« PreviousContinue »
JUPITER AND TEN.
MRS (RS. CHUB was rich and portly,
Mrs. Chub was very grand, Mrs. Chub was always reckoned
A lady in the land.
You shall see her marble mansion
In a very stately square, Mr. C. knows what it cost him,
But that's neither here nor there.
Mrs. Chub was so sagacious,
Such a patron of the arts,
That she won all foreign hearts.
Mrs. Chub was always talking,
When she went away from home, Of a most prodigious painting
Which had just arrived from Rome.
“ Ten what ?" we blandly asked her,
For the knowledge we did lack. “ Ah! that I cannot tell you,
But the name is on the back.
“There it stands in printed letters.
Come to-morrow, gentlemen,
Our fine Jupiter and Ten."
When Mrs. Chub departed,
Our brains we all did rack,
For the name was on the back.
So we begged a great Professor
To lay aside his pen,
Touching “ Jupiter and Ten."
And we pondered well the subject,
And our Lempriere we turned,
But we could not, though we burned !
But when we saw the picture,
Oh, Mrs. Chub! oh, fie! oh!
JAMES T. FIELDS.
THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEBRUARY.
PALE is the February sky,
And brief the mid-day's sunny hours; The wind-swept forest seems to sigh
For the sweet time of leaves and flowen.
Yet has no month a prouder day,
Not even when the summer broods
Or autumn tints the glowing woods.
Brings, in its annual round, the morn
Our glorious Washington was born.
Calmly the mighty Hudson flows!
Broadening, the lordly river goes.
And rends the oak with sudden force,
Or slacken his majestic course.
Unmarred, undimmed, our hero's fame,
THE WIDOW CUMMISKEY.
THE widow Cummiskey was standing at the door of
her little millinery store, Avenue D, the other evening, as Mr. Costello came along. Mr. Costello stopped.
“Good evening to you, ma'am," said he.
“It's fine weather we're havin', ma'am,” continued Mr. Costello.
“ It is that,” replied Mrs. Cummiskey,“ but the winter's comin' at last, and it comes to all, both great and small.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Costello, “but for all that it doesn't come to us all alike. Now, here you are, ma'am, fat, rosy, an' good-lookin', equally swate as a summer greening, a fall pippin, or a winter russet—"
“Arrah, hould yer whist, now,” interrupted the fair widow, laughing. “Much an old bachelor like you knows about apples or women. But come in, Mr. Costello, and take a cup of tay with me, for I was only standin' be the doore lookin' at the people passin' for company sake, like, and I'm sure the kettle must have sung itself hoarse."
Mr. Costello needed no second invitation, and he fol. lowed his hostess into her
back room. There was a bright fire burning in the little Franklin stove, the teakettle was sending forth a cloud of steam that took a ruddy glow from the fire-light, the shaded light on the table gave a mellow and subdued light to the room, and it was all very suggestive of comfort.
“It's very cosey ye are here, Mrs. Cummiskey,” said Mr. Costello.
“Yes," replied the widow, as she laid the supper, “it is that whin I do have company." “Ah,” said Mr. Costello,“ it must be lonesome for
you with only the cat and yer cup o' tay.”
Sure it is,” answered the widow. “But take a sate and set down, Mr. Costello. Help yourself to the fish, an' don't forgit the purtaties. Look at thim; they're splittin' their sides with laughin'.”
Mr. Costello helped himself and paused. He looked at the plump widow, with her arms in that graceful posi, tion assumed in the pouring out of tea, and remarked, “I'm sinsible of the comforts of a home, Mrs. Cummiskey, although I've none mesilf. Mind, now, the difference between the taste o' the tay made and served thata-way and the tay they gives you in an 'ating-house." "
“Sure," said the widow, “there's nothin' like a home of your own, I wonder ye never got marrit, Mr. Costello."
“I was about to make the same remark in riference to yerself, ma'am.”
“Mr. Costello, aren't I a widder woman this seven
"Ah, but it's thinkin' I was why ye didn't get marrit again."
"Well, it's sure I am,” said the widow, thoughtfully, setting down her tea-cup and raising her hand by way of emphasis, “ there never was a better husband to any woman than him that's dead and gone. He was that aisy, a child could do anythin' with him, and he was as humorsome as a monkey. You favor him very much, Mr. Costello; he was about your height, an' dark-complected like you !"
“Ah !” exclaimed Mr. Costello.
“He often used to say to me in his bantherin' way, 'Sure, Nora, what's the worruld to a man whin his wife is a widder?' mauin', you know, that all timptations in luxuries of this life can never folly a man beyant the grave. 'Sure, Nora,' says he, “what's this worruld to a man whin his wife is a widder? Ah, poor
John!" “It was a sensible sayin', that,” remarked Mr. Costello, helping himself to more fish.
I mind the day John died,” continued the widow. "He knew everything to the last, and about four in the afternoon-it was seventeen minutes past five exactly,