Part 2 (1/2)

But Mrs. C. remained indoors, And poked the fire and wound the clocks, Amused the children, scrubbed the floors, Or darned her absent husband's socks.

(For she was far too sweet and wise To darn the great explorer's eyes.)

And when she chanced to look around At all the couples she had known, And realized how few had found A home as peaceful as her own, She saw how pleasant it may be To wed a chronic absentee.

Her husband's absence she enjoyed, Nor ever asked him where he went, Thinking him harmlessly employed Discovering some Continent.

Had he been always in, no doubt, Some day she would have found him out.

And so he daily left her side To travel o'er the ocean far, And she who, like the bard, had tried To ”hitch her wagon to a star,”

Though she was harnessed to a comet, Got lots of satisfaction from it.

To him returning from the West She proved a perfect anti-dote, Who loosed his Armour (beef compress'd) And sprayed his ”automobile throat”; His health she kept a jealous eye on, And played PerUna to his lion!

And when she got him home again, And so could wear the jewels rare Which Isabella, Queen of Spain, Entrusted to her husband's care, Her monetary wealth was ”far Beyond the dreams of caviar!”

A melancholy thing it is How few have known or understood The manifold advantages Of such herbaceous widowhood!

(What is it ruins married lives But husbands ... not to mention wives?)

O wedded couples of to-day, Pray take these principles to heart, And copy the Columbian way Of living happily apart.

And so, to you, at any rate, Shall marriage be a ”blessed state.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”_And so he daily left her side To travel o'er the ocean far_”

_Dame Rumor_

I should like to remark that Dame Rumor Is the most unalluring of jades.

She has little or no sense of humor, And her fables are worse than George Ade's.

(Or rather, I mean, if the reader prefers, That the fables of Ade are much _better_ than hers!)

Her appearance imbues one with loathing, From her jaundiced, malevolent eyes To the tinsel she cares to call clothing, Which is merely a patchwork of lies.

For her garments are such that a child could see through, And her blouse (need I add?) is the famed Peek-a-boo!

She is wholly devoid of discretion, She is utterly wanting in tact, She's a gossip by trade and profession, And she much prefers fiction to fact.

She is seldom veracious, and always unkind, And she moves to and fro with the speed of the wind.

She resembles the men who ('tis fabled) Tumble into the Packingtown vats, Who are boiled there, and bottled, and labelled For the tables of true democrats: Pickled souls who are canned for the public to buy, And (like her) have a finger in every pie!

With a step that is silent and stealthy, Or an earsplitting clamor and noise, She disturbs the repose of the wealthy, Or the peace which the pauper enjoys.

And, however securely the doors may be shut, She can always gain access to palace or hut.

Where the spinsters at tea are collected, Her arrival is hailed with delight; She is welcomed, adored, and respected In each newspaper office at night; For her presence imprints an original seal On an otherwise commonplace journal or meal.

She has nothing in common with Virtue, And with Truth she was never allied; If she hasn't yet managed to hurt you, It can't be from not having tried!

For the poison of adders is under her tongue, And you're lucky indeed, if you've never been stung.

Are you statesman, or author, or artist, With a perfectly blameless career?

Are your talents and wits of the smartest, And your conscience abnormally clear?

”He's a saint!” says Dame Rumor, and smiles like the Sphinx.