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 prick,
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 passing 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 lusty 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.”
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 fashion,”
That never complains of the “headache,”
That never is roused to a passion.
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,