Got tangled, snarled and twisted;
“Have Patience!” cried the artless maid,
To him who her assisted.
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 nothin’
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;
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 turn 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 UNRUFFLED BOSOM.
(_Story of an old Woman who knew Washington._)
BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.
An aged negress at her door
Is sitting in the sun;
Her day of work is almost o’er,
Her day of rest begun.
Her face is black as darkest night,
Her form is bent and thin,
And o’er her bony visage tight
Is stretched her wrinkled 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 the 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 t’ought 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;
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,
Leabes 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 t’ought
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.
When snarled around a button dar’s
A golden har or so,
Dat young man’s going to be wed,
Or someting’s wrong, I know.
You 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