But Mrs. C. remained indoors, And poked the fire and wound the clocks, Amused the children, scrubbed the floors, Or darned her absent husband's socks.

(For she was far too sweet and wise To darn the great explorer's eyes.)

And when she chanced to look around At all the couples she had known, And realized how few had found A home as peaceful as her own, She saw how pleasant it may be To wed a chronic absentee.

Her husband's absence she enjoyed, Nor ever asked him where he went, Thinking him harmlessly employed Discovering some Continent.

Had he been always in, no doubt, Some day she would have found him out.

And so he daily left her side To travel o'er the ocean far, And she who, like the bard, had tried To "hitch her wagon to a star,"

Though she was harnessed to a comet, Got lots of satisfaction from it.

To him returning from the West She proved a perfect anti-dote, Who loosed his Armour (beef compress'd) And sprayed his "automobile throat"; His health she kept a jealous eye on, And played PerUna to his lion!

And when she got him home again, And so could wear the jewels rare Which Isabella, Queen of Spain, Entrusted to her husband's care, Her monetary wealth was "far Beyond the dreams of caviar!"

A melancholy thing it is How few have known or understood The manifold advantages Of such herbaceous widowhood!

(What is it ruins married lives But husbands ... not to mention wives?)

O wedded couples of to-day, Pray take these principles to heart, And copy the Columbian way Of living happily apart.

And so, to you, at any rate, Shall marriage be a "blessed state."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_And so he daily left her side To travel o'er the ocean far_"

_Dame Rumor_

I should like to remark that Dame Rumor Is the most unalluring of jades.

She has little or no sense of humor, And her fables are worse than George Ade's.

(Or rather, I mean, if the reader prefers, That the fables of Ade are much _better_ than hers!)

Her appearance imbues one with loathing, From her jaundiced, malevolent eyes To the tinsel she cares to call clothing, Which is merely a patchwork of lies.

For her garments are such that a child could see through, And her blouse (need I add?) is the famed Peek-a-boo!

She is wholly devoid of discretion, She is utterly wanting in tact, She's a gossip by trade and profession, And she much prefers fiction to fact.

She is seldom veracious, and always unkind, And she moves to and fro with the speed of the wind.

She resembles the men who ('tis fabled) Tumble into the Packingtown vats, Who are boiled there, and bottled, and labelled For the tables of true democrats: Pickled souls who are canned for the public to buy, And (like her) have a finger in every pie!

With a step that is silent and stealthy, Or an earsplitting clamor and noise, She disturbs the repose of the wealthy, Or the peace which the pauper enjoys.

And, however securely the doors may be shut, She can always gain access to palace or hut.

Where the spinsters at tea are collected, Her arrival is hailed with delight; She is welcomed, adored, and respected In each newspaper office at night; For her presence imprints an original seal On an otherwise commonplace journal or meal.

She has nothing in common with Virtue, And with Truth she was never allied; If she hasn't yet managed to hurt you, It can't be from not having tried!

For the poison of adders is under her tongue, And you're lucky indeed, if you've never been stung.

Are you statesman, or author, or artist, With a perfectly blameless career?

Are your talents and wits of the smartest, And your conscience abnormally clear?

"He's a saint!" says Dame Rumor, and smiles like the Sphinx.

"He's a hero!" (She adds:) "What a pity he drinks!"

Gentle Reader, keep clear of her clutches!

O beware of her voice, I entreat!

Be you journalist, dowager d.u.c.h.ess, Or just merely the Man in the Street.

And I beg of you not to encourage a jade Who, if once she is started, can _never_ be stayed.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_Where the spinsters at tea are collected, Her arrival is hailed with delight_"

_The Cry of the Children_

[On the subject of infant education it has been suggested that more advantageous results might be obtained if, instead of filling children's minds with such nonsense as fairy-tales, stories were read to them about Julius Caesar.]

O my Brothers, do you hear the children weeping?

Do you note the teardrops tumbling from their eyes?

To the school-house they reluctantly are creeping,

Discontented with the teaching it supplies.

At the quality of modern education Little urchins may with justice look askance, Since it panders to a child's imagination, And encourages romance.

Do you see that toddling baby with a bib on, How his eyes with silent misery are dim?

He is yearning for the chance of reading Gibbon; But his teachers give him nothing else but Grimm!

What a handicap to infantile ambition!

'Tis enough to make the brightest bantling fume, To be gammoned with an Andrew Lang edition, When he longs for Hume, sweet Hume!

See that tiny one, what boredom he expresses!

What intolerance his frequent yawns evince Of the fairy-tales where beautiful princesses Are delivered from a dragon by a prince!

How he curses the pedantic inst.i.tution Where he can't obtain such volumes as "Le Cid,"

Or that masterpiece on "Social Evolution"

By another kind of Kidd!

Do you hear the children weeping, O my Brothers?

They are crying for Max Muller and Carlyle.

Tho' Hans Andersen may satisfy their mothers, They are weary of so immature a style.

And their time is far too brief to be expended On such nonsense as their "rude forefathers" read; For they know the days of sentiment are ended, And that Chivalry is dead!

Oh remember that the pillars of the nation Are the children that we discipline to-day; That to give them a becoming education You must rear them in a reasonable way!

Let us guard them from the glamour of the mystics, Who would throw a ray of sunshine on their lives!

Let us feed each helpless atom on statistics, And pray Heaven he survives!