The Wit of Women Part 18

n.o.body sought its soup or claimed its clams. One or two sad-eyed young men made their way in that direction from time to time--after their sea-legs, perhaps. From their gait when they came back I inferred they did not find them. The human nature in the saloon became a weariness to me. Even the gentle gambols of the dog Thaddeus, a sportive and spotted pointer in whom I had been interested, failed to soothe my perturbed spirits. De Quincey speaks somewhere of "the awful solitariness of every human soul." No wonder, then, that I should be solitary among the festive few on board the Jane Moseley--no wonder I felt myself darkly, deeply, desperately blue. I thought I would go on deck. I clung to my companion with an ardor which would have been flattering had it been voluntary. My faltering steps were guided to a seat just within the guards. I sat there thinking that I had never nursed a dear gazelle, so I could not be quite sure whether it would have died or not, but I thought it would. I mused on the changing fortunes of this unsteady world, and the ingrat.i.tude of man. I thought it would be easier going to the Promised Land if Jordan did not roll between. Rolling had long ceased to be a pleasant figure of speech with me. How frail are all things here below, how false, and yet how fair! My mind is naturally picturesque. In the midst of my sadness the force of nature compelled me to grope after an ill.u.s.tration. I could only think that my own foothold was frail, that the Jane Moseley was false, that the Pretty Girl was fair. A dizziness of brain resulted from this rhetorical effort. I silently confided my sorrows to the sympathizing bosom of the sea. I was soothed by the kindred melancholy of the sad sea waves. If the size of the waves were remarkable, other sighs abounded also, and other things waved--many of them.

True to my purpose of studying my fellow-beings, and learning wisdom by observation, I surveyed the Pretty Girl and her sister, who had by that time come on deck. They were surrounded by a group of audacious male creatures, who surrounded most on the side where the Pretty Girl sat.

She did not look feeble. She was like the red, red rose. It was a conundrum to me why so much greater anxiety should be bestowed upon her health than upon her sister's. It needed some moral reflection to make it out; but I concluded that pretty girls were, by some law of nature, more subject to sea-sickness than plain ones; therefore, all these careful cares were quite in order. I saw the two old ladies--the benevolent one who had believed so implicitly in all things, but over whose benign visage doubt had now begun to settle like a cloud; and the other, who had hoped nothing from the first, and therefore over whom no disappointment could prevail--and, seeing, I mildly wondered whether, indeed, 'twere better to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at all.

My thoughts grew solemn. The green sh.o.r.es beyond the swelling flood seemed farther off than ever. The Jane Moseley had promised to land us at Newport pier at seven o'clock. It was already half-past seven; oh, perfidious Jane! Darkness had settled upon the face of the deep. We went inside. The sad-eyed young men had evidently been hunting for their sea-legs again, in the neighborhood of the banqueting-table, where n.o.body banqueted. Failing to find the secret of correct locomotion, they had laid themselves down to sleep, but in that sleep at sea what dreams did come, and how noisy they were! The dog Thaddeus walked by dejectedly, sniffing at the ghost of some half-forgotten joy. At last there rose a cry--Newport! The sleepers started to their feet. I started to mine, but I discreetly and quietly sat down again. Was it Newport, at last? Not at all. The harbor lights were gleaming from afar; and the cry was of the bandmaster shouting to his emissaries, arousing fiddle and flute and ba.s.soon to their deceitful duty. They had played us out of port--they would play us in again. They had promised us that all should go merry as a marriage-bell, and--I would not be understood to complain, but it had been a sad occasion. Now the deceitful strains rose and fell again upon the salt sea wind. The many lights glowed and twinkled from the near sh.o.r.e. We are all at play, come and play with us, screamed the soft waltz music. It is summer, and the days are long, and trouble is not, and care is banished. If the waves sigh, it is with bliss. Our voyage is ended. It is sad that you did not sail with us, but we will invite you again to-morrow, and the band shall play, and the crowd be gay, and airs beguile, and blue skies smile, and all shall be music, music, music. But I have sailed with you, on a summer day, bland master of a faithless band; and I know how soon your pipes are dumb--I know the tricks and manners of the clouds and the wind, and the swelling sea, and Jane Moseley, the perfidious.

I must, after all, have strong local attachments, for when at last the time came to land I left the s.h.i.+p with lingering reluctance. My feet seemed fastened to the deck where I had made my brief home on the much rolling deep. I had grown used to pain and resigned to fate. I walked the plank unsteadily. I stood on sh.o.r.e amid the rain and the mist. A hackman preyed upon me. I was put into an ancient ark and trundled on through the queer, irresolute, contradictory old streets, beside the lovely bay, all aglow with the lighted yachts, as a Southern swamp is with fire-flies. A torchlight procession met and escorted me. To this hour I am at a loss to know whether this attention was a delicate tribute on the part of the city of Newport to a distinguished guest, or a parting attention from the company who sail the Jane Moseley, and advertise in the _Tribune_--a final subterfuge to persuade a tortured pa.s.senger, by means of this transitory glory, that the sail upon a summer sea had been a pleasure trip.--_Letter to New York Tribune._

CHAPTER VIII.

HUMOROUS POEMS.

I will next group a score of poems and doggerel rhymes with their various degrees of humor.

THE FIRST NEEDLE.

BY LUCRETIA P. HALE.

"Have you heard the new invention, my dears, That a man has invented?" said she.

"It's a stick with an eye Through which you can tie A thread so long, it acts like a thong, And the men have such fun, To see the thing run!

A firm, strong thread, through that eye at the head, Is pulled over the edges most craftily, And makes a beautiful seam to see!"

"What, instead of those wearisome thorns, my dear, Those wearisome thorns?" cried they.

"The seam we pin Driving them in, But where are they by the end of the day, With dancing, and jumping, and leaps by the sea?

For wintry weather They won't hold together, Seal-skins and bear-skins all dropping round Off from our shoulders down to the ground.

The thorns, the tiresome thorns, will p.r.i.c.k, But none of them ever consented to stick!

Oh, won't the men let us this new thing use?

If we mend their clothes they can't refuse.

Ah, to sew up a seam for them to see-- What a treat, a delightful treat, 'twill be!"

"Yes, a nice thing, too, for the babies, my dears-- But, alas, there is but one!" cried she.

"I saw them pa.s.sing it round, and then They said it was fit for only men!

What woman would know How to make the thing go?

There was not a man so foolish to dream That any woman could sew up a seam!"

Oh, then there was babbling and scrabbling, my dears!

"At least they might let us do that!" cried they.

"Let them shout and fight And kill bears all night; We'll leave them their spears and hatchets of stone If they'll give us this thing for our very own.

It will be like a joy above all we could scheme, To sit up all night and sew such a seam."

"Beware! take care!" cried an aged old crone, "Take care what you promise," said she.

"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 l.u.s.ty 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; An aesthetic innovation!"

Of a sonnet Or a bonnet?

This was hard.

Both were put together neatly, Harmonizing very sweetly, But the critic crushed completely Not the bonnet, Or the sonnet, But the bard.

WANTED, A MINISTER.

BY MRS. M.E.W. SKEELS.

We've a church, tho' the belfry is leaning, They are talking I think of repair, And the _bell_, oh, pray but excuse us, 'Twas _talked of_, but never's been there.

Now, "Wanted, a _real live minister_,"

And to settle the same for _life_, We've an organ and some one to play it, So we don't care a fig for his wife.

We once had a pastor (don't tell it), But we chanced on a time to discover That his sermons were writ long ago, And he had preached them twice over.

How sad this mistake, tho' unmeaning, Oh, it made such a desperate muss!

Both deacon and laymen were vexed, And decided, "He's no man for us."