The Wit of Women

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,