I SAT and sighed, with downcast head, my heart consumed with sorrow, and
then my Aunt Jemima said: “I’m going home tomorrow!” I’d feared that she
would never leave, her stay would be eternal, and that’s what made me
pine and grieve, and say, “The luck’s infernal!” I thought my dark and
gloomy skies no sunshine e’er would borrow, then Aunt Jemima ups and
cries, “I’m going home tomorrow!” Thus oft the kindly gods confound the
kickist and the carkist, and joy comes cantering around just when things
seem the darkest. We all have aunts who come and stay until their
welcome’s shabby, who eat our vittles day by day, until the purse is
flabby; and when we think they’ll never go, or let us know what peace
is, they up and dissipate our woe by packing their valises. The darkest
hour’s before the dawn, and when your grief’s intensest, it is a sign
’twill soon be gone, not only hence, but hencest.
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