by Kate Sanborn
Then humor is displayed in the excellent parodies by women—as Grace Greenwood’s imitations of various authors, written in her young days, but quite equal to the “Echo Club” of Bayard Taylor. How perfect her mimicry of Mrs. Sigourney!
A FRAGMENT.
BY L.H.S.
How hardly doth the cold and careless world
Requite the toil divine of genius-souls,
Their wasting cares and agonizing throes!
I had a friend, a sweet and precious friend,
One passing rich in all the strange and rare,
And fearful gifts of song.
On one great work,
A poem in twelve cantos, she had toiled
From early girlhood, e’en till she became
An olden maid.
Worn with intensest thought,
She sunk at last, just at the “finis” sunk!
And closed her eyes forever! The soul-gem
Had fretted through its casket!
As I stood
Beside her tomb, I made a solemn vow
To take in charge that poor, lone orphan work,
And edit it!
My publisher I sought,
A learned man and good. He took the work,
Read here and there a line, then laid it down,
And said, “It would not pay.” I slowly turned,
And went my way with troubled brow, “but more
In sorrow than in anger.”
Phoebe Cary’s parody on “Maud Muller” I never fancied; it seems almost wicked to burlesque anything so perfect. But so many parodies have been made on Kingsley’s “Three Fishers” that now I can enjoy a really good one, like this from Miss Lilian Whiting, of the Boston Daily Traveller, the well-known correspondent of various Western papers:
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 aesthetic 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 S
truggling Genius.
STRUGGLING GENIUS.
Dramatis Personae.
MRS. ANASTASIUS.
GIRL OF TEN YEARS.
GIRL OF TWO YEARS.
MR. ANASTASIUS.
GIRL OF EIGHT YEARS.
INFANT OF THREE MONTHS.
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._