The Wit of Women

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; she 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.”