The Wit of Women Part 19

And then the "old nick" was to pay, "Truth indeed is stranger than fiction,"

His _prayers_ were so tedious and long, People slept, till the benediction.

And then came another, on trial, Who _actually preached in his gloves_, His manner so _awkward_ and _queer_, That we _settled him off_ and he moved.

And then came another so meek, That his name really ought to 've been _Moses_; We almost considered him _settled_, When lo! the secret discloses, He'd attacks of nervous disease, That unfit him for every-day duty; His sermons, oh, never can please, They lack both in force and beauty.

Now, "wanted, a minister," really, That won't preach his _old sermons over_, That will make _short prayers_ while in church, With no fault that the ear can discover, That is very forbearing, yes very, That blesses wherever he moves-- Not too zealous, nor lacking for zeal, That _preaches without any gloves!_

Now, "wanted, a minister," really, "That was born ere nerves came in fas.h.i.+on,"

That never complains of the "headache,"

That never is roused to a pa.s.sion.

He must add to the wisdom of Solomon The unwearied patience of Job, Must be _mute in political matters_, Or doff his clerical robe.

If he pray for the present Congress, He must speak in an undertone; If he pray for President Johnson, _He_ NEEDS _'em_, why let him go on.

He must touch upon doctrines so lightly, That no one can take an offence, Mustn't meddle with _predestination_-- In short, must preach "common sense."

Now really wanted a minister, With religion enough to sustain him, For the _salary's exceedingly_ small, And _faith alone_ must _maintain him_.

He must visit the sick and afflicted, Must mourn with those that mourn, Must preach the "funeral sermons"

With a very _peculiar_ turn.

He must preach at the north-west school-house On every Thursday eve, And things too numerous to mention He must do, and must believe.

He must be of careful demeanor, Both graceful and eloquent too, Must adjust his cravat "a la mode,"

Wear his beaver, decidedly, so.

Now if _some one_ will deign to be shepherd To this "our _peculiar people_,"

Will be first to subscribe for a bell, And help us to right up the steeple, If _correct_ in doctrinal points (We've _a committee of investigation_), If possessed of these requisite graces, We'll accept him perhaps on probation.

Then if two-thirds of the church can agree, We'll settle him here for life; Now, we advertise, "_Wanted, a Minister_,"

And not a minister's wife.

THE MIDDY OF 1881.

BY MAY CROLY ROPER.

I'm the dearest, I'm the sweetest little mid To be found in journeying from here to Hades, I am also, nat-u-rally, _a prodid-_ Gious favorite with all the pretty ladies.

I _know_ nothing, but say a mighty deal; My elevated nose, likewise, comes handy; I stalk around, my great importance feel-- In short, I'm a brainless little dandy.

My hair is light, and waves above my brow, My mustache can just be seen through opera-gla.s.ses; I originate but flee from every row, And no one knows as well as I what "sa.s.s" is!

The officers look down on me with scorn, The sailors jeer at me--behind my jacket, But still my heart is not "with anguish torn,"

And life with me is one continued racket.

Whene'er the captain sends me with a boat, The seamen know an idiot has got 'em; They make their wills and are prepared to die, Quite certain they are going to the bottom.

But what care I! For when I go ash.o.r.e, In uniform with b.u.t.tons bright and s.h.i.+ning, The girls all cl.u.s.ter 'round me to adore, And lots of 'em for love of me are pining.

I strut and dance, and fool my life away; I'm nautical in past and future tenses!

Long as I know an ocean from a bay, I'll shy the rest, and take the consequences.

I'm the dearest, I'm the sweetest little mid That ever graced the tail-end of his cla.s.ses, And through a four years' course of study slid, First am I in the list of Nature's--donkeys!

--_Scribner's Magazine Bric-a-Brac, 1881._

INDIGNANT POLLY WOG.

BY MARGARET EYTINGE.

A tree-toad dressed in apple-green Sat on a mossy log Beside a pond, and shrilly sang, "Come forth, my Polly Wog-- My Pol, my Ly,--my Wog, My pretty Polly Wog, I've something very sweet to say, My slender Polly Wog!

"The air is moist, the moon is hid Behind a heavy fog; No stars are out to wink and blink At you, my Polly Wog-- My Pol, my Ly--my Wog, My graceful Polly Wog; Oh, tarry not, beloved one!

My precious Polly Wog!"

Just then away went clouds, and there A sitting on the log-- The other end I mean--the moon Showed angry Polly Wog.

Her small eyes flashed, she swelled until She looked almost a frog; "How _dare_ you, sir, call _me_," she asked, "Your _precious_ Polly Wog?

"Why, one would think you'd spent your life In some low, muddy bog.

I'd have you know--to _strange_ young men My name's Miss Mary Wog."

One wild, wild laugh that tree-toad gave, And tumbled off the log, And on the ground he kicked and screamed, "Oh, Mary, Mary Wog.

Oh, May! oh, Ry--oh, Wog!

Oh, proud Miss Mary Wog!

Oh, goodness gracious! what a joke!

Hurrah for Mary Wog!"

"KISS PRETTY POLL!"

BY MARY D. BRINE.

"Kiss Pretty Poll!" the parrot screamed, And "Pretty Poll," repeated I, The while I stole a merry glance Across the room all on the sly, Where some one plied her needle fast, Demurely by the window sitting; But I beheld upon her cheek A mult.i.tude of blushes flitting.

"Kiss Pretty Poll," the parrot coaxed: "I would, but dare not try," I said, And stole another glance to see How some one drooped her golden head, And sought for something on the floor (The loss was only feigned, I knew)-- And still, "Kiss Poll," the parrot screamed, The very thing I longed to do.

But some one turned to me at last, "Please, won't you keep that parrot still?"

"Why, yes," said I, "at least--you see If you will let me, dear, I will."

And so--well, never mind the rest; But some one said it was a shame To take advantage just because A foolish parrot bore her name.

--_Harper's Weekly._

THANKSGIVING-DAY (THEN AND NOW).

BY MARY D. BRINE.

Thanksgiving-day, a year ago, A bachelor was I, Free as the winds that whirl and blow, Or clouds that sail on high: I smoked my meerschaum blissfully, And tilted back my chair, And on the mantel placed my feet, For who would heed or care?

The fellows gathered in my room For many an hour of fun, Or I would meet them at the club For cards, till night was done.

I came or went as pleased me best, Myself the first and last.

One year ago! Ah, can it be That freedom's age is past?