Part 19 (2/2)
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?
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