The Wit of Women Part 15

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-gra.s.s.

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 thras.h.i.+n'

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 Sat.u.r.day.

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 f.a.n.n.y 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, refres.h.i.+ng 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.

CHAPTER VII.

PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY.

Mrs. Alice Wellington Rollins, in those interesting articles 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 h.o.a.rds 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 consciousness, 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 promised 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 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: '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 'beginning to take notice.'

You tell her that one of the best fellows in the cla.s.s has been unjustly expelled, and that the cla.s.s are to wear c.r.a.pe 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 complimented 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."

I have selected several specimens of this higher type of humor.