The Wit of Women

hollerin’ that he wasn’t goin’ to be infringed upon, or come in contract with no woman!

“No female woman needn’t think she was the equal of man; and I should go as a woman or stay to home. I was so almost wore out by their talk, that I spoke right out, and, says I, ‘Good land! how did you s’pose I was a-goin’?’

“The president then said that he meant, if I went I mustn’t look upon things with the eye of a ‘Creation Searcher’ and a man (here he p’inted his forefinger right up in the air and waved it round in a real free and soarin’ way), but look at things with the eye of a private investigator and a woman (here he p’inted his finger firm and stiddy right down into the wood-box and a pan of ashes). It war impressive— VERY.”

MISS SLIMMENS SURPRISED.

A Terrible Accident.

BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR.

“Dora! Dora! Dora! wake up, wake up, I say! Don’t you smell something burning? Wake up, child! Don’t you smell fire? Good Lord! so do I. I thought I wasn’t mistaken. The room’s full of smoke. Oh, dear! what’ll we do? Don’t stop to put on your petticoat. We’ll all be burned to death. Fire! fire! fire! fire!

“Yes, there is! I don’t know where! It’s all over—our room’s all in a blaze, and Dora won’t come out till she gets her dress on. Mr. Little, you shan’t go in—I’ll hold you—you’ll be killed just to save that chit of a girl, when—I—I—He’s gone—rushed right into the flames. Oh, my house! my furniture! all my earnings! Can’t anything be done? Fire! fire! fire! Call the fire-engines! ring the dinner-bell! Be quiet! How can I be quiet? Yes, it is all in flames. I saw them myself! Where’s my silver spoons? Oh, where’s my teeth, and my silver soup-ladle? Let me be! I’m going out in the street before it’s too late! Oh, Mr. Grayson! have you got water? have you found the place? are they bringing water?

“Did you say the fire was out? Was that you that spoke, Mr. Little? I thought you were burned up, sure; and there’s Dora, too. How did they get it out? My clothes-closet was on fire, and the room, too! We would have been smothered in five minutes more if we hadn’t waked up! But it’s all out now, and no damage done, but my dresses destroyed and the carpet spoiled. Thank the Lord, if that’s the worst! But it ain’t the worst. Dora, come along this minute to my room. I don’t care if it is cold, and wet, and full of smoke. Don’t you see—don’t you see I’m in my night-clothes? I never thought of it before. I’m ruined, ruined completely! Go to bed, gentlemen; get out of the way as quick as you can Dora, shut the door. Hand me that candle; I want to look at myself in the glass. To think that all those gentlemen should have seen me in this fix! I’d rather have perished in the flames. It’s the very first night I’ve worn these flannel nightcaps, and to be seen in ‘em! Good gracious! how old I do look! Not a spear of hair on my head scarcely, and this red nightgown and old petticoat on, and my teeth in the tumbler, and the paint all washed off my face, and scarred besides! It’s no use! I never, never can again make any of those men believe that I’m only twenty-five, and I felt so sure of some of them.

“Oh, Dora Adams! you needn’t look pale; you’ve lost nothing. I’ll warrant Mr. Little thought you never looked so pretty as in that ruffled gown, and your hair all down over your shoulders. He says you were fainting from the smoke when he dragged you out. You must be a little fool to be afraid to come out looking that way. They say that new boarder is a drawing-master, and I seen some of his pictures yesterday; he had some such ridiculous things. He’ll caricature me for the amusement of the young men, I know. Only think how my portrait would look taken to-night! and he’ll have it, I’m sure, for I noticed him looking at me—the first that reminded me of my situation after the fire was put out. Well, there’s but one thing to be done, and that’s to put a bold face on it. I can’t sleep any more to-night; besides, the bed’s wet, and it’s beginning to get daylight. I’ll go to work and get myself ready for breakfast, and I’ll pretend to something—I don’t know just what— to get myself out of this scrape, if I can….

“Good-morning, gentlemen, good-morning! We had quite a fright last night, didn’t we? Dora and I came pretty near paying dear for a little frolic. You see, we were dressing up in character to amuse ourselves, and I was all fixed up for to represent an old woman, and had put on a gray wig and an old flannel gown that I found, and we’d set up pretty late, having some fun all to ourselves; and I expect Dora must have been pretty sleepy when she was putting some of the things away, and set fire to a dress in the closet without noticing it. I’ve lost my whole wardrobe, nigh about, by her carelessness; but it’s such a mercy we wasn’t burned in our bed that I don’t feel to complain so much on that account. Isn’t it curious how I got caught dressed up like my grandmother? We didn’t suppose we were going to appear before so large an audience when we planned out our little frolic. What character did Dora assume? Really, Mr. Little, I was so scared last night that I disremember. She took off her rigging before she went to bed. Don’t you think I’d personify a pretty good old woman, gentlemen—ha! ha!—for a lady of my age? What’s that, Mr. Little? You wish I’d make you a present of that nightcap, to remember me by? Of course; I’ve no further use for it. Of course I haven’t. It’s one of Bridget’s, that I borrowed for the occasion, and I’ve got to give it back to her. Have some coffee, Mr. Grayson—do! I’ve got cream for it this morning. Mr. Smith, help yourself to some of the beefsteak. It’s a very cold morning—fine weather out of doors. Eat all you can, all of you. Have you any profiles to take yet, Mr. Gamboge? I may make up my mind to set for mine before you leave us; I’ve always thought I should have it taken some time. In character? He! he! Mr. Little, you’re so funny! But you’ll excuse me this morning, as I had such a fright last night. I must go and take up that wet carpet.”

CHAPTER V.

A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN.

By the courtesy of Harper Brothers I am allowed to give you “Aunt Anniky’s Teeth,” by Sherwood Bonner. The illustrations add much, but the story is good enough without pictures.

AUNT ANNIKY’S TEETH.

BY SHERWOOD BONNER.

Aunt Anniky was an African dame, fifty years old, and of an imposing presence. As a waffle-maker she possessed a gift beyond the common, but her unapproachable talent lay in the province of nursing. She seemed born for the benefit of sick people. She should have been painted with the apple of healing in her hand. For the rest, she was a funny, illiterate old darkey, vain, affable, and neat as a pink.

On one occasion my mother had a dangerous illness. Aunt Anniky nursed her through it, giving herself no rest, night nor day, until her patient had come “back to de walks an’ ways ob life,” as she expressed the dear mother’s recovery. My father, overjoyed and grateful, felt that we owed this result quite as much to Aunt Anniky as to our family doctor, so he announced his intention of making her a handsome present, and, like King Herod, left her free to choose what it should be. I shall never forget how Aunt Anniky looked as she stood there smiling and bowing, and bobbing the funniest little courtesies all the way down to the ground.

And you would never guess what it was the old woman asked for.

“Well, Mars’ Charles,” said she (she had been one of our old servants, and always called my father ‘Mars’ Charles’), “to tell you de livin’ trufe, my soul an’ body is a-yearnin’ fur a han’sum chany set o’ teef.”

“A set of teeth!” said father, surprised enough. “And have you none left of your own?”

“I has gummed it fur a good many ye’rs,” said Aunt Anniky, with a sigh; “but not wishin’ ter be ongrateful ter my obligations, I owns ter havin’ five nateral teef. But dey is po’ sogers; dey shirks battle. One ob dem’s got a little