Part 20 (2/2)

It had fretted her long and fretted her sore To live in the rear of the grocery-store.

And several times she was heard to say She would sell her soul for a year and a day To the King of Brimstone, Fire, and Pitch, For the power and pleasure of being rich.

Now her ambition had scope to work-- Riches, they say, are a burden at best; Her onerous burden she did not s.h.i.+rk, But carried it all with commendable zest; Leaving her husband with nothing in life But to smoke, eat, drink, and obey his wife.

She built a house with a double front-door, A marble house in the modern style, With silver planks in the entry floor, And carpets of extra-magnificent pile.

And in the hall, in the usual manner, ”A statue,” she said, ”of the chased Diana; Though who it was chased her, or whether they Caught her or not, she could, really, not say.”

A carriage with curtains of yellow satin-- A coat-of-arms with these rare devices: ”A mackerel sky and the starry Pisces--”

And underneath, in the purest fish-latin, _If fis.h.i.+bus flyabus They may reach the skyabus!_

Yet it was not in common affairs like these She showed her original powers of mind; Her soul was fired, her ardor inspired, To stand apart from the rest of mankind; ”To be A No. one,” her husband said; At which she turned very angrily red, For she couldn't endure the remotest hint Of the grocery-store, and the mackerels in't.

Weeks and months she plotted and planned To raise herself from the common level; Apart from even the few to stand Who'd hundreds of thousands on which to revel.

Her genius, at last, spread forth its wings-- Stilts, golden stilts, are the very things-- ”I'll walk on stilts,” Mrs. Mackerel cried, In the height of her overtowering pride.

Her husband timidly shook his head; But she did not care--”For why,” as she said, ”Should the owner of more than a million pounds Be going the rounds On the very same grounds As those low people, she couldn't tell who, They might keep a shop, for all she knew.”

She had a pair of the articles made, Of solid gold, gorgeously overlaid With every color of precious stone Which ever flashed in the Indian zone.

She privately practised many a day Before she ventured from home at all; She had lost her girlish skill, and they say That she suffered many a fearful fall; But pride is stubborn, and she was bound On her golden stilts to go around, Three feet, at least, from the plebeian ground.

'Twas an exquisite day, In the month of May, That the stilts came out for a promenade; Their first _entree_ Was made on the s.h.i.+lling side of Broadway; The carmen whistled, the boys went mad, The omnibus-drivers their horses stopped.

The chestnut-roaster his chestnuts dropped, The popper of corn no longer popped; The daintiest dandies deigned to stare, And even the heads of women fair Were turned by the vision meeting them there.

The stilts they sparkled and flashed and shone Like the tremulous lights of the frigid zone, Crimson and yellow and sapphire and green, Bright as the rainbows in summer seen; While the lady she strode along between With a majesty too supremely serene For anything _but_ an American queen.

A lady with jewels superb as those, And wearing such very expensive clothes, Might certainly do whatever she chose!

And thus, in despite of the jeering noise, And the frantic delight of the little boys, The stilts were a very decided success.

The _creme de la creme_ paid profoundest attention, The merchants' clerks bowed in such wild excess, When she entered their shops, that they strained their spines, And afterward went into rapid declines.

The papers, next day, gave her flattering mention; ”The wife of our highly-esteemed fellow-citizen, A Mackerel, of Codfish Square, in this city, Scorning French fas.h.i.+ons, herself has. .h.i.t on one So very piquant and stylish and pretty, We trust our fair friends will consider it treason _Not_ to walk upon stilts, by the close of the season.”

Mrs. Mackerel, now, was never seen Out of her chamber, day or night, Unless her stilts were along--her mien Was very imposing from such a height, It imposed upon many a dazzled wight, Who snuffed the perfume floating down From the rustling folds of her gorgeous gown, But never could smell through these bouquets The fishy odor of former days.

She went on her golden stilts to pray, Which never became her better than then, When her murmuring lips were heard to say, ”Thank G.o.d, I am not as my fellow-men!”

Her pastor loved as a pastor might-- His house that was built on a golden rock; He pointed it out as a s.h.i.+ning light To the lesser lambs of his fleecy flock.

The stilts were a help to the church, no doubt, They kindled its self-expiring embers, So that before the season was out It gained a dozen excellent members.

Mrs. Mackerel gave a superb soiree, Standing on stilts to receive her guests; The gas-lights mimicked the glowing day So well, that the birds, in their flowery nests, Almost burst their beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Trilling away their musical stories In Mrs. Mackerel's conservatories.

She received on stilts; a distant bow Was all the loftiest could attain-- Though some of her friends she did allow To kiss the hem of her jewelled train.

One gentleman screamed himself quite hoa.r.s.e Requesting her to dance; which, of course, Couldn't be done on stilts, as she Halloed down to him rather scornfully.

The fact is, when Mackerel kept a shop, His wife was very fond of a hop, And now, as the music swelled and rose, She felt a tingling in her toes, A restless, tickling, funny sensation Which didn't agree with her exaltation.

When the maddened music was at its height, And the waltz was wildest--behold, a sight!

The stilts began to hop and twirl Like the saucy feet of a ballet-girl.

And their haughty owner, through the air, Was spin, spin, spinning everywhere.

Everybody got out of the way To give the dangerous stilts fair play.

In every corner, at every door, With faces looking like unfilled blanks, They watched the stilts at their airy pranks, Giving them, unrequested, the floor.

They never had glittered so bright before; The light it flew in flas.h.i.+ng splinters Away from those burning, revolving centres; While the gems on the lady's flying skirts Gave out their light in jets and spirts.

Poor Mackerel gazed in mute dismay At this unprecedented display.

<script>