Part 21 (1/2)

”Oh, stop, love, stop!” he cried at last; But she only flew more wild and fast, While the flutes and fiddles, bugle and drum, Followed as if their time had come.

She went at such a bewildering pace n.o.body saw the lady's face, But only a ring of emerald light From the crown she wore on that fatal night.

Whether the stilts were propelling her, Or she the stilts, none could aver.

Around and around the magnificent hall Mrs. Mackerel danced at her own grand ball.

”As the twig is bent the tree's inclined;”

This must have been a case in kind.

”What's in the blood will sometimes show--”

'Round and around the wild stilts go.

It had been whispered many a time That when poor Mack was in his prime Keeping that little retail store, He had fallen in love with a ballet-girl, Who gave up fame's entrancing whirl To be his own, and the world's no more.

She made him a faithful, prudent wife-- Ambitious, however, all her life.

Could it be that the soft, alluring waltz Had carried her back to a former age, Making her memory play her false, Till she dreamed herself on the gaudy stage?

Her crown a tinsel crown--her guests The pit that gazes with praise and jests?

”Pride,” they say, ”must have a fall--”

Mrs. Mackerel was very proud-- And now she danced at her own grand ball, While the music swelled more fast and loud.

The gazers shuddered with mute affright, For the stilts burned now with a bluish light, While a glimmering, phosph.o.r.escent glow Did out of the lady's garments flow.

And what was that very peculiar smell?

Fish, or brimstone? no one could tell.

Stronger and stronger the odor grew, And the stilts and the lady burned more blue; 'Round and around the long saloon, While Mackerel gazed in a partial swoon, She approached the throng, or circled from it, With a flaming train like the last great comet; Till at length the crowd All groaned aloud.

For her exit she made from her own grand ball Out of the window, stilts and all.

None of the guests can really say How she looked when she vanished away.

Some declare that she carried sail On a flying fish with a lambent tail; And some are sure she went out of the room Riding her stilts like a witch a broom, While a phosph.o.r.ent odor followed her track: Be this as it may, she never came back.

Since then, her friends of the gold-fish fry Are in a state of unpleasant suspense, Afraid, that unless they unselfishly try To make better use of their dollars and sense To chasten their pride, and their manners mend, They may meet a similar shocking end.

--_Cosmopolitan Art Journal._

JUST SO.

BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR.

A youth and maid, one winter night, Were sitting in the corner; His name, we're told, was Joshua White, And hers was Patience Warner.

Not much the pretty maiden said, Beside the young man sitting; Her cheeks were flushed a rosy red, Her eyes bent on her knitting.

Nor could he guess what thoughts of him Were to her bosom flocking, As her fair fingers, swift and slim, Flew round and round the stocking.

While, as for Joshua, bashful youth, His words grew few and fewer; Though all the time, to tell the truth, His chair edged nearer to her.

Meantime her ball of yarn gave out, She knit so fast and steady; And he must give his aid, no doubt, To get another ready.

He held the skein; of course the thread Got tangled, snarled and twisted; ”Have Patience!” cried the artless maid, To him who her a.s.sisted.

Good chance was this for tongue-tied churl To shorten all palaver; ”Have Patience!” cried he, ”dearest girl!

And may I really have her?”

The deed was done; no more, that night, Clicked needles in the corner:-- And she is Mrs. Joshua White That once was Patience Warner.

THE INVENTOR'S WIFE.

BY E.T. CORBETT.

It's easy to talk of the patience of Job. Humph! Job had nothin'