Now, since I’ve told you my story, do you wonder I’m tired of life,
Or think it strange I often wish I warn’t an inventor’s wife?
AN UNRUFFLED BOSOM.
(_Story of an old Woman who knew Washington._)
BY LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.
An aged negress at her door
Is sitting in the sun;
Her day of work is almost o’er,
Her day of rest begun.
Her face is black as darkest night,
Her form is bent and thin,
And o’er her bony visage tight
Is stretched her wrinkled skin.
Her dress is scant and mean; yet still
About her ebon face
There flows a soft and creamy frill
Of costly Mechlin lace.
What means the contrast strange and wide?
Its like is seldom seen—
A pauper’s aged face beside
The laces of a queen.
Her mien is stately, proud, and high,
And yet her look is kind,
And the calm light within her eye
Speaks an unruffled mind.
“Dar comes anodder ob dem tramps,”
She mumbles low in wrath,
“I know dose sleek Centennial chaps
Quick as dey mounts de path.”
A-axing ob a lady’s age
I tink is impolite,
And when dey gins to interview
I disremembers quite.
Dar was dat spruce photometer
Dat tried to take my head,
And Mr. Squibbs, de porterer,
Wrote down each word I said.
Six hundred years I t’ought it was,
Or else it was sixteen—
Yes; I’d shook hands wid Washington
And likewise General Greene.
I tole him all de generals’ names
Dar ebber was, I guess,
From General Lee and La Fayette
To General Distress.
Den dar’s dem high-flown ladies
My
Wanted to buy dem some heirlooms
Of real Aunt Tiquity.
Says I, “Dat isn’t dis chile’s name,
Dey calls me Auntie Scraggs,”
