THE THREE POETS
After Kingsley
BY LILIAN WHITING
Three poets went sailing down Boston streets,
All into 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 æsthetic 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:
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 ROBIN 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.
– St. Nicholas.
Harriette W. Lothrop, 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.
"Oh, dear!" and "Oh, dear!"
The groans that filled 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!"
BOTH SIDES
BY GAIL HAMILTON
"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 is 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, brown 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 fat 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.
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 claws,
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 chicken-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.
"Who killed the robins? Oh, yes! oh, yes!
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's
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:
Qui facit per alium facit per se."
"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 Folks.
CHAPTER X
PARODIES – REVIEWS – CHILDREN'S POEMS – COMEDIES BY WOMEN – 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 forgotten; one, Aphra Behn, is remembered only to be despised 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 Basset Table is also a superior comedy, especially interesting because it anticipates the modern blue-stocking in Valeria, a philosophical girl who supports vivisection, and has also a prophecy of exclusive 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 considered stale platitudes, as:
"You may cheat widows, orphans, and tradesmen without a blush, but a debt of honor, sir, must be paid."
"Quarrels, like mushrooms, spring up in a moment."
"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 dramatist. Her comedies are published in fourteen volumes. In our country several comedies written by women, but published anonymously, have been decided hits. Mrs. Verplanck'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 Vokes family by an aunt of theirs. And I must not forget to state that Gilbert'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
ACT I
Scene I. Nursery
[Time, eight o'clock A.M. In the background nurse making bed, etc.; Girl of Two amusing herself surreptitiously with pins, buttons, scissors, etc.; Girl of Eight practising piano in adjoining room; Mrs. A. in foreground performing toilet of infant. Having lain awake half the preceding night wrestling with the plot of a new novel for which rival publishers are waiting with outstretched 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 expression. 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 – preferred – " Maria, don't you see that child has got the scissors? "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 bottle, 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! 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 Eight's 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 I 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 passionate cry he – "
Enter cook bearing a large, dripping piece of corned beef
Cook. Please, Miss Anastasy, is dis de kin' of a piece ye done wanted? I 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-bell 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! Nothing but bread and 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
Scene IV. 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 with the tread of many feet, and a rumbling as of mighty chariot-wheels. It is only Barnum's steam orchestrion, Barnum's steam chimes, and Barnum'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.
Scene VI. Hall
[Visitor gone; Mrs. A. starts for study. Enter Girl of Eight followed by Girl of Ten.]
Duettino
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 stockings 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 nursery 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!
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 bill, that shoe bill, 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 my coat, I see.
Mrs. A. (with a guilty start). I – I forgot it!
Gibbering 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 privilege 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?
"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 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, you never yet heard of casting seven devils out of a man." "No," 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! 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 expression, "Ugh! entrails of a worm! entrails of a worm!"
Mademoiselle de Mars, the former favorite of the Théâtre de Français, 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?"
Madame Louis de Ségur is daughter of the late Casimir Périer, who was Minister of the Interior during Thiers's administration. When once out of office, but still an influential 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 New 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 he 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 fashion, severe, but truthful: "Oh, Dr. – is on such intimate 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 our 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 Crœsus: "At any rate, you are King of Lydia;" and Lucretia Mott's 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 I 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 exhausts all around them. So that the remark will be appreciated of a lady to whom I said, alluding to such a talker: "Have you seen Mrs. – lately?"
"No, 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 and —finally, there 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 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 and 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 Staël and Madame Récamier are good illustrations of this point. The former, by her fearless expressions of wit, exposed herself to the detestation of the majority 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 me 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?' And I replied: 'My good man, I did not know until this moment that you had a wife!'"
He paused; the company waited for the promised witticism, but discovering that he had finished, burst into a long and hearty roar, which the old gentleman accepted complacently 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 their impromptus 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 elsewhere.
Touched by the occasion, I "drop into" doggerel:
If you pronounce this book not funny,
And wish you hadn't spent your money,
There soon will be a general rumor
That you're no judge of Wit or Humor.