Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

BETSY AND I ARE OUT.

Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout, For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are out,

We who have worked together so long as man and wife Must pull in single harness the rest of our natʼral life.

"What is the matter," says you? "I swan! it's hard to tell!

Most of the years behind us we've passed by very well;
I have no other woman-she has no other man;
Only we've lived together as long as ever we can.

So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;
And we've agreed together that we can never agree;
Not that we've catched each other in any terrible crime;
We've been a gatherin' this for years, a little at a time.

There was a stock of temper we both had, for a start;
Although we ne'er suspected 't would take us two apart;
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone,
And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own.

The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed,
Was somethin' concerning heaven-a difference in our
creed;

We arg'ed the thing at breakfast-we arg'ed the thing at

tea

And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we could n't agree.

And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow; She had kicked the bucket, for certain-the question was only-How?

I held my opinion, and Betsy another had;

And when we were done a talkin', we both of us was mad.

And the next that I remember, it started in a joke;
But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke.
And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl;
And she said I was mean and stingy, and had n't any soul.

And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way; Always somethin' to arg'e and somethin' sharp to say, And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o' dozen strong,

And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along.

And there have been days together-and many a weary week

When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak;

And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the whole of the summer and fall,

If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then I won't at all.

And so I've talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;

And we have agreed together that we can never agree; And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine;

And I'll put it in the agreement and take it to her to sign.

Write on the paper, lawyer-the very first paragraph—
Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half;
For she has helped to earn it, through many a weary day,
And it's nothin' more than justice that Betsy has her pay.
Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive and
roam,

But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home.
And I have always determined, and never failed to say,
That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away.

There's a little hard money besides, that 's drawin' tol'rable pay,

A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,-
Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at;
Put in another clause there, and give her all of that.

I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin' her so much;
Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such;
True and fair I married her, when she was blithe and

young,

And Betsy was always good to me, exceptin' with her

tongue.

When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps,
For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps;
And all of 'em was flustered, and fairly taken down,
And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town.

Once, when I had a fever-I won't forget it soon-
I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon—
Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight;
She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and
night.

And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean,
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen;
And I don't complain of Betsy or any of her acts,
Exceptin' when we've quarreled, and told each other
facts.

So draw up the paper, lawyer, and I'll go home to-night,
And read the agreement to her and see if it 's all right;
And then in the mornin' I 'll sell to a tradin' man I know-
And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the
world I'll go.

And one thing put in the paper, that first to me did n't occur;

That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her,
And lay me under the maple we planted years ago,
When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so.

And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me;
And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we 'll then agree;
And if ever we meet in heaven, I would n't think it queer
If we loved each other the better because we 've quarreled
here.

Will M. Carleton.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold;

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel.-Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

Leigh Hunt.

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.

It was the schooner Hesperus

That sailed the wintry sea;

And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,

Her cheeks like the dawn of day,

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds
That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,

His pipe was in his mouth,

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow

The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sailed the Spanish main,

"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!"

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,

A gale from the northeast;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;

She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed, Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so;

For I can weather the roughest gale,

That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;

He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?"

"Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?"

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light,
O say, what may it be?"

But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed

That savéd she might be;

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee.

« ForrigeFortsæt »