The Wit of Women

I’ll set you down so hard that you’ll agree

You’re stuck for good. Them cranberries are sour,

And taste like gall beside. Hand me some flour,

And do fly round. John Henry, wipe your nose!

I wonder how ‘twill be when I am dead?

“How my nose’ll be?” Yes, how your nose’ll be,

And how your back‘ll be. If that ain’t red

I’ll miss my guess. I don’t expect you’ll see—

You nor your father neither—what I’ve done

And suffered in this house. As true’s I live

Them pesky fowl ain’t stuffed! The biggest one

Will hold two loaves of bread. Say, wipe that sieve,

And hand it here. You are the slowest poke

In all Fairmount. Lor’! there’s Deacon Gubben’s wife!

She’ll be here to-morrow. That pan can soak

A little while. I never in my life

Saw such a lazy critter as she is.

If she stayed home, there wouldn’t be a thing

To eat. You bet she’ll fill up here! “It’s riz?”

Well, so it has. John Henry! Good king!

How did that boy get out? You saw him go

With both fists full of raisins and a pile

Behind him, and you never let me know!

There! you’ve talked so much I clean forgot the rye.

I wonder if the Governor had to slave

As I do, if he would be so pesky fresh about

Thanksgiving Day? He’d been in his grave

With half my work. What, get along without

An Indian pudding? Well, that would be

A novelty. No friend or foe shall say

I’m close, or haven’t as much variety

As other folks. There! I think I see my way

Quite clear. The onions are to peel. Let’s see:

Turnips, potatoes, apples there to stew,

This squash to bake, and lick John Henry!

And after that—I really think I’m through.

CHAPTER VII.

PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY.

Mrs. Alice Wellington Rollins, in those interesting articles in the Critic which induced me to look further, says:

“We claim high rank for the humor of women because it is almost exclusively of this higher, imaginative type. A woman rarely tells an anecdote, or hoards up a good story, or comes in and describes to you something funny that she has seen. Her humor is like a flash of lightning from a clear sky, coming when you least expect it, when it could not have been premeditated, and when, to the average consciousness, there is not the slightest provocation to humor, possessing thus in the very highest degree that element of surprise which is not only a factor in all humor, but to our mind the most important factor. You tell her that you cannot spend the winter with her because you have promised to spend it with some one else, and she exclaims: ‘Oh, Ellen! why were you not born twins!’ She has, perhaps, recently built for herself a most charming home, and coming to see yours, which happens to be just a trifle more luxurious and charming, she remarks as she turns away: ‘All I can say is, when you want to see squalor, come and visit me in Oxford Street!’ She puts down her heavy coffee-cup of stone-china with its untasted coffee at a little country inn, saying, with a sigh: ‘It’s no use; I can’t get at it; it’s like trying to drink over a stone wall.’ She writes in a letter: ‘We parted this morning with mutual satisfaction; that is, I suppose we did; I know my satisfaction was mutual enough for two.’ She asks her little restless daughter in the most insinuating tones if she would not like to sit in papa’s lap and have him tell her a story; and when the little daughter responds with a most uncompromising ‘no!’ turns her inducement into a threat, and remarks with severity: ‘Well, be a good girl, or you will have to!’ She complains, when you have kept her waiting while you were buying undersleeves, that you must have bought ‘undersleeves enough for a centipede.’ You ask how poor Mr. X–- is—the disconsolate widower who a fortnight ago was completely prostrated by his wife’s death, and are told in calm and even tones that he is ‘beginning to take notice.’ You tell her that one of the best fellows in the class has been unjustly expelled, and that the class are to wear crape on their left arms for thirty days, and that you only hope that the President will meet you in the college-yard and ask why you wear it; to all of which she replies soothingly, ‘I wouldn’t do that, Henry; for the President might tell you not to mourn, as your friend was not lost, only gone before.’ You tell her of your stunned sensation on finding some of your literary work