MATRIMONY. And that which rather thou dost fear to do, Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither, The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes; To cry, MATRIMONY.-FANNY FERN. 431 ERTAINLY, matrimony is an invention of Well, no matter who invented it. I'm going to try it. Here's my blue coat with the bright, brass buttons! The woman has yet to be born who can resist that; and my buff vest and neck-tie, too! may I be shot if I don't offer them both to the little Widow Pardiggle this very night. Pardiggle!" Phoebus! what a name for such a rosebud. I'll re-christen her by the euphonious name of Smith. She'll have me, of course. She wants a husband, I want a wife: there's one point already in which we perfectly agree. I hate preliminaries. I suppose it is unnecessary for me to begin with the amatory alphabet. With a widow, I suppose, you can skip the rudiments. Say what you've got to say, in a 432 THE KATYDID. fraction of a second. Women grow as mischievous as Satan, if they think you are afraid of them. Do I look as if I were afraid? Just examine the growth of my whiskers. The Bearded Lady couldn't hold a candle to them (though I wonder she don't to her own). Afraid? h-m-m! I feel as if I could conquer Asia. What the mischief ails this cravat? It must be the cold that makes my hand tremble so. There-that'll do. That's quite an inspiration. Brummel himself couldn't go beyond that. Now for the widow; bless her little round face! I'm immensely obliged to old Pardiggle for giving her a quit-claim. I'll make her as happy as a little robin. Do you think I'd bring a tear into her lovely blue eye? Do you think I'd sit, after tea, with my back to her, and my feet upon the mantel, staring up chimney for three hours together? Do you think I'd leave her blessed little side, to dangle round oyster-saloons and theatres? Do I look like a man to let a woman flatten her pretty little nose against the window-pane night after night, trying to see me reel up-street? No. Mr. and Mrs. Adam were not more beautiful in their nuptial-bower than I shall be with the Widow Pardiggle. Refused by a widow! Who ever heard of such a thing? Well, there's one comfort: nobody'll believe it. She is not so very pretty, after all. Her eyes are too small, and her hands are rough and red-dy-not so very ready either, confound the gipsy! What amazing pretty shoulders she has! Well, who cares? "If she be not fair to me, What care I how fair she be?" Ten to one, she'd have set up that wretch of a Pardiggle for my model. Who wants to be Pardiggle 2d? I am glad she didn't have me. I mean, I'm glad I didn't have her! THE KATYDID.-O. W. HOLMES. LOVE to hear thine earnest voice, Wherever thou art hid, Thou testy little dogmatist, Thou pretty Katydid! THE KATYDID. Thou 'mindest me of gentlefolks,- Thou say'st an undisputed thing Thou art a female, Katydid! I know it by the trill That quivers through thy piercing notes, I think there is a knot of you Oh, tell me where did Katy live, Did Katy love a naughty man, Dear me! I'll tell you all about My fuss with little Jane, And Ann, with whom I used to walk So often down the lane, And all that tore their locks of black, Or wet their eyes of blue,— Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, What did poor Katy do? Ah, no! the living oak shall crash, That stood for ages still, The rock shall rend its mossy base, Before the little Katydid Shall add one word, to tell The mystic story of the maid Whose name she knows so well. Peace to the ever-murmuring race! And when the latest one Shall fold in death her feeble wings, 433 434 ODE TO AN INFANT SON. Then shall she raise her fainting voice, And then the child of future years ODE TO AN INFANT SON.-HOOD. HOU happy, happy elf! THOU (But, stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits, feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin; (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin !) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestruck, Light as the singing-bird that wings the air,- Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain so bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents;-(Hang the boy! Thou cherub, but of earth; Fit play-fellow for fairies, by moonlight pale, (That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stampt from nature's mint. (Where did he learn that squint?) THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 435 Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove,) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are these torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life,— (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, My elfin John! Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose.!) I cannot write, unless he's sent above.) THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE.-GEORGE ARNOLD. TWAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 'TWA Tall, and slender, and sallow, and dry; The living should live, though the dead be dead," |