"A LITTLE bit queer" — my Mary!
"Her roof not quite in repair!"
And it's that you think, with a nod and wink,
As you sit in my easy-chair!
Drop it, I say, old feller —
Drop it, I tell you, do,
Or language, I doubt, I shall soon let out
I'd rather not use to you.
Shake hands, and I ax your pardon —
'Twas chaffing I knowed you were;
But a hint or a slur or a joke on her
Is a thing as I can't abear.
And what if she has her fancies?
Why, so has us all, old chap;
Not many's the roof as is reg'lar proof,
If a bit of a whim's a gap.
She's up to the nines, my Mary;
Lord bless her, she keeps us right!
It's up with her gown and the house scrubbed down
As certain as Friday night.
Is it rheumatiz, cough, lumbager?
Is anything queer inside?
She'll physic you up with a sup in a cup
As tickles the doctor's pride.
Is it mending of socks or trousers,
Or starching your best cravat?
Is it letting alone the joint with the bone,
And choosing the goose that's fat?
She hasn't her likes, my Mary —
And never put out nor riled;
She hasn't a fad, and she never had —
Excepting about the child.
Six years we was wed, and over,
And never a cradle got —
And nowheres, I swear, a more dotinger pair
On baby and tiny tot;
So when of a winter morning
At last we was 'ma and dad,
No Royal Princess had the welcome, I guess,
As our little stranger had.
Lord, wasn't she Christmas sunshine
To gladden the childless place!
She was nothing in size, with tremenjous eyes,
And the oldest-fashioned face.
She'd stare at the folks that knowing,
Laid over the nurse's knee,
As I'd laugh, and I'd say, in a joking way,
"She's older nor you nor me."
And wasn't she nuts to Mary!
Just picter her, them as can,
A-doing her best with her mother's-breast
For Alexandrina Ann!
It was so as we'd named the baby,
By way of a start in life,
From parties, I knew, as could help her through —
The Queen and my uncle's wife.
And wasn't the baby fêted!
She lay in her bassinet
With muslin and lace on her tiny face,
As ever growed smaller yet.
But it wasn't in lace nor coral
To bribe her to linger here;
I looks in her eyes, and "She's off," I sighs,
"She's off to her proper sp'ere."
Her treasures was all around her,
But she was too wise and grave
For the pug on the shelf and, as big as herself,
The doll as her grandma gave.
She wanted the stars for playthings,
Our wonderful six-weeks' guest;
So, with one little sigh, she closed her eye,
And woke on a hangel's breast.
And how did the missis take it?
Most terrible calm and mild;
With a face a'most like a bloodless ghost,
She covered the sleeping child.
There was me, like a six-foot babby,
A blubbering long and loud,
While she sat there in the rocking-chair,
A-sewing the little shroud.
I couldn't abide to see it —
The look in her tearless eye;
I touches her so, and I whispers low,
"My darlingest, can't you cry?"
She gave me a smile for answer,
Then over her work she bowed,
And all through the night her needle bright
Was sewing the little shroud.
In the gray of the winter morning,
The sun like a ball of flame,
Sent up like a toy by a whistling boy,
The mite of a coffin came.
He reckoned it only a plaything —
A drum or a horse-and-cart —
The box that had space, O Father of Grace,
To bury a mother's heart!
Great God, such a shaller coffin,
And yet so awful deep!
I placed it there by the poor wife's chair,
And I thinks, "at last she'll weep."
But she rose with never a murmur,
As calm as a spectre thin,
And — waxy and cold and so light to hold —
She places the baby in.
Then, moving with noiseless footfall,
She reaches from box and shelf
The little 'un's mug, and the china pug,
And the doll that was big as herself.
Then — God! it was dread to watch her —
All white in her crape-black gown,
With her own cold hands, my Mary stands
And fastens the coffin down.
I carried the plaything coffin,
Tucked under my arm just so;
And she stood there at the head of the stair,
And quietly watched us go.
So parson he comes in his nightgown,
And says that as grass is man;
And earth had trust of the pinch of dust
That was Alexandrina Ann.
I was trying to guess the riddle
I never could answer pat —
What the Wisdom and Love as is planning above
Could mean by a life like that;
And I'd got my foot on the doorstep,
When, scaring my mournful dream,
Shrill, wild and clear, there tore on my ear
The sound of a manyac scream.
The scream of a raving manyac,
But, Father of Death and Life!
I listened and knew, the madness through,
The voice of my childless wife.
One moment I clutched and staggered,
Then down on my bended knee,
And up to the sky my wrestling cry
Went up for my wife and me.
I went to her room, and found her;
She sat on the floor, poor soul!
Two burning streaks on her death-pale cheeks,
And eyes that were gleeds of coal.
And now she would shriek and shudder,
And now she would laugh aloud,
And now for a while, with an awful smile,
She'd sew at a little shroud.
Dear Lord, through the day and darkness,
Dear Lord, through the endless night,
I sat at her side, while she shrieked and cried,
And I thought it would ne'er be light.
And still, through the blackness thronging
With shapes that was dread to see,
My shuddering cry to the God on high
Went up for my girl and me.
At last, through the winder, morning
Came glimmering cold and pale;
And, faint but clear, to my straining ear
Was carried a feeble wail.
I went to the door in wonder,
And there, in the dawning day,
All swaddled and bound in a bundle round,
A sweet little baby lay.
It lay on the frosty doorstep,
A peart little two-months' child;
Dumbfounded and slow, I raised it so,
And it looked in my face and smiled.
And so, as I kissed and loved it,
I grajuly growed aware
As the Father in bliss had sent us this,
The answer to wrestling pray'r.
In wonder and joy and worship,
With tears that were soft and blest,
I carried the mite, and, still and light,
I laid it on Mary's breast.
I didn't know how she'd take it,
So goes on an artful tack:
"The little 'un cried for her mother's side,
And the hangels has sent her back!"
My God! I shall ne'er forget it,
Though spared for a hundred years —
The soft delight on her features white,
The rush of her blissful tears.
The eyes that was hard and vacant
Grew wonderful sweet and mild,
As she cries, "Come rest on your mammy's breast,
My own little hangel child!"
And so from that hour my darling
Grew happy and strong and well;
And the joy that I felt as to God I knelt
Is what I can noways tell.
There's parties as sneers and tells you
There's nothing but clouds up there;
I answers 'em so, "There's a God, I know,
And a Father that heareth pray'r."
And what if my Mary fancies
The babe is a child of light —
Our own little dear sent back to us here! —
And mayn't she be somewheres right?
Here, Mary, my darling, Mary!
A friend has come in to town;
Don't mind for her nose nor changing her clo'es,
But bring us the hangel down.
