They laughed a little, I am told; But I had done my best; And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast.

And Sister Brown--I could but look-- She sits right front of me; She never was no singin'-book, An' never went to be; But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said; She understood the time right through, An' kep' it with her head; But when she tried this mornin', oh, I had to laugh, or cough!

It kep' her head a-bobbin' so, It e'en a'most came off.

An' Deacon Tubbs--he all broke 'down, As one might well suppose; He took one look at Sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose.

He looked his hymn-book through and through, And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat.

And when they took another bout, He didn't even rise; But drawed his red bandanner out, An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true, For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; But Death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track; And some day I to church will go, And nevermore come back; And when the folks gets up to sing-- Whene'er that time shall be-- I do not want no _patent_ thing A-squealin' over me!

_Will Carteton._

LARRIE O'DEE

Now the Widow McGee, And Larrie O'Dee, Had two little cottages out on the green, With just room enough for two pig-pens between.

The widow was young and the widow was fair, With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair, And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn, With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn, And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand In the pen of the widow were certain to land.

One morning said he: "Och! Misthress McGee, It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs, Wid a fancy purt.i.tion betwane our two pigs!"

"Indade, sur, it is!" answered Widow McGee, With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee.

"And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane, Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near That whiniver one grunts the other can hear, And yit kape a cruel purt.i.tion betwane."

"Shwate Widow McGee,"

Answered Larrie O'Dee, "If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs, Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs?

Och! it made me heart ache when I paped through the cracks Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin' yer axe; An' a-bobbin' yer head an' a-shtompin' yer fate, Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate, A-shplittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm, When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!"

"Now, piggy," says she, "Larrie's courtin' o' me, Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you; So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do: For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid yer snout; But if I'm to say no, ye must kape yer nose out.

Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pig By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig!"

"Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered he.

And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee.

_William W. Fink._

NO FAULT IN WOMEN

No fault in women, to refuse The offer which they most would choose.

No fault in women to confess How tedious they are in their dress; No fault in women, to lay on The tincture of vermilion, And there to give the cheek a dye Of white, where Nature doth deny.

No fault in women, to make show Of largeness, when they've nothing so; When, true it is, the outside swells With inward buckram, little else.

No fault in women, though they be But seldom from suspicion free; No fault in womankind at all, If they but slip, and never fall.

_Robert Herrick._

A COSMOPOLITAN WOMAN

She went round and asked subscriptions For the heathen black Egyptians And the Terra del Fuegians, She did; For the tribes round Athabasca, And the men of Madagascar, And the poor souls of Alaska, So she did; She longed, she said, to buy Jelly, cake, and jam, and pie, For the Anthropophagi, So she did.

Her heart ached for the Australians And the Borriobooli-Ghalians, And the poor dear Amahagger, Yes, it did; And she loved the black Numidian, And the ebon Abyssinian, And the charcoal-coloured Guinean, Oh, she did!

And she said she'd cross the seas With a ship of bread and cheese For those starving Chimpanzees, So she did.

How she loved the cold Norwegian And the poor half-melted Feejeean, And the dear Molucca Islander, She did: She sent tins of red tomato To the tribes beyond the Equator, But her husband ate potato, So he did; The poor helpless, homeless thing (My voice falters as I sing) Tied his clothes up with a string, Yes, he did.

_Unknown._

COURTING IN KENTUCKY.

When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay, I was glad, for I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way.

I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high, Tew high for busy farmer folks with ch.o.r.es ter do ter fly; But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell She come in her reg'lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell.

My Jake an' her had been cronies ever since they could walk, An' it tuk me aback to hear her kerrectin' him in his talk.

Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work; But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!"

Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way, He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay.

I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns, An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones.

Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long, Tell he da.s.sent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong.

One day I was pickin' currants daown by the old quince-tree, When I heerd Jake's voice a-saying', "Be yer willin' ter marry me?"

An' Mary Ann kerrectin', 'Air ye willin' yeou sh'd say"; Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum, decided way, "No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me, Hereafter I says 'c.r.a.ps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.'

Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say:.

But I ain't a-goin' to take no sa.s.s from folks from Injun Bay.

I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' ter marry me?'"

An' Mary Ann says, tremblin, yet anxious-like, "I be."

_Florence E. Pratt._

ANY ONE WILL DO

A maiden once, of certain age, To catch a husband did engage; But, having pa.s.sed the prime of life In striving to become a wife Without success, she thought it time To mend the follies of her prime.

Departing from the usual course Of paint and such like for resource, With all her might this ancient maid Beneath an oak-tree knelt and prayed; Unconscious that a grave old owl Was perched above--the mousing fowl!

"Oh, give! a husband give!" she cried, "While yet I may become a bride; Soon will my day of grace be o'er, And then, like many maids before, I'll die without an early Jove, And none to meet me there above!