The Wit of Women

by Kate Sanborn

  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; sh
e 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,