 
 Your blood is mighty blue 
 I nebber spares de indigo 
 
 To make your shirts so, too. 
 I uses candle ends, and wax, 
 
 And satin gloss and paints, 
 Until your wristbands shine like to 
 
 De pathway ob de saints. 
 But when a gemman sends to me 
 
 Eight white vests eberry week, 
 A stain ob har-oil on each one, 
 
 I tinks it's time to speak.
 
 174: THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 When snarled around a button dar's 
 
 A golden bar or so, 
 Dat young man's going to be wed, 
 
 Or someting's wrong, I know. 
 Yoii needn't laugh, and turn it off 
 
 By axing 'bout my cap ; 
 You didn't use to know nice lace, 
 
 And never cared a snap 
 What 'twas a lady wore. But folks 
 
 Wid teaching learn a lot, 
 And dey do say Miss Bella buys 
 
 De best dat's to be got. 
 But if you really want to know, 
 
 I don't mind telling you 
 Jus' how I come by dis yere lace 
 
 It's cur'us, but it's true. 
 My mother washed for Washington 
 
 When I warn't more'n dat tall ; 
 I cut one of his shirt-frills off 
 
 To dress my corn-cob doll ; 
 And when de General saw de shirt, 
 
 He jus' was mad enough 
 To tink he got to hold review 
 
 Widout his best Dutch ruff. 
 Ma'am said she 'lowed it was de calf 
 
 Dat had done chawed it off ; 
 But when de General heard dat ar, 
 
 He answered with a scoff ; 
 He said de marks warn't don' of teef, 
 
 But plainly dose ob shears ; 
 An' den he showed her to de do' 
 
 And cuffed me on ye years. 
 And when my ma'am arribed at home 
 
 She stretched me "cross her lap, 
 Den took de lace away from me 
 
 An' sewed it on her cap. 
 And when I dies I hope dat dey 
 
 Wid it my shroud will trim.
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 175 
 
 Den when we meets on Judgment Day, 
 
 I'll gib it back to him. 
 So dat's my story, Massa Guy, 
 
 Maybe I's little wit ; 
 But I has lamed to, when I'm wrong, 
 
 Make a clean breast ob it. 
 Den keep a conscience smooth and white 
 
 (You can't if much you flirt), 
 And an unruffled bosom, like 
 
 De General's Sunday shirt. 
 
 HAT, ULSTER AND ALL. 
 
 BY CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES. 
 
 John Verity's Experience. 
 
 I saw the congregation rise, 
 And in it, to my great surprise, 
 
 A Kossuth-covered head. 
 I looked and looked, and looked again, 
 To make quite sure my sight was plain, 
 
 Then to myself I said : 
 
 That fellow surely is a Jew, 
 
 To whom the Christian faith is new, 
 
 Nor is it strange, indeed, 
 If used to wear his hat in church, 
 His manners leave him in the lurch 
 
 Upon a change of creed. 
 
 Joining my friend on going out, 
 Conjecture soon was put to rout 
 
 By smothered laugh of his : 
 Ha ! ha ! too good, too good, no Jew, 
 Dear fellow, but Miss Moll Carew, 
 
 Good Christian that she is ! 
 
 Bad blunder ! all I have to say, 
 It is a most unchristian way 
 To rig Miss Moll Carew
 
 176 THE WIT OF WOMEN, 
 
 She has my hat, my cut of hair, 
 Just such an ulster as I wear, 
 
 And heaven knows what else, too. 
 
 AUCTION EXTRAORDINARY. 
 
 BY LUCKETIA DAVIDSON. 
 
 I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers, 
 
 And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers ; 
 
 My thoughts ran along in such beautiful meter, 
 
 I'm sure I ne 'er saw any poetry sweeter : 
 
 It seemed that a law had been recently made 
 
 That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid ; 
 
 And in order to make them all willing to marry, 
 
 The tax was as large as a man could well carry. 
 
 The bachelors grumbled and said 'twas no use 
 
 'Twas horrid injustice and horrid abuse, 
 
 And declared that to save their own hearts' blood from spilling, 
 
 Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling. 
 
 But the rulers determined them still to pursue, 
 
 So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue : 
 
 A crier was sent through the town to and fro, 
 
 To rattle his bell and a trumpet to blow, 
 
 And to call out to all he might meet in his way, 
 
 " Ho ! forty old bachelors sold here to-day !" 
 
 And presently all the old maids in the town, 
 
 Each in her very best bonnet and gown, 
 
 From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red and pale, 
 
 Of every description, all nocked to the sale. 
 
 The auctioneer then in his labor began, 
 
 And called out aloud, as he held up a man, 
 
 " How much for a bachelor? Who wants to buy?" 
 
 In a twink, every maiden responsed, " I I !" 
 
 In short, at a highly extravagant price, 
 
 The bachelors all were sold off in a trice : 
 
 And forty old maidens, some younger, some older, 
 
 Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder.
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS. 177 
 
 A APELE FOR ARE TO THE SEXTANT. 
 
 BY ABABELLA WILSON. 
 
 Sextant of the meetinouse which sweeps 
 And dusts, or is supposed to ! and makes fiers, 
 And lites the gas, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose. 
 In which case it smells orful wus than lampile ; 
 And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dies 
 
 To the grief of survivin' pardners, and sweeps paths, 
 
 And for these servaces gits $100 per annum ; 
 
 Wich them that thinks deer let 'em try it ; 
 
 Gittin up before sturlite in all wethers, and 
 
 Kindlin' fiers when the wether is as cold 
 
 As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlins 
 
 (I wouldn't be hierd to do it for no sum) ; 
 
 But o Sextant there are one kermodity 
 
 Wuth more than gold which don't cost nuthin ; 
 
 Wuth more than anything except the Sole of man ! 
 
 1 mean pewer Are, Sextant, I mean pewer Are ! 
 
 it is plenty out o' dores, so plenty it doant no 
 What on airth to do with itself, but flize about 
 Scatterin leaves and bloin off men's hats ; 
 
 In short its jest as free as Are out dores ; 
 
 But O Sextant ! in our church its scarce as piety, 
 
 Scarce as bankbills when ajunts beg for mishuns, ^ 
 
 Which sum say is purty often, taint nuthin to me, 
 
 What I give aint nuthing to nobody ; but Sextant I 
 
 You shet 500 men women and children 
 
 Speshily the latter, up in a tite place, 
 
 Sum has bad breths, none of em aint too sweet, 
 
 Sum is fevery, sum is scroflus, sum has bad teeth 
 
 And sum haint none, and sum aint over clean ; 
 
 But evry one of em brethes in and out and in 
 
 Say 50 times a minnet, or 1 million and a half breths an hour ; 
 
 Now how long will a church full of are last at that rate ? 
 
 1 ask you ; say fifteen minnets, and then what's to be did ? 
 Why then they must breth it all over agin, 
 
 And then agin and so on, till each has took it down
 
 ITS THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 At least ten times and let it up agin, and what's more, 
 
 The same individible doant have the privilege 
 
 Of breathin his own are and no one else, 
 
 Each one must take wotever comes to him, 
 
 O Sexta,nt ! doant you know our lungs is belluses 
 
 To bio the fier of life and keep it from 
 
 Going out : und how can bellusses bio without wind ? 
 
 And aint wind are ? I put it to your konshens, 
 
 Are is the same to us as milk to babies, 
 
 Or water is to fish, or pendlums to clox, 
 
 Or roots and airbs unto an Injun doctor, 
 
 Or little pills unto an omepath, 
 
 Or Boze to girls. Are is for us to brethe. 
 
 What signifize who preaches ef I cant brethe ? 
 
 What's Pol ? What's Pollus to sinners who are ded ? 
 
 Ded for want of breth ! Why Sextant when we dye 
 
 Its only coz we cant brethe no more that's all. 
 
 And now O Sextant ? let me beg of you 
 
 To let a little are into our cherch 
 
 (Fewer are is sertin proper for the pews) ; 
 
 And dew it week days and on Sundays tew 
 
 It aint much trobble only make a hoal, 
 
 And then the are will come in of itself 
 
 (It love to come in where it can git warm). 
 
 And O how it will rouze the people up 
 
 And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps 
 
 And yorns and fijits as effectool 
 
 As wind on the dry boans the Profit tels of. 
 
 Christian Weekly.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 GOOD-NATURED SATIKE. 
 
 WOMEN show their sense of humor in ridiculing the foi- 
 bles of their own sex, as Miss Carlotta Perry seeing the 
 danger of " higher education," and Helen Gray Cone 
 laughing over the exaggerated ravings and meanings of a 
 stage-struck girl, or the very one-sided sermon of a senti- 
 mental goose. 
 
 A MODEKN MINERVA. 
 
 BY CABLOTTA PEERY. 
 
 'Twas the height of the gay season, and I cannot tell the reason, 
 
 But at a dinner party given by Mrs. Major Thwing 
 It became my pleasant duty to take out a famous beauty 
 
 The prettiest woman present. I was happy as a king. 
 
 Her dress beyond a question was an artist's best creation ; 
 
 A miracle of loveliness was she from crown to toe. 
 Her smile was sweet as could be, her voice just as it should be 
 
 Not high, and sharp, and wiry, but musical and low. 
 
 Her hair was soft and flossy, golden, plentiful and glossy ; 
 
 Her eyes, so blue and sunny, shone with every inward grace ; 
 I could see that every fellow in the room was really yellow 
 
 With jealousy, and wished himself that moment in my place. 
 
 As the turtle soup we tasted, like a gallant man I hasted 
 To pay some pretty tribute to this muslin, silk, and gauze ; 
 
 But she turned and softly asked me and I own the question tasked me- 
 What were my fixed opinions on the present Suffrage laws.
 
 180 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 I admired a lovely blossom resting on her gentle bosom ; 
 
 The remark I thought a safe one I could hardly made a worse ; 
 With a smile like any Venus, she gave me its name and genus, 
 
 And opened very calmly a botanical discourse. 
 
 But I speedily recovered. As her taper fingers hovered, 
 
 Like a tender benediction, in a little bit of fish, 
 Further to impair digestion, she brought up the Eastern Question. 
 
 By that time I fully echoed that other fellow's wish. 
 
 And, as sure as I'm a sinner, right on through that endless dinner 
 
 Did she talk of moral science, of politics and law, 
 Of natural selection, of Free Trade and Protection, 
 
 Till I came to look upon her with a sort of solemn awe. 
 
 Just to hear the lovely woman, looking more divine than human, 
 Talk with such discrimination of Ingersoll and Cook, 
 
 With such a childish, sweet smile, quoting Huxley, Mill, and Carlyle 
 It was quite a revelation it was better than a book. 
 
 Chemistry and mathematics, agriculture and chromatics, 
 
 Music, painting, sculpture she knew all the tricks of speech ; 
 
 Bas-relief and chiaroscuro, and at last the Indian Bureau 
 She discussed it quite serenely, as'she trifled with a peach. 
 
 I have seen some dreadful creatures, with vinegary features, 
 With their fearful store of learning set me sadly in eclipse ; 
 
 But I'm ready quite to swear if I have ever heard the Tariff 
 Or the Eastern Question settled by such a pair of lips. 
 
 Never saw I a dainty maiden so remarkably o' erladen 
 
 From lip to tip of finger with the love of books and men ; 
 
 Quite in confidence I say it, and I trust you'll not betray it, 
 But I pray to gracious heaven that I never may again. 
 
 Chicago Tribune. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA BROWN. 
 
 BY HELEN OKAY CONE. 
 
 Though I met her in the stammer, when one's heart lies 'round at ease, 
 
 As it were in tennis costume, and a man's not hard to please ; 
 
 Yet I think at any season to have met her was to love, 
 
 While her tones, unspoiled, unstudied, had the softness of the dove.
 
 GOOD-NATURED SATIRE. 181 
 
 At request she read us poems, in a nook among the pines, 
 And her artless voice lent music to the least melodious lines ; 
 Though she lowered her shadowing lashes, in an earnest reader's wise, 
 Yet we caught blue gracious glimpses of the heavens that were her eyes. 
 
 As in Paradise I listened. Ah, I did not understand 
 That a little cloud, no larger than the average human hand, 
 Might, as stated oft in fiction, spread into a sable pall, 
 When she said that she should study elocution in the fall. 
 
 I admit her earliest efforts were not in the Ercles vein : 
 She began with ' ' Lit-tle Maaybel, with her f aayce against the paayne, 
 And the beacon-light a-trrremble -" which, although it made me wince, 
 Is a thing of cheerful nature to the things she's rendered since. 
 
 Having learned the Soulful Quiver, she acquired the Melting Mo-o-an, 
 And the way she gave " Young Grayhead " would have liquefied a stone -'. 
 Then the Sanguinary Tragic did her energies employ, 
 And she tore my taste to tatters when she slew ' ' The Polish Boy. " 
 
 It's not pleasant for a fellow when the jewel of his soul 
 Wades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs in frenzy roll : 
 What was I that I should murmur ? Yet it gave me grievous pain 
 When she rose in social gatherings and searched among the slain. 
 
 I was forced to look upon her, in my desperation dumb 
 Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was come 
 She would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very least 
 As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast. 
 
 Once, ah ! once I fell a-dreaming ; some one played a polonaise 
 
 I associated strongly with those happier August days ; 
 
 And I mused, "I'll speak this evening," recent pangs forgotten quite. 
 
 Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish : " Curfew SH^LL not ring to-night !'" 
 
 Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy warm romance ! 
 
 Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in France ? 
 
 Oh, as she " cull-imbed !" that ladder, swift my mounting hope came 
 
 down. 
 I am still a single cynic ; she is still Cassandra Brown !
 
 182 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 THE TENDER HEART. 
 
 BY HELEN OKAY CONE. 
 
 She gazed upon the burnished brace 
 
 Of plump, ruffed grouse he showed with pride , 
 Angelic grief was in her face : 
 
 " How could you do it, dear?" she sighed. 
 " The poor, pathetic moveless wings !" 
 
 The songs all hushed " Oh, cruel shame !" 
 Said he, " The partridge never sings," 
 
 Said she, " The sin is quite the same." 
 
 " You men are savage, through and through, 
 
 A boy is always bringing in 
 Some string of birds' eggs, white and blue, 
 
 Or butterfly upon a pin. 
 The angle-worm in anguish dies, 
 
 Impaled, the pretty trout to tease " 
 " My own, we fish for trout with flies " 
 
 " Don't wander from the question, please." 
 
 She quoted Burns's " Wounded Hare," 
 
 And certain burning lines of Blake's, 
 And Rxiskin on the fowls of air, 
 
 And Coleridge on the water-snakes. 
 At Emerson's " Forbearance" he 
 
 Began to feel his will benumbed ; 
 At Browning's " Donald " utterly 
 
 His soul surrendered and succumbed. 
 
 *' Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls ! 
 
 He thought, beneath the blessed sun I" 
 He saw her lashes hang with pearls, 
 
 And swore to give away his gun. 
 She smiled to find her point was gained 
 
 And went, with happy parting words 
 (He subsequently ascertained), 
 
 To trim her hat with humming birds. 
 
 From the Century.
 
 GOOD-NATURED SATIRE. 183 
 
 A dozen others equally good must be reserved ' for that 
 encyclopaedia ! This specimen of vers de societe rivals 
 Locker or Baker : 
 
 PLIGHTED: A.D. 1874. 
 
 BY ALICE WILLIAMS. 
 
 " Two souls with but a single thought. 
 Two hearts that beat as one." 
 
 NELLIE, loquitur. 
 Bless my heart ! You've come at last, 
 
 Awful glad to see you, dear ! 
 Thought you'd died or something, Belle 
 
 Such an age since you've been here 1 
 My engagement ? Gracious ! Yes. 
 
 Rumor's hit the mark this time. 
 And the victim ? Charley Gray. 
 
 Know him, don't you? Well, he's prtnw. 
 Such mustachios ! splendid style ! 
 
 Then he's not so horrid fast 
 Waltzes like a seraph, too ; 
 
 Has some fortune best and last. 
 Love him? Nonsense. Don't be " soft ;" 
 
 Pretty much as love now goes ; 
 He's devoted, and in time 
 
 I'll get used to him, I 'spose. 
 First love ? Humbug. Don't talk stuff ! 
 
 Bella Brown, don't be a fool ! 
 Next you'd rave of flames and darts, 
 
 Like a chit at boarding-school ; 
 Don't be " miffed." I talked just so 
 
 Some two years back. Fact, my dear ! 
 But two seasons kill romance, 
 
 Leave one's views of life quite clear. 
 Why, if Will Latrobe had asked 
 
 When he left two years ago,
 
 184: THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 I'd have thrown up all and gone 
 
 Out to Kansas, do you know ? 
 Fancy me a settler's wife ! 
 
 Blest escape, dear, was it not ? 
 Yes ; it's hardly in my line 
 
 To enact " Love in a Cot." 
 Well, you see, I'd had my swing, 
 
 Been engaged to eight or ten, 
 Got to stop some time, of course, 
 
 So it don't much matter when. 
 Auntie hates old maids, and thinks 
 
 Every girl should marry young 
 On that theme my whole life long 
 
 I have heard the changes sung. 
 So, ma belle, what could I do ? 
 
 Charley wants a stylish wife. 
 We'll suit well enough, no fear, 
 
 When we settle down for life. 
 But for love-staff ! See my ring ! 
 
 Lovely, isn' t it ? Solitaire. 
 Nearly made Maud Hinton turn 
 
 Green with envy and despair. 
 Her's ain't half so nice, you see. 
 
 Did I write you, Belle, about 
 How she tried for Charley, till 
 
 I sailed in and cut her out V 
 Now, she's taken Jack McBride, 
 
 I believe it's all from pique 
 Threw him over once, you know 
 
 Hates me so she'll scarcely speak. 
 Oh, yes ! Grace Church, Brown, and that 
 
 Pa won't mind expense at last 
 I'll be off his hands for good ; 
 
 Cost a fortune two years past. 
 My trousseau shall outdo Maud's, 
 
 I've carle blanche from Pa, you know- 
 Mean to have my dress from Worth ! 
 
 Won't she be just HAVING though ! 
 
 Scribner's Monthly Magazine, 1874.
 
 GOOD-NATURED SATIKE. 185 
 
 Women are often extremely humorous in their newspaper 
 letters, excelling in that department. As critics they in- 
 cline to satire. !No one who read them at the time will 
 ever forget Mrs. Runkle's review of " St. Elmo," or Gail 
 Hamilton's criticism of " The Story of Avis," while Mrs. 
 Rollins, in the Critic, often uses a scimitar instead of a 
 quill, though a smile always tempers the severity. She 
 thus beheads a poetaster who tells the public that his " sol- 
 emn song" is 
 
 "Attempt ambitious, with a ray of hope 
 To pierce the dark abysms of thought, to guide 
 Its dim ghosts o' er the towering crags of Doubt 
 Unto the land where Peace and Love abide, 
 Of flowers and streams, and sun and stars." 
 
 " His ' solemn song ' is certainly very solemn for a song 
 with so cheerful a purpose. We have rarely read, indeed, 
 a book with so large a proportion of unhappy words in it. 
 Frozen shrouds, souls a-chill with agony, things wan and 
 gray, icy demons, scourging willow-branches, snow-heaped 
 mounds, black and freezing nights, cups of sorrow drained 
 to the lees, etc., are presented in such profusion that to 
 struggle through the ' dark abyss ' in search of the ' ray 
 of hope ' is much like taking a cup of poison to learn the 
 sweetness of its antidote. Mr. - in one of his stanzas 
 invites his soul to ' come and walk abroad ' with him. If 
 he ever found it possible to walk abroad without his soul, 
 the fact would have been worth chronicling ; but if it is 
 true that he only desires to have his soul with him occasion- 
 ally, we should advise him to walk abroad alone, and invite 
 his soul to sit beside him in the hours he devotes to com- 
 position."
 
 186 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Then humor is displayed in the excellent parodies by 
 women as Grace Greenwood's imitations of various au- 
 thors, written in her young days, but quite equal to the 
 " Echo Club" of Bayard Taylor. How perfect her mimicry 
 of Mrs. Sigourney ! 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 BY L. H. 8. 
 
 How hardly doth the cold and careless world 
 Bequite the toil divine of genius-souls, 
 Their wasting cares and agonizing throes ! 
 
 I had a friend, a sweet and precious friend, 
 One passing rich in all the strange and rare, 
 And fearful gifts of song. 
 
 On one great work, 
 
 A poem in twelve cantos, she had tailed 
 From early girlhood, e'en till she became 
 An olden maid. 
 
 Worn with intensest thought. 
 She sunk at last, just at the " finis" sunk ! 
 And closed her eyes forever ! The soul-gem 
 Had fretted through its casket ! 
 
 As I stood 
 
 Beside her tomb, I made a solemn vow 
 To take in charge that poor, lone orphan work, 
 And edit it ! 
 
 My publisher I sought, 
 
 A learned man and good. He took the work, 
 Head here and there a line, then laid it down, 
 And said, " It would not pay." I slowly turned, 
 And went my way with troubled brow, " but more 
 In sorrow than in anger." 
 
 Phosbe Gary's parody on " Maud Muller" I never fan- 
 cied ; it seems almost wicked to burlesque anything so per- 
 fect. But so many parodies have been made on Kingsley's
 
 GOOD-NATURED SATIRE. 187 
 
 " Three Fishers" that now I can enjoy a really good one, 
 like this from Miss Lilian Whiting, of the Boston Daily 
 Traveller, the well-known correspondent of various "Western 
 papers : 
 
 THE THKEE POETS. 
 
 After Kingsley. 
 
 BY T.TT.TAN WHITING. 
 
 Three poets went sailing down Boston streets, 
 
 All iiito the East as the sun went down, 
 Each felt that the editor loved him best 
 
 And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town. 
 For poets must write tho' the editors frown, 
 Their aesthetic natures will not be put down, 
 While the harbor bar is moaning ! 
 
 Three editors climbed to the highest tower 
 
 That they could find in all Boston town, 
 And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour, 
 
 Till the sun or the poets had both gone down. 
 For Spring poets must write, though the editors rage, 
 The artistic spirit must thus be engaged 
 
 Though the editors all were groaning. 
 
 Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand, 
 
 Just after the first spring sun went down, 
 And the Press sat down to a banquet grand, 
 
 In honor of poets no more in the town. 
 For poets will write while editors sleep, 
 Though they've nothing to earn and no one to keep ; 
 And the harbor bar keeps moaning. 
 
 The humor of women is constantly seen in their poems 
 for children, such as " The Dead Doll," by Margaret 
 Vandergrift, and the " Motherless Turkeys," by Marian 
 Douglas. Here are some less known :
 
 188 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 BEDTIME. 
 
 BY NELLIE K. KELLOGG. 
 
 'Twas sunset-time, when grandma called 
 
 To lively little Fred : 
 " Come, dearie, put your toys away, 
 
 It's time to go to bed." 
 
 But Fred demurred. " He wasn't tired, 
 
 He didn't think 'twas right 
 That he should go so early, when 
 
 Some folks sat up all night." 
 
 Then grandma said, in pleading tone, 
 
 " The little chickens go 
 To bed at sunset ev'ry night, 
 
 All summer long, you know." 
 
 Then Freddie laughed, and turned to her 
 
 His eyes of roguish blue, 
 " Oh, yes, I know," he said ; " but then, 
 
 Old hen goes with them, too." 
 
 Good Cheer. 
 
 THE KOBIN AND THE CHICKEN. 
 
 BY GRACE F. COOLIDGE. 
 
 A plump little robin flew down from a tree, 
 To hunt for a worm, which he happened to see ; 
 A frisky young chicken came scampering by, 
 And gazed at the robin with wondering eye. 
 
 Said the chick, " What a queer-looking chicken is that ! 
 Its wings are so long and its body so fat !" 
 While the robin remarked, loud enough to be heard : 
 " Dear me ! an exceedingly strange-looking bird !" 
 
 " Can you sing ?" robin asked, and the chicken said " No ;" 
 But asked in its turn if the robin could crow. 
 So the bird sought a tree and the chicken a wall, 
 And each thought the other knew nothing at all. 
 
 Sf. Nicholas.
 
 GOOD-NATUKED SATIRE. 189 
 
 Harriette "W". Lotlirop, wife of the popular publisher 
 better known by her pen name of " Margaret Sidney" has 
 done much in a humorous way to amuse and instruct little 
 folks. She has much quiet humor. 
 
 WHY POLLY DOESN'T LOVE CAKE! 
 
 BY MARGARET SIDNEY. 
 
 They all said " No !" 
 
 As they stood in a row, 
 The poodle, and the parrot, and the little yellow cat, 
 
 And they looked very solemn, 
 
 This straight, indignant column, 
 And rolled their eyes, and shook their heads, a-standing on the mat. 
 
 Then I took a goodly stick, 
 
 Very short and very thick, 
 And I said, " Dear friends, you really now shall rue it, 
 
 For one of you did take 
 
 That bit of wedding-cake, 
 And so I'm going to whip you all. I honestly will do it." 
 
 Then Polly raised her claw ! 
 
 " I never, never saw 
 That stuff. I'd rather have a cracker, 
 
 And so it would be folly," 
 
 Said this naughty, naughty Polly, 
 " To punish me ; but Pussy, you can whack her." 
 
 The cat rolled up her eyes 
 
 In innocent surprise, 
 And waved each trembling whisker end. 
 
 " A crumb I have not taken, 
 
 But Bose ought to be shaken. 
 And then, perhaps, his thieving, awful ways he'll mend." 
 
 "I'll begin right here 
 With you, Polly, dear," 
 And my stick I raised with righteous good intent.
 
 190 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 " Oh, dear !" and " Oh, dear !" 
 The groans that tilled my ear. 
 As over head and heels the frightened column -went ! 
 
 The cat flew out of window, 
 
 The dog flew under bed, 
 And Polly flapped and beat the air, 
 
 Then settled on my head ; 
 When underneath her wing, 
 
 From feathered corner deep, 
 A bit of wedding-cake fell down, 
 
 That made poor Polly weep. 
 
 The cat raced off to cat-land, and was never seen again, 
 
 And the dog sneaked out beneath the bed to scud with might and main ; 
 
 While Polly sits upon her roost, and rolls her eyes in fear, 
 
 And when she sees a bit of cake, she always says, " Oh, dear !" 
 
 KITTEN TACTICS. 
 
 BY ADELAIDE CILLEY WALDRON. 
 
 Four little kittens in a heap, 
 One wide awake and three asleep. 
 Open-eyes crowded, pushed the rest over, 
 While the gray mother-cat went playing rover. 
 
 Three little kittens stretched and mewed ; 
 
 Cried out, " Open-eyes, you're too rude !" 
 Open-eyes, winking, purred so demurely, 
 All the rest stared at him, thinking " surely 
 
 We were the ones that were so rude, 
 
 We were the ones that cried and mewed ; 
 
 Let us lie here like good little kittens ; 
 
 We cannot sleep, so we'll wash our mittens." 
 
 Four little kittens, very sleek, 
 Purred so demurely, looked so meek, 
 When the gray mother came home from roving 
 " What good kittens !" said she ; " and how loving !'
 
 GOOD-NATURED 'SATIRE. 191 
 
 BOTH SIDES. 
 
 BY GAIL HAMTLTON. 
 
 " Kitty, Kitty, you mischievous elf, 
 
 What have you, pray, to say for yourself?" 
 
 But Kitty was now 
 
 Asleep on the mow, 
 
 And only drawled dreamily, " Ma-e-ow !" 
 
 " Kitty, Kitty, come here to me, 
 The naughtiest Kitty I ever did see ! 
 I know very well what you've been about ; 
 Don't try to conceal it, murder will out. 
 Why do you lie so lazily there ?" 
 
 " Oh, I have had a breakfast rare !" 
 
 " Why don't you go and hunt for a mouse ?" 
 
 " Oh, there's nothing fit to eat in the house." 
 
 " Dear me ! Miss Kitty, 
 
 This i<! a pity ; 
 
 But I guess the cause of your change of ditty. 
 What has become of the beautiful thrush 
 That built her nest in the heap of brush ? 
 A brace of young robins as good as the best ; 
 A round little, bi-own little, snug little nest ; 
 Four little eggs all green and gay, 
 Four little birds all bare and gray, 
 And Papa Robin went foraging round, 
 Aloft on the trees, and alight on the ground. 
 North wind or south wind, he cared not a groat, 
 So he popped a fa^ worm down each wide-open throat ; 
 And Mamma Robin through sun and storm 
 Hugged them up close, and kept them all warm ; 
 And me, I watched the dear little things 
 Till the feathers pricked out on their pretty wings, 
 And their eyes peeped up o'er the rim of the nest. 
 Kitty, Kitty, you know the rest.
 
 192 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 The nest is empty, and silent and lone ; 
 
 Where are the four little robins gone ? 
 
 Oh, puss, you have done a cruel deed ! 
 
 Your eyes, do they weep ? your heart, does it bleed ? 
 
 Do you not feel your bold cheeks turning pale ? 
 
 Not you ! you are chasing your wicked tail. 
 
 Or you just cuddle down in the hay and purr, 
 
 Curl up in a ball, and refuse to stir, 
 
 But you need not try to look good and wise : 
 
 I see little robins, old puss, in your eyes. 
 
 And this morning, just as the clock struck four, 
 
 There was some one opening the kitchen door, 
 
 And caught you creeping the wood-pile over, 
 
 Make a clean breast of it, Kitty Clover !" 
 
 Then Kitty arose, 
 
 Rubbed up her nose, 
 And looked very much as if coming to blows ; 
 
 Rounded her back, 
 
 Leaped from the stack, 
 
 On her feet, at my feet, came down with a whack, 
 Then, fairly awake, she stretched out her paws, 
 Smoothed down her whiskers, and unsheathed her clam, 
 
 Winked her green eyes 
 
 With an air of surprise, 
 And spoke rather plainly for one of her size. 
 
 " Killed a few robins ; well, what of that? 
 What's virtue in man can't be vice in a cat. 
 There's a thing or two I should like to know, 
 Who killed the chicken a week ago, 
 For nothing at all that I could spy, 
 But to make an overgrown chickjsn-pie ? 
 
 'Twixt you and me, 
 
 'Tis plain to see, 
 The odds is, you like fricassee, 
 
 While my brave maw 
 
 Owns no such law, 
 Content with viands a la raw.
 
 GOOD-NATURED SATIRE. 193 
 
 " Who killed the robins ? Oh, yes ! oh, yes I 
 I would get the cat now into a mess ! 
 
 Who was it put 
 
 An old stocking-foot, 
 
 Tied up with strings 
 
 And such shabby things, 
 On to the end of a sharp, slender pole, 
 Dipped it in oil and set fire to the whole, 
 And burnt all the way from here to the miller' 
 The nests of the sweet young caterpillars ? 
 
 Grilled fowl, indeed ! 
 
 Why, as I read, 
 You had not even the plea of need ; 
 
 For all you boast 
 
 Such wholesome roast, 
 I saw no sign at tea or roast, 
 Of even a caterpillar's ghost. 
 
 " Who killed the robins ? Well, I should think ! 
 Hadn't somebody better wink 
 At my peccadillos, if houses of glass 
 Won't do to throw stones from at. those who pass ? 
 I had four little kittens a month ago 
 Black, and Malta, and white as snow ; 
 And not a very long while before 
 I could have shown you three kittens more. 
 And so in batches of fours and threes, 
 Looking back as long as you please, 
 You would find, if you read my story all, 
 There were kittens from time immemorial. 
 
 " But what am I now ? A cat bereft, 
 Of all my kittens, but one is left. 
 I make no charges, but this I ask, 
 What made such a splurge in the waste-water cask ? 
 You are quite tender-hearted. Oh, not a doubt ! 
 But only suppose old Black Pond could speak out. 
 Oh, bother ! don't mutter excuses to me : 
 Quifacit per alium facit per se."
 
 194 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 " Well, Kitty, I think full enough has been said, 
 And the best thing for you is go straight back to bed. 
 A very fine pass 
 Things have come to, my lass, 
 If men must be meek 
 While pussy-cats speak 
 Great moral reflections in Latin and Greek !" 
 
 Our Young Fblks.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 PARODIES REVIEWS CHILDREN'S POEMS COMEDIES BY WOM- 
 EN A DRAMATIC TRIFLE A STRING OF FIRECRACKERS. 
 
 IT is surprising that we have so few comedies from 
 women. Dr. Doran mentions five Englishwomen who 
 wrote successful comedies. Of these, three are now for- 
 gotten ; one, Aphra Behn, is remembered only to be de- 
 spised for her vulgarity. She was an undoubted wit, and* 
 was never dull, but so wicked and coarse that she forfeited 
 all right to fame. 
 
 Susanna Centlivre left nineteen plays full of vivacity and 
 fun and lively incident. The' Bold Stroke for a Wife is 
 now considered her best. The asset Table is also a 
 superior comedy, especially interesting because it anticipates 
 the modern blue-stocking in Valeria, a philosophical gir^ 
 who supports vivisection, and has also a prophecy of exclu- 
 sive colleges for women. 
 
 There is nothing worthy of quotation in any of these 
 comedies. Some sentences from Mrs. Centlivre' s plays are 
 given in magazine articles to prove her wit, but we say so.- 
 much brighter things in these days that they must be con- 
 sidered stale platitudes, as : 
 
 " You may cheat widows, orphans, and tradesmen with- 
 out a blush, but a debt of honor, sir, must be paid." 
 
 "' Qmrrels. like mushrooms, spring up in a moment."
 
 196 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 " Woman is the greatest sovereign power in the world." 
 Hans Andersen in his Autobiography mentions a Madame 
 von Weissenthurn, who was a successful actress and drama- 
 tist. Her comedies are published in fourteen volumes. In our 
 country several comedies written by women, but published 
 anonymously, have been decided hits. Mrs. Yerplanck's 
 Sealed Instructions was a marked success, and years ago 
 Fashion, by Anna Cora Mowatt, had a remarkable run. 
 By the way, those roaring farces, Belles of the Kitchen and 
 Fun in a fog, were written for the Yokes family by an 
 aunt of theirs. And I must not forget to state that Gil- 
 bert's Palace of Truth was cribbed almost bodily from 
 Madame de Genlis's " Tales of an Old Castle." Mrs. Julia 
 " Schayer, of Washington, has given us a domestic drama in 
 one act, entitled Struggling Genius. 
 
 STRUGGLING GENIUS. 
 
 Dramatis Persons. 
 
 MRS. ANASTASIUS. MR. ANASTASIUS. 
 
 GIRL OF TEN YEARS. GIRL OF EIGHT YEARS. 
 
 GIRL OF Two YEARS. INFANT OF THREE MONTHS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. NURSERY. 
 
 \Tim, eight o' 1 clock A.M. In the background nurse male- 
 ing bed, etc. / Girl of Two amusing herself surrepti- 
 tiously with pins, buttons, scissors, etc. / Girl of Fight 
 practising piano in adjoining room ; Mrs. A., in fore- 
 ground performing toilet of infant. Having lain awake 
 half the preceding night wrestling with the plot of a new
 
 A DRAMATIC TRIFLE. 197 
 
 novel for which rival publishers are waiting with out- 
 stretched hands (full of checks), Mrs. A. believes she has 
 hit upon an effective scene, and burns to commit it to 
 paper. Washes infant with feverish haste.~\ 
 
 Mrs. A. (soliloquizing]. Let me see ! How was it ? 
 Oh ! " Olga raised her eyes with a sweetly serious expres- 
 sion. Harold gazed moodily at her calm face. It was not 
 the expression that he longed to see there. He would have 
 preferred to see Good gracious, Maria ! That child's 
 mouth is full of buttons ! " He would have preferred 
 preferred " (Loudly.} Leonora ! That F's to be 
 sharped ! There, there, mother's sonny boy ! Did mamma, 
 drop the soap into his mouth instead of the wash-bowl? 
 There, there! (Sings.} "There's a land that is fairer 
 than this," etc. [Infant quiet. 
 
 Mrs. A. (resuming). " He would have preferred pre- 
 ferred Maria, don't you see that child has got the scis- 
 sors ? " He would have " There now, let mamma put 
 on its little socks. Now it's all dressed so nice and clean. 
 Don'ty ky ! No, don'ty ! Leonora ! Put more accent on 
 the first beat. " Harold gazed moodily into His bot- 
 tle, Maria ! Quick ! He'll scream himself into fits ! 
 
 [Exit nurse. Baby having got both fists into his mouth 
 beguiles himself into quiet. 
 
 Mrs. A. Let me see ! How was it ? Oh ! " Harold 
 gazed moodily into her calm, sweet face. It was not the 
 expression he would have liked to find there. He would 
 have preferred " (Shriek from girl of two.) Oh, dear 
 me ! She has shut her darling fingers in the drawer !
 
 198 THE WIT OF WOMKX. 
 
 Come to mamma, precious love, and sit on mamma's lap, 
 and we'll sing about little pussy. 
 
 Enter nurse with bottle. Curtain falls. 
 
 SCENE II. STUDY. 
 
 [Three hours later; infant and Girl of Two asleep house 
 in order ; lunch and dinner arranged ; buttons sewed on 
 Girl of Eights boots, string on Girl of Ten's hood, and 
 both dispatched to school, etc. Enter Mrs. A. Draws a 
 long sigh of relief and seats herself at desk. Reads a 
 page of Dickens and a poem or two to attune herself for 
 work. Seizes pen, scribbles erratically a few seconds and 
 begins to write. ,] 
 
 Mrs. A. (after some moments). I think that is good. 
 Let us hear how it reads. (Reads aloud.) " He would 
 have preferred to find more passion in those deep, dark 
 eyes. Had he then no part in the maiden meditations of 
 this fair, innocent girl he whom proud beauties of society 
 vied with each other to win ? He could not guess. A 
 stray breeze laden with violet and hyacinth perfume stole in 
 at the open window, ruffling the soft waves of auburn hair 
 which shaded her alabaster forehead." It seems to me 1 
 have read something similar before, but it is good, anyhow. 
 " Harold could not endure this placid, unruffled calm. His 
 own veins were full of molten lava. With a wild and pas- 
 sionate cry he " 
 
 Enter cook bearing a large, dripping piece of corned beef. 
 Cook. Please, Miss Anastasy, is dis de kin' of a piece ye
 
 A DRAMATIC TRIFLE. 199 
 
 done wanted ? 1 thought I'd save ye de trouble o' comin' 
 down. 
 
 Mrs. A. (desperately). It is ! 
 
 [Exit cook, staring wildly. 
 
 Mrs. A. (resuming). " With a wild, passionate cry, 
 he" 
 
 Re-enter cook. 
 
 Cook. Ten cents for de boy what put in de wood, please, 
 ma'am ! 
 
 [Mrs. A. gives money ; exit cook. Mrs. A., sighing, 
 takes up MS. Clock strikes twelve / soon after the lunch- 
 hell rings.} 
 
 Voice of Girl of Ten, calling : Mamma, why don't you 
 come to lunch ? 
 
 SCENE III. DINING-ROOM. 
 Enter Mrs. A. 
 
 Girl of Ten. Oh, what a mean lunch ! Kothing but 
 bread arid ham. I hate bread and ham ! All the girls have 
 jelly-cake. Why don't we have jelly- cake ? We used to 
 have jelly-cake. 
 
 Mrs. A. You can have some pennies to buy ginger-snaps. 
 
 Girl of Ten. I hate ginger-snaps ! When are you going 
 to make jelly-cake ? 
 
 Mrs. A. (sternly). When my book is done. 
 
 Girl of Ten (with inexpressible meaning).' Hm ! 
 
 Curtain falls.
 
 200 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 SCENE IY. STUDY. 
 
 Enter Mrs. A. Children still asleep girls at school; 
 deck again cleared for action. 
 
 Mrs. A. It is one o'clock. If I can be let alone until 
 three I can finish that last chapter. 
 
 [Takes up pen / lays it down / reads a poem of Mrs. 
 Browning to take the taste of ham-sandwiches out of 
 her mouth, then resumes pen, and writes with increasing 
 interest for fifteen minutes. Everything is steeped in 
 quiet. Suddenly a faint murmur of voices is heard it 
 increases, it approaches, mingled witli the tread of many 
 feet, and a rumbliny as of mighty chariot-wheels. It 
 is only Barnum's steam orchestrion, Barnuin's steam 
 chimes, and Barnurii's steam calliope, followed by an 
 array of ruff-scruff. They stop exactly opposite the 
 house. The orchestrion blares, the chimes ring a knell 
 to peace and harmony, the calliope shrieks to heaven. 
 The infants wake and shriek likewise. Exit Mrs. A. 
 Curtain falls.'] 
 
 SCENE V. STUDY. 
 
 Enter Mrs. A. Peace restored children happy with 
 nurse. Seizes pen and writes rapidly. Doorbell rings, 
 cook announces caller ; nobody Mrs. A. wants to see, but 
 somebody she MUST see. Exit Mrs. A. in a state of rigid 
 despair.
 
 A DRAMATIC TRIFLE. 201 
 
 SCENE VI. HALL. 
 
 [ Visitor gone ; Mrs. A. starts for study. Enter Girl of 
 Eight followed by Girl of Ten.~\ 
 
 Duett-mo. 
 
 Girl of Ten. Mamma, please give me my music lesson 
 now, so I can go and skate ; and then won't you please 
 make some jelly-cake ? And see, my dress is torn, and my 
 slate-frame needs covering. 
 
 Girl of Eight. Where are my roller-skates ? Where is 
 the strap ? Can I have a pickle ? Please give me a cent. 
 A girl said her mother wouldn't let her wear darned stock- 
 ings to school. I'm ashamed of my stockings. You might 
 let me wear my new ones. 
 
 [Mrs. A. gives music lesson; mends dress; covers slate- 
 frame makes jelly-cake and a pudding goes to nur- 
 sery and sends nurse down to finish ironing. ,] 
 
 SCENE VII. NURSERY. 
 
 [Mrs. A. with babies on her lap. Enter husband and 
 father with hands full of papers and general air of 
 having finished his day's work.'] 
 
 Mr. A. Well, how is everything ? Children all right, I 
 see. You must have had a nice, quiet day. Written much ? 
 
 Mrs. A. (faintly}. Not very much. 
 
 Mr. A. (complacently}. Oh, well, you can't force these 
 things. It will be all right in time. 
 
 Mrs. A. (in a burst of repressed feeling). We need the 
 money so much, Charles !
 
 202 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Mr. A. (with an air of offended dignity). Oh, bother ! 
 You are not expected to support the family. 
 
 [Mrs. A., thinking of that dentist's hill, that shoe hill, and 
 the summer outfit for a family of six, says nothing. 
 Exit Mr. A., who re-enters a moment later. ~\ 
 
 Mr. A. You a haven't fixed rny coat, I see. 
 Mrs. A. (with a guilty start}. I I forgot it ! 
 Gribbering fiend Conscience. Ha, ha ! Ho, ho ! 
 
 Curtain falls amid chorus of exulting demons. 
 
 I have reserved for the close numerous instances of 
 woman's facility at badinage and repartee. It is there, 
 after all, that she shines perennial and pre-eminent. You 
 will excuse me if I give them to you one after another 
 without comment, like a closing display of fireworks. 
 
 And first let me quote from Mrs. Rollins, as an instance 
 of the way in which women often react upon each other in 
 repartee, a little conversation which it was once her priv- 
 ilege to overhear : 
 
 "Margaret. I wonder you never have been married, 
 Kate. Of course you've had lots of chances. Won't you 
 tell us how many ? 
 
 II Kate. No, indeed ! I could not so cruelly betray my 
 rejected lovers. 
 
 "Helen. Of course you wouldn't tell us exactly / but 
 would you mind giving it to us in round numbers ? 
 
 "Kate. Certainly not ; the roundest number of all exactly 
 expresses the chances I have had. 
 
 "Charlotte (with a sigh). Now I know what people mean 
 by Kate's circle of admirers /' '
 
 A STRING OF FIRECRACKERS. 203 
 
 A lady was discussing the relative merits and demerits of 
 the two sexes with a gentleman of her acquaintance. After 
 much badinage on one side and the other, he said : " Well, 
 vou never yet heard of casting seven devils out of a man. " 
 " Ko," was the quick retort, " they've got 'em yet!" 
 
 " What would you do in time of war if you had the 
 suffrage ?" said Horace Greeley to Mrs. Stanton. 
 
 " Just what you have done, Mr. Greeley," replied the 
 ready lady ; " stay at home and urge others to go and 
 fight !" 
 
 It was Margaret Fuller who worsted Mrs. Greeley in a 
 verbal encounter. The latter had a decided aversion to kid 
 gloves, and on meeting Margaret shrank from her extended 
 hand with a shudder, saying : " Ugh i Skin of a beast ! 
 skin of a beast !" 
 
 "Why," said Miss Fuller, in surprise, "what do you 
 wear?" 
 
 "Silk" said Mrs. Greeley, stretching out her palm with 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Miss Fuller just touched it, saying, with a disgusted ex- 
 pression, " Ugh ! entrails of a worm ! entrails of a worm !" 
 
 Mademoiselle de Mars, the former favorite of the Theatre 
 de Frangais, had in some way offended the Gardes du 
 Corps. So one night they came in full force to the theatre 
 and tried to hiss her down. 
 
 The actress, unabashed, came to the front of the stage, 
 and alluding to the fact that the Gardes du Corps never 
 went to war, said : " What has Mars to do with the Gardes 
 du Corps?"
 
 204 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 Madame Louis de Segur is daughter of the late Casimii 
 Perier, who was Minister of the Interior during Thiers's 
 administration. When once out of office, but still an influ- 
 ential member of the House, he once tried to form a new 
 Moderate Republican party, meeting with but little success. 
 
 Once his daughter, who was sitting in the gallery, saw 
 him entering the House all alone. 
 
 " Here comes my father with his party," she said. 
 
 I was greatly amused at the quiet reprimand given by a 
 literary lady of Xew York to a stranger at her receptions, 
 who, with hands crossed complacently under his coat-tails, 
 was critically examining the various treasures in her room, 
 humming obtrusively as lie passed along. 
 
 The hostess paused near him, surveyed him critically, and 
 then inquired, in a gentle tone : " Do you play also ?" 
 
 A young girl being asked why she had not been more 
 frequently to Lenten services, excused herself in this fash- 
 ion, severe, but truthful : " Oh, Dr. - is on such inti- 
 mate terms with the Almighty that I felt de trop." 
 
 At a reception in Washington this spring an admirable 
 answer was given by a level-headed woman we are all 
 proud of Miss Cleveland to a fine-looking army officer, 
 who has been doing guard duty in that magnificent city for 
 the past seventeen years. " Pray," said he, " what do 
 ladies find to think about besides dress and parties ?" 
 
 " They can think of the heroic deeds of oar modern army 
 officers," was her smiling reply. 
 
 Do you remember Lydia Maria Child's reply to her 
 husband when he wished he was as rich as Croesus : " At 
 any rate, you are King of Lydia ;" and Lucretia Mott's
 
 A STRING OF FIRECRACKERS. 205 
 
 humorous comment when she entered a room where her 
 husband and his brother Richard were sitting, both of them 
 remarkable for their taciturnity and reticence : "I thought 
 you must both be here it was so still !" 
 
 In my own home I recall a sensible old maid of Scotch 
 descent with her cosey cottage and the dear old-fashioned 
 garden where she loved to work. Our physician, a man of 
 infinite humor, who honestly admired her sterling worth, 
 and was attracted by her individuality, leaned over her 
 fence one bright spring morning, with the direct question : 
 " Miss Sharp, why did you never get married ?" 
 
 She looked up from her weeding, rested on her hoe- 
 handle, and looking steadily at his hair, which was of a 
 sandy hue, answered : " I'll tell you all about it, Doctor. 
 I made up my mind, when 1 was a girl, that, come what 
 would, I would never marry a red-headed man, and none 
 but men with red hair have ever offered themselves." 
 
 We all know women whose capacity for monologue ex- 
 hausts all around them. So that the remark will be appre- 
 ciated of a lady to whom I said, alluding to such a talker : 
 " Have you seen Mrs. lately ?" 
 
 " Ko, I really had to give up her acquaintance in despair, 
 for I had been trying two years to tell her something in 
 particular. ' ' 
 
 A lady once told me she could always know when she had 
 taken too much wine at dinner her husband's jokes began 
 to seem funny ! 
 
 Lastly andfinally, tnere is a reason for our apparent 
 lack of humor, which it may seem ungracious to mention. 
 Women do not find it politic to cultivate or express their
 
 20(3 THE WIT OF WOMEN. 
 
 wit. No man likes to have his story capped by a better and 
 fresher from a lady's lips. What woman does not risk 
 being called sarcastic arid hateful if she throws back the 
 merry dart, or indulges in a little sharp-shooting ? No, no, 
 it's dangerous if not fatal. 
 
 " Though you're bright, and though you're pretty, 
 They'll not love you if you're witty." 
 
 Madame de Stae'l and Madame Recamier are good illus- 
 trations of this point. The former, by her fearless expres- 
 sions of wit, exposed herself to the detestation of the major- 
 ity of mankind. " She has shafts," said Napoleon, " which 
 would hit a man if he were seated on a rainbow." 
 
 But the sweetly fawning, almost servile adulation of the 
 listening beauty brought her a corresponding throng of 
 admirers. It sometimes seems that what is pronounced wit, 
 if uttered by a distinguished man, would be considered 
 commonplace if expressed by a woman. 
 
 Parker's illustration of Choate's rare humor never struck 
 rne as felicitous. " Thus, a friend meeting him one ten- 
 degrees-below-zero morning in the winter, said : ' How cold 
 it is, Mr. Choate.' ' Well, it is not absolutely tropical,' he 
 replied, with a most mirthful emphasis." 
 
 And do you recollect the only time that Wordsworth was 
 really witty ? He told the story himself at a dinner. 
 " Gentlemen, I never was really witty but once in my life." 
 Of course there was a general call for the bright but solitary 
 instance. And the contemplative bard continued : " Well, 
 gentlemen, I was standing at the door of my cottage on 
 Rydal Mount, one fine summer morning, and a laborer said 
 to me : 'Sir, have you seen my wife go by this way ? '
 
 A STRING OF FIRECRACKERS. 20 7 
 
 And I replied : ' My good man, I did not know until this 
 moment that yon had a wife ! ' 
 
 He paused ; the company waited for the promised witti- 
 cism, but discovering that he had finished, burst into a 
 long and hearty roar, which the old gentleman accepted com- 
 placently .as a tribute to his brilliancy. 
 
 The wit of women is like the airy froth of champagne, 
 or the witching iridescence of the soap-bubble, blown for a 
 moment's sport. The sparkle, the life, the .fascinating 
 foam, the gay tints Vanish with the occasion, because there 
 is no listening Boswell with unfailing memory and capacious 
 note-book to preserve them. 
 
 Then, unlike men, women do not write out the ; r im- 
 promptus beforehand and carefully hoard them for the 
 publisher and posterity ! 
 
 And now, dear friends, a cordial au revoir. 
 
 My heartiest thanks to the women who have so generously 
 allowed me to ransack their treasuries, filching here and 
 there as I chose, always modestly declaiming against the 
 existence of wit in what they had written. 
 
 To various publishers "in New York and Boston, who 
 have been most courteous and liberal, credit is given else- 
 where. 
 
 Touched by the occasion, I " drop into" doggerel : 
 
 pronounce tl?is book not funny, 
 nd wisi? you [?adn t spent your money, 
 \jere soon will be a aeneral rumor 
 l?at you re no judae of Wit or Humor.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 INTRODUCTION iii. 
 
 CONTENTS v. 
 
 DEDICATION vii. 
 
 ARGUMENT ix. 
 
 PROEM. . . . . . xi. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE. 
 
 Alcott, Louisa : " Transcendental Wild Oats " IV. 68 
 
 American Early Writers : Some of tliem who were thought 
 Witty Anne Bradstreet ; Mercy Warren ; Tabitha Ten- 
 
 ney III. 4? 
 
 Satirical Poem, by Mercy Warren III. 47 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney's Johnsonese Humor ; Extracts from her 
 
 Note-Book III. 48 
 
 Miss Sedgwick's Witty Imagination III. 49 
 
 Mrs. Caroline Oilman's humorous Poem," Joshua's Court- 
 ship" III. 49 
 
 Andersen, Hans, Reference to Woman Dramatist in his Auto- 
 biography X. 196 
 
 Aphorisms by the Queen of Roumania (Carmen Sylva) I. 24 
 
 " Auction Extraordinary" VIII. 176 
 
 " Aunty Doleful's Visit," by M. K. D. " If I can't do any- 
 thing else, I can cheer you up a little " VI. 118 
 
 Barnum and Phrebe Cary V. 102 
 
 Bates, Charlotte Fiske : " Hat, Ulster and All," Satirical 
 
 Poem, Quatrain and Epigram VIII. 175 
 
 " Beechers," t)ld Family Epigram applied to the I. 22 
 
 Behn, Aphra : Wrote Comedies ; her unsavory Wit X. 195
 
 210 INDEX. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE. 
 
 Bellows, Isabel Frances : " A Fatal Reputation" (for wit) 
 
 " A picnic, that most ghastly device of the human mind" VII. 129 
 
 Brenier, Frederika, her genuine Humor ; First Quarrel with 
 
 her "Bear" II. 41 
 
 Brine, Mary D. : Poems, " Kiss Pretty Poll," VIII. 158 
 
 " " "Thanksgiving Day Then and Now "... VIII. 159 
 
 Burleigh, Pun on, by Queen Elizabeth .' I. 16 
 
 Butter, Punning Poem on, by Caroline B. Le Row I. 18 
 
 Gary, Phoebe, "The wittiest woman in America": Her 
 quick retorts and merry repartees ; her parodies and 
 
 humorous poems V. 101 
 
 Champney, Lizzie W. : " An Unruffled Bosom " a Tragical 
 
 Tale of a Negress who " knew Washington " VIII. 171 
 
 Clarke, Lady, and her Irish Songs II. 44 
 
 Cleveland's, Elizabeth Rose, Pun I. 21 
 
 Cleaveland's, Mrs., " No Sects in Heaven " IV. 69 
 
 Clemmer, Mary : Her Life of Phoebe Cary V. 102 
 
 Comedies Few written by Women ; Five Englishwomen 
 produced successful ; Susanna Centlivre wrote nearly a 
 score contain some wit, but old-fashioned; Aphra Behn 
 
 wrote several comedie.-, witty but coarse X. 195 
 
 Cooke's, Rose Terry, " Knoware " IV. 68 
 
 " " " " Miss Lucinda's Pig" IV. 69 
 
 Story of " A Gift Horse " IV. 71 
 
 Coolidge, Grace F. : " The Robin and Chicken " IX. 188 
 
 Conclusion. See " Fireworks." 
 
 Cone, Helen Gray : Satirical Poems " Cassandra Brown " IX. 180 
 
 " " " " The Tender Heart " IX. 182 
 
 Corbett, E. T. : " The Inventor's Wife," a Poetical Lament. . VIII. 170 
 
 Critic, article in, on " Woman's Sense of Humor" I. 13 
 
 Cynicism of Frenchwomen I. 23 
 
 Davidson, Lucretia : " Auction Extraordinary" (Sale of Old 
 
 Bachelors) VIII. 176 
 
 Deffand, Madame du I. 23 
 
 Diaz, Mrs. Abby M., writer of the famous " William Henry 
 
 Letters".. IV. 69
 
 INDEX. 211 
 
 CHAP. PAGE- 
 
 Dodge, Mary Mapes " inimitable satirist " : " The Insanity 
 
 of Cain" IV. 68 
 
 " " " " Miss Molony on the Chinese Ques- 
 
 tion" (read before the Prince of 
 
 Wales) IV. 69 
 
 " Dromy," Satirical Notes on Derivation of II. 35 
 
 "Eliot's, George," Humor; Examples from "Adam Bede " 
 
 and " Silas Marner " II. 45 
 
 Epigrams, Makers of I. 21 
 
 " by Jane Austen : on the Name of " Wake'' I. 21 
 
 " " Lady Townsend : on the Herveys applied to 
 
 the Beech era ; on Wai pole I. 22 
 
 " " Miss Evans : on a Musical Woman I. 22 
 
 " " Hannah More I. 22 
 
 " " "Ouida" I. 22 
 
 " " Miss Phelps I. 29 
 
 " " Mrs. Rose Terry Cooke I. 30 
 
 " " Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney I. 31 
 
 " " Marguerite de Valois ; by Madame de Lam- 
 
 bert ; by Sophie Aruould ; by Madame de 
 
 Sevignfe I. 24 
 
 " " Lady Harriet Ashburton I. 25 
 
 " " Mrs. Carlyle, "herself an epigram ;" by Han- 
 
 nali F. Gould, on Caleb Gushing I. 26 
 
 " "Gail Hamilton" I. 27 
 
 " - " Kate Field I. 27 
 
 " Mrs. Whicher's " Widow Bedott " I. 31 
 
 " Marietta Holley's " Josiah Allen's Wife " I. 31 
 
 Eytinge, Margaret : " Indignant Polly NVog" . VIII. 157 
 
 " Fanny, Aunt " : Jeu d'espnt on Minerva I. 29 
 
 " Fanny Fern's " Arithmetical Mania III. 54 
 
 ' ' Fanny Forrester's " Letter to N. P. Willis III. 52 
 
 Ferrier's, Mary, Genial Wit ; Scott's Description of her ; 
 
 her " Sensible Woman," Satirical II. 39 
 
 " Fireworks " : Miscellaneous Closing Display of Wit: 
 
 Mrs.Rollins' illustration of woman's quicknessat repartee X. 202
 
 212 INDEX. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE. 
 
 Mrs. Stanton's Reply to Horace Greeley ; Miss Margaret 
 
 Fuller ; Mademoiselle Mars X. 203 
 
 Madame Louisa Segur ; Miss Cleveland ; Lydia Maria 
 
 Child X. 204 
 
 Madame de Stael ; Madame Recamier X, 2u6 
 
 French Women's Cynicism I. 23 
 
 "Gail Hamilton" IV. 68 
 
 Gapkell's, Mrs., Humor II. 36 
 
 "Gell and Gill" I. 21 
 
 Genlis, Madame de X. 198 
 
 Genuine Fun Sketches from C. M. Kirkland IV. 67 
 
 Oilman, Mrs. Caroline : A New England Ballad, "Joshua's 
 
 Courtship" III. 49 
 
 Gordon, Anna A. : " 'Skeeters have the Reputation" VIII. 160 
 
 " Grace Greenwood's" many Puns I. 17 
 
 " " "Mistress O'Rafferty on the Woman 
 
 Question" VI. 108 
 
 Greek Lady's Wit I. 15 
 
 Hale, Lucretia P. : " Peterkin Letters " IV. 69 
 
 " " " " The First Needle," a poetical Bit of 
 
 History VIII. 150 
 
 Hall, Louisa: "The Indian Agent" "With affectionate 
 
 interest he looked into the very depths of their pockets" VI. 103 
 "Hamilton, Gail": "Both Sides," an amusing poetical 
 
 Satire IX. 191 
 
 Holley's, Miss, " Samantha " IV. 69 
 
 Hudson's, Mary Clemmer, Opinions on Wit ; her Anecdotes 
 
 ofPhcebeCary V. 100 
 
 Humor, Miss Jewett's I. 27 
 
 Irish Fun VI. 107 
 
 Jewett, Sarah Orne : " The Circus at Denby " VII. 141 
 
 Jones', Amanda T., Poem, "Dochther O'Flannigan and his 
 
 Wondherful Cures" VI. 109 
 
 Kirkland, Caroline M.: "Borrowing Out West" IV. 67
 
 INDEX. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE. 
 
 Le Row, Caroline B.: Poetic Pun on the " Butter Woman " I. 18 
 Lothrop, Harriette W. (nom de plume " Margaret Sidney ") : 
 
 "Why Polly Doesn't Love Cake" IX. 189 
 
 " Lover and Lever," Epigram on, by C. F. Bates I. 28 
 
 McDowell, Mrs., "Sherwood Bonner :" "Aunt Anniky's 
 
 Teeth" V. 85 
 
 " My soul and body is a-yearnin' fur a han'sum chancy set 
 
 o'teef" V. 86 
 
 Pen-Portrait of Dr. A lonzo Babb V. 87 
 
 His first Tooth V. 89 
 
 How Anniky Lost her " Teef" V. 91 
 
 Ned Cuddy's Letter V. 94 
 
 Specimens of her Wit : The Radical Club a Satirical 
 
 Poem V. 97 
 
 McLean, Miss Sallie :" Cape Cod Folks " IV. 69 
 
 Mitford's, Mary Russell, "Talking Lady" II. 36 
 
 Mohl. Madame I. 25 
 
 Montagu's, Lady, Famous Speech I. 14 
 
 More's, Hannah, Contest of Wit with Johnson II. 34 
 
 Morgan's, Lady, A " Fast Horse " I. 16 
 
 " " Receptions II. 44 
 
 Mott, Lucretia X. 204 
 
 Moulton, Louisa Chandler: "The Jane Moseley was a Dis- 
 appointment" VII. 144 
 
 Mowatt, Anna Cora : Her Popular Play of " Fashion ". . . . X. 196 
 Murf ree, Miss (nom de plume ' ' Charles Egbert Craddock ") : 
 
 " A Blacksmith in Love" VII. 135 
 
 " New York to Newport "a Trip of Trials VII. 144 
 
 Old-fashioned Wit Examples: Bon-mots of "Stella" ; Jane 
 
 Taylor ; Miss Burney ; Mrs. Barbauld II. 32 1 
 
 Hannah More II. 33 
 
 " Ouida's " Epigrams I. 22 
 
 Parodies: Phcebe Gary's on "MaudMuller" not justifia- 
 ble ; Grace Greenwood on Mrs. Sigourney IX. 186 
 
 Lilian Whiting's on Kingsley's " Three Fishers" IX. 187 
 
 Perry, Carlotta : " A Modern Minerva " ... IX. 179-
 
 214 INDEX. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE. 
 
 Pickering, Julia : "The Old-Time Religion" "I allus did 
 
 dispise dein stuck-up "Piscopalians" VI. 114 
 
 Poems, Laughable and Satirical : 
 
 " The First Needle," L. P. Hale VIII. 150 
 
 " The Funny Sto<-y,"J. Pollard VIII. 152 
 
 " Wanted, a Minister," M. E. W. Skeels VIII. 153 
 
 " The Middy of 1881," May Croly Roper VIII. 156 
 
 " Indignant Polly Wog," M. Ey tinge VIII. 157 
 
 " Kiss Pretty Poll," M. D. Brine VIII. 158 
 
 " Thanksgiving Day Then and Now," M. D. Brine VIII. 159 
 
 " Concerning Mosquitoes," A. A. Gordon VIII. 160 
 
 "Tne Stilts of Gold;" "Just So," M. V. Victor VIII. 161 
 
 "The Inventor's Wife," E. T. Corbett VIII. 170 
 
 "An Unruffled Bosom," L. W. Cliampney VIII. 171 
 
 " Hat, Ulster and All," C. F. Bates VIII. 175 
 
 " Auction Extraordinary," L. Davidson VIII. 176 
 
 " A Sonnet," J. Pollard VIII. 152 
 
 Puns : Miss Mary Wads worth's ; Louisa Alcott's ; Grace 
 Greenwood prolific in ; a Mushroom Pun ; a Pillar-sham 
 
 Pun I. 17 
 
 Horseshoe Pun , I. 18 
 
 Miss Cleveland's I. 21 
 
 Queen Elizabeth's I. 16 
 
 " Radical Club," Satirical Poem V. 97 
 
 Rollins, Mrs. Alice Wellington, article in Critic I. 13 
 
 VII. 122 
 
 Rollins, Mrs. Ellen H. (nom de plume " E. H. Arr"), pre- 
 eminently gifted as a humorist Extracts from her 
 
 " Old-Time Child Life" VII. 124 
 
 "'Effect of the Comet" VII. 126 
 
 ' ' Doctrines are pizen things" '. VII. 128 
 
 Koper, May Croly : Poem VIII. 156 
 
 Schayer, Mrs. Julia, Author of "Struggling Genius," an 
 amusing Domestic Drama ; Extracts from the Play, 
 
 " Nursery," " Study," and " Dining-Rooin" Scenes ... X. 196 
 
 " Sherwood Bonner." See McDowell, Mrs.
 
 INDEX. 215 
 
 CHAP. PAGE. 
 
 Sigourney, Mrs., her melancholy Style IX. 186 
 
 Skeels, Mrs. M. E. W.: Satirical Poem VIII. 153 
 
 Thanksgiving Growl, A (poetical). v VI. 120 
 
 Verplanck's, Mrs., Comedy, " Sealed Instructions" X. 196 
 
 Victor, Metta Victoria : " Miss Sliinmins Surprised " IV. 81 
 
 " " " " The Stilts of Gold "(a reminiscence 
 of Hood's " Miss Kilniansegg and her Precious Leg ").. VIII. 161' 
 "Vokes Family" Farces (written by an aunt of the per- 
 formers), " Belles of the Kitchen " and " Fun in a Fog " X. 196 
 
 Waldron, Adelaide Cilley, " Kitten Tactics " IX. 190 
 
 Walker's, Mrs. , famous Epigram I. 28 
 
 Weissenthurn, Madame von : her Comedies fill fourteen vol- 
 umes. X. 196 
 
 Whicher, Mrs., "Widow Bedott" IV. 68 
 
 White's, Richard Grant. Opinion of Woman's Wit I. 13 
 
 Whiting, Miss Lilian: "The Three Poets" IX. 187 
 
 Williams, Alice: "Plighted," IX. 183 
 
 Wilson, Arabella : " O Sextant of the Meetinouse" VIII. 177 
 
 Woman's Wit, Search for, Neglected by Men I. 13 
 
 Women Poets generally Despondent I. 14 
 
 " Humorous Newspaper Correspondents : Mrs. Runkle; 
 
 Mrs. Rollins ; Gail Hamilton .' IX. 185 
 
 Women Inclined to Ridicule Foibles of their Sex IX. 186 
 
 Woolson, Constance Fenimore : Her " Miss Lois " (house- 
 keeping, with Chippewa squaws for servants) VII. 139