The Wit of Women

To take in charge that poor, lone orphan work,

And edit it!

My publisher I sought,

A learned man and good. He took the work,

Read here and there a line, then laid it down,

And said, “It would not pay.” I slowly turned,

And went my way with troubled brow, “but more

In sorrow than in anger.”

Phoebe Cary’s parody on “Maud Muller” I never fancied; it seems almost wicked to burlesque anything so perfect. But so many parodies have been made on Kingsley’s “Three Fishers” that now I can enjoy a really good one, like this from Miss Lilian Whiting, of the Boston Daily Traveller, the well-known correspondent of various Western papers:

THE THREE POETS.

After Kingsley.

BY LILIAN WHITING.

Three poets went sailing down Boston streets,

All into the East as the sun went down,

Each felt that the editor loved him best

And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town.

For poets must write tho’ the editors frown,

Their aesthetic natures will not be put down,

While the harbor bar is moaning!

Three editors climbed to the highest tower

That they could find in all Boston town,

And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour,

Till the sun or the poets had both gone down.

For Spring poets must write, though the editors rage,

The artistic spirit must thus be engaged—

Though the editors all were groaning.

Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand,

Just after the first spring sun went down,

And the Press sat down to a banquet grand,

In honor of poets no more in the town.

For poets will write while editors sleep,

Though they’ve nothing to earn and no one to keep;

And the harbor bar keeps moaning.

The humor of women is constantly seen in their poems for children, such as “The Dead Doll,” by Margaret Vandergrift, and the “Motherless Turkeys,” by Marian Douglas. Here are some less known:

BEDTIME.

BY NELLIE K. KELLOGG.

‘Twas sunset-time, when grandma called

To lively little Fred:

“Come, dearie, put your toys away,

It’s time to go to bed.”

But Fred demurred. “He wasn’t tired,

He didn’t think ‘twas right

That he should go so early, when

Some folks sat up all night.”

Then grandma said, in pleading tone,

“The little chickens go

To bed at sunset ev’ry night,

All summer long, you know.”

Then Freddie laughed, and turned to her

His eyes of roguish blue,

“Oh, yes, I know,” he said; “but then,

Old hen goes with them, too.”

—_Good Cheer_.

THE ROBIN AND THE CHICKEN.

BY GRACE F. COOLIDGE.

A plump little robin flew down from a tree,

To hunt for a worm, which he happened to see;

A frisky young chicken came scampering by,

And gazed at the robin with wondering eye.

Said the chick, “What a queer-looking