Part 20 (1/2)

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 Bened.i.c.k 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; Then I'd pa.s.s a peaceful summer, With no small nocturnal hummer Feasting on my circulation, For his regular potation.

Oh, that rascally mosquito!

He's a fellow you must see to; Which you can't do if you're napping, But must evermore be slapping Quite promiscuous on your features; For you'll seldom hit the creatures.

But the thing most aggravating Is the cool and calculating Way in which he tunes his harpstring To the melody of sharp sting; Then proceeds to serenade you, And successfully evade you.

When a skeeter gets through stealing, He sails upward to the ceiling, Where he sits in deep reflection How he perched on your complexion, Filled with solid satisfaction At results of his extraction.

Would you know, in this connection, How you may secure protection For yourself and city cousins From these bites and from these buzzin's?

Show your sense by quickly getting For each window--skeeter netting.

THE STILTS OF GOLD.

BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR.

Mrs. Mackerel sat in her little room, Back of her husband's grocery store, Trying to see through the evening gloom, To finish the baby's pinafore.

She st.i.tched away with a steady hand, Though her heart was sore, to the very core, To think of the troublesome little band, (There were seven, or more), And the trousers, frocks, and ap.r.o.ns they wore, Made and mended by her alone.

”Slave, slave!” she said, in a mournful tone; ”And let us slave, and contrive, and fret, I don't suppose we shall ever get A little home which is all our own, With my own front door Apart from the store, And the smell of fish and tallow no more.”

These words to herself she sadly spoke, Breaking the thread from the last-set st.i.tch, When Mackerel into her presence broke-- ”Wife, we're--we're--we're, wife, we're--we're _rich_!”

”_We_ rich! ha, ha! I'd like to see; I'll pull your hair if you're fooling me.”

”Oh, don't, love, don't! the letter is here-- You can read the news for yourself, my dear.

The one who sent you that white c.r.a.pe shawl-- There'll be no end to our gold--he's dead; You know you always would call him stingy, Because he didn't invite us to Injy; And I am his only heir, 'tis said.

A million of pounds, at the very least, And pearls and diamonds, likely, beside!”

Mrs. Mackerel's spirits rose like yeast-- ”How lucky I married you, Mac,” she cried.

Then the two broke forth into frantic glee.

A customer hearing the strange commotion, Peeped into the little back-room, and he Was seized with the very natural notion That the Mackerel family had gone insane; So he ran away with might and main.

Mac shook his partner by both her hands; They dance, they giggle, they laugh, they stare; And now on his head the grocer stands, Dancing a jig with his feet in air-- Remarkable feat for a man of his age, Who never had danced upon any stage But the High-Bridge stage, when he set on top, And whose green-room had been a green-grocer's shop.

But that Mrs. Mac should perform so well Is not very strange, if the tales they tell Of her youthful days have any foundation.

But let that pa.s.s with her former life-- An opera-girl may make a good wife, If she happens to get such a nice situation.

A million pounds of solid gold One would have thought would have crushed them dead; But dear they bobbed, and courtesied, and rolled Like a couple of corks to a plummet of lead.

'Twas enough the soberest fancy to tickle To see the two Mackerels in such a pickle!

It was three o'clock when they got to bed; Even then through Mrs. Mackerel's head Such gorgeous dreams went whirling away, ”Like a Catherine-wheel,” she declared next day, ”That her brain seemed made of sparkles of fire Shot off in spokes, with a ruby tire.”

Mrs. Mackerel had ever been One of the upward-tending kind, Regarded by husband and by kin As a female of very ambitious mind.