“At first ‘twill be fun,
But, in the long run,
You’ll wish you had let the thing be.
Through this stick with an eye
I look and espy
That for ages and ages you’ll sit and you’ll sew,
And longer and longer the seams will grow,
And you’ll wish you never had asked to sew.
But naught that I say
Can keep back the day,
For the men will return to their hunting and rowing,
And leave to the women forever the sewing.”
Ah, what are the words of an aged crone?
For all have left her muttering alone;
And the needle and thread that they got with such pains,
They forever must keep as dagger and chains.
THE FUNNY STORY.
BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
It was such a funny story! how I wish you could have heard it,
For it set us all a-laughing, from the little to the big;
I’d really like to tell it, but I don’t know how to word it,
Though it travels to the music of a very lively jig.
If Sally just began it, then Amelia Jane would giggle,
And Mehetable and Susan try their very broadest grin;
And the infant Zachariah on his mother’s lap would wriggle,
And add a lusty chorus to the very merry din.
It was such a funny story, with its cheery snap and crackle,
And Sally always told it with so much dramatic art,
That the chickens in the door-yard would begin to “cackle-cackle,”
As if in such a frolic they were anxious to take part.
It was all about a—ha! ha!—and a—ho! ho! ho!—well really,
It is—he! he! he!—I never could begin to tell you half
Of the nonsense there was in it, for I just remember clearly
It began with—ha! ha! ha! ha! and it ended with a laugh.
But Sally—she could tell it, looking at us so demurely,
With a woe-begone expression that no actress would despise;
And if you’d never heard it, why you would imagine surely
That you’d need your pocket-handkerchief to wipe your weeping eyes.
When age my hair has silvered, and my step has grown unsteady,
And the nearest to my vision are the scenes of long ago,
I shall see the pretty picture, and the tears may come as ready
As the laugh did, when I used to—ha! ha! ha! and—ho! ho! ho!
A SONNET.
BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
Once a poet wrote a sonnet
All about a pretty bonnet,
And a critic sat upon it
(On the sonnet,
Not the bonnet),
Nothing loath.
And as if it were high treason,
He said: “Neither rhyme nor reason
Has it; and it’s out of season,”
Which? the sonnet
Or the bonnet?
Maybe both.
“‘Tis a feeble imitation
Of a worthier creation;
