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
interest that he seemed to look into the very depths of their pockets.
A few resolute men buttoned their coats, but the majority 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 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 introduce to you 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
welcome the white men and adopt the improvements they brought with them.
When he 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, each 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 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 affection, and the love and gratitude
they feel toward you. They come to ask for churches and schools, that
their children 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 materials 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 dollars. 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 number 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 building has been greatly lessened by
employing native workmen, who are capable of designing and erecting
simple edifices. The pulpits will be supplied by native preachers, and
the expense of light and heat will be paid by the congregation.
"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, who would gladly take charge of
such establishments.
"The native committee will make a careful selection of such matrons as
are most capable of guiding and encouraging 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 declining 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 Humanketchet."
Flying Deer came forward and spoke very distinctly, though rapidly.
"O hoo bree-gutchee, gumme maw choo kibbe showain nemeshin. Dawmasse
choochugah goo waugh; kawboo. Nokka brewis goo, honowin nudwag moonoo
shugh kawmun menjeis. Babas kwasind waugh muskoday, wawa gessonwon goo.
Nahna naskeen oza yenadisse mayben mudjo, kenemoosha. Wawconassee
nushka kahgagoo, jossahut, wabenas ogu winemon jabs. Ahmuck wana
wayroossen chooponnuk segwan maysen. Opeechee annewayman, kewadoda
shenghen kad goo tagamengow."
"He says, my friends, that he has always loved 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 collection 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? Remember 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.
MISTRESS O'RAFFERTY ON THE WOMAN QUESTION.
BY GRACE 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
Lays 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 his 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'll 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?
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.
DOCHTHER O'FLANNIGAN AND HIS WONDHERFUL 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!
II.
Coom thin, ye poor craytures and don't yez be scairt!
Have yez batin' and lumberin' thumps at the hairt,
Wid ossification, and acceleration,
Wid fatty accretion 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 yer past all salvation!
Coom, don't yez be gravin' no more!
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 matther 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 sighin' forlorn?
Me patients are proud av me midical lore--
They'll shware I'm a gintleman born.
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 be 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!
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.
'Twould 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 Mither 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.
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 diathesis
Of morbus dyscrasia tuburculous phthasis;
And I boulsthered her up wid the shtrongest av tonics.
Wid iron and copper and hosts av carbonics;
Wid whiskey served shtraight in the finest av shtyle,
And I grased all her inside wid cod-liver ile!
And says she (whin she died), "Och, dochther, 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 serious visceral throuble indade;
Wid the blood swimmin' roond in a circle elliptic,
The Schneidarian membrane was wantin' a shtyptic;
The anterior 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.
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 divil's 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 in 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 served 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!
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 die for a gintleman born!
--_Scribner's Magazine._ 1880.
* * * * *
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 yourself I never has no
dejection to splanifying how I 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
gimerack 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 partickeler 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 camed 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 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 I should die." And
right about dar she hab all de actions ob an' old drake in a
thunder-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 'cluded 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 camed 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 disquollify 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' 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 much shoutin'
and groanin' dis mornin'; 'tis so ungenteel 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-runnin' back and
gittin' on a black one, and de people a-jumpin' up and a-jawin' ob de
preacher outen a book, and a-bowin' ob deir heads, and a-saying long
rigmaroles o' stuff, tell my head fairly buzzed, and were dat mad at de
gal I jes' couldn't see nuffin' in dat room. Well, I jes' waited 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 improvin', dat's a fac'; done got your natural voice
back. What chu'ch does you 'long to, Meriky?" And says she, a-cryin':
"I 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 minutes, 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 offen 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. I 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 guberment an' family displanement ob
anybody I ever has seen.
_Brother Horace._ Well, Brover, I does my bes'. You 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.
* * * * *
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 I stepped in to
cheer you up a little. My friends often say: "It's such a comfort to see
you, Aunty Doleful. You have such a flow of conversation, and _are_ so
lively." Besides, I said to myself, as I came up the stairs: "Perhaps
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 Providence'll take care of
'em. Don't look so. You thought Bridget was watching them? Well, no, she
isn't. I saw her 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
Bobble Hill all killed last week 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, I should
think he would. They are dropping down by hundreds there with
sun-stroke. You must prepare your mind to have him brought home any day.
Anyhow, 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.
* * * * *
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 prominent member of "Sorosis," and her Tuesday
evening receptions draw about her some of the brightest society of that
cosmopolitan centre.
All these selections are prizes for the long-suffering elocutionist who
is expected to entertain his friends with something 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 GROWL.
Oh, dear! do put some more chips on the fire,
And hurry up that oven! Just my luck--
To have the bread slack. Set 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?" Used 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,
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'll be?" Yes, how _your nose'll_ be,
And how _your back_'ll 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 Fairmount. 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.