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-glasses;
I originate but flee from every row,
And no one knows as well as I what “sass” 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 ashore,
In uniform with buttons bright and shining,
The girls all cluster ‘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 classes,
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 multitude 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?
Now, here’s a note just come from Fred:
“Old fellow, will you dine
With me to-day? and meet the boys,
A jolly number—nine?”
Ah, Fred is quite as free to-day
As just a year ago,
And ignorant, happily, I may say,
Of things I’ve learned to know.
I’d like, yes, if the truth were known,
I’d like to join the boys,
But then a Benedick must learn
To cleave to other joys.
So, here’s my answer: “Fred, old chum,
I much regret—oh, pshaw!
To tell the truth, I’ve got to dine
With—_my dear mother-in-law!_”
—_Harper’s Weekly._
CONCERNING MOSQUITOES.
Feelingly Dedicated to their Discounted Bills.
BY MISS ANNA A. GORDON.
Skeeters have the reputation
Of continuous application
To their poisonous profession;
Never missing nightly session,
Wearing out your life’s existence
By their practical persistence.
Would I had the power to veto
Bills of every mosquito;