There was (not certain when) a certain preacher That never learned, and yet became a teacher, Who, having read in Latin thus a text Of _erat quidam h.o.m.o_, much perplexed, He seemed the same with study great to scan, In English thus, _There was a certain man_.
"But now," quoth he, "good people, note you this, He said there was: he doth not say there is; For in these days of ours it is most plain Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man"s certain; Yet by my text you see it comes to pa.s.s That surely once a certain man there was; But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man Can find this text, _There was a certain woman_."
_Sir John Harrington._
CLEAN CLARA
What! not know our Clean Clara?
Why, the hot folks in Sahara, And the cold Esquimaux, Our little Clara knows!
Clean Clara, the Poet sings!
Cleaned a hundred thousand things!
She cleaned the keys of the harpsichord, She cleaned the hilt of the family sword, She cleaned my lady, she cleaned my lord, All the pictures in their frames, Knights with daggers and stomachered dames-- Cecils, G.o.dfreys, Montforts, Graemes, Winifreds--all those nice old names!
She cleaned the works of the eight-day clock, She cleaned the spring of a secret lock, She cleaned the mirror, she cleaned the cupboard, All the books she India-rubbered!
She cleaned the Dutch tiles in the place, She cleaned some very old-fashioned lace; The Countess of Miniver came to her, "Pray, my dear, will you clean my fur?"
All her cleanings are admirable.
To count your teeth you will be able, If you look in the walnut table.
She cleaned the tent-st.i.tch and the sampler, She cleaned the tapestry, which was ampler; Joseph going down into the pit, And the Shunammite woman with the boy in a fit.
You saw the reapers, _not_ in the distance.
And Elisha, coming to the child"s a.s.sistance, With the house on the wall that was built for the prophet, The chair, the bed and the bolster of it.
The eyebrows all had a twirl reflective, Just like an eel: to spare invective There was plenty of color but no perspective.
However, Clara cleaned it all, With a curious lamp, that hangs in the hall; She cleaned the drops of the chandeliers, Madam, in mittens, was moved to tears.
She cleaned the cage of the c.o.c.katoo, The oldest bird that ever grew; I should say a thousand years old would do.
I"m sure he looked it, but n.o.body knew; She cleaned the china, she cleaned the delf, She cleaned the baby, she cleaned herself!
Tomorrow morning, she means to try To clean the cobwebs from the sky; Some people say the girl will rue it, But my belief is she will do it.
So I"ve made up my mind to be there to see There"s a beautiful place in the walnut tree; The bough is as firm as a solid rock; She brings out her broom at six o"clock.
_W. B. Rands._
CHRISTMAS CHIMES
Little Penelope Socrates, A Boston maid of four, Wide opened her eyes on Christmas morn, And looked the landscape o"er.
"What is it inflates my _bas de bleu_?"
She asked with dignity; ""Tis Ibsen in the original!
Oh, joy beyond degree!"
Miss Mary Cadwallader Rittenhouse Of Philadelphia town, Awoke as much as they ever do there And watched the snow come down.
"I"m glad that it is Christmas,"
You might have heard her say, "For my family is one year older now Than it was last Christmas day."
"Twas Christmas in giddy Gotham.
And Miss Irene de Jones Awoke at noon and yawned and yawned, And stretched her languid bones.
"I"m sorry it is Christmas, Papa at home will stay, For "Change is closed and he won"t make A single cent to-day."
Windily dawned the Christmas On the city by the lake, And Miss Arabel Wabash Breezy Was instantly awake.
"What"s that thing in my stocking?
Well, in two jiffs I"ll know!"
And she drew a grand piano forth From "way down in the toe.
_Unknown._
THE RULING Pa.s.sION
From "Moral Essays," Epistle I
The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, Still tries to save the hallowed taper"s end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires.
"Odious! in woollen! "twould a saint provoke,"
Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke; "No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: One would not, sure, be frightful when one"s dead,-- And--Betty--give this cheek a little red."
The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined An humble servant to all humankind.
Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, "If--where I"m going--I could serve you, sir?"
"I give and I devise" (old Euclio said, And sighed) "my lands and tenements to Ned."
Your money, sir? "My money, sir! What, all?
Why--if I must" (then wept)--"I give it Paul."
The manor, sir? "The manor, hold!" he cried, "Not that,--I cannot part with that,"--and died.
_Alexander Pope._
THE POPE AND THE NET
What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran, Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began: His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.
So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit, Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries "Unfit!"
But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head; Each wings at each: "I" faith, a rise! Saint Peter"s net, instead Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!" You think he blushes red?
Not he, of humble holy heart! "Unworthy me!" he sighs: "From fisher"s drudge to Church"s prince--it is indeed a rise: So, here"s my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!"