THE MORTUARY POET.

Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 3195, 24 September 1881, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE MORTUARY POET.

He was a country-looking chap, with an odd mixture of sorrow and resignation on his lean countenance, and he dropped upon the startled advertising clerk of The Bangor Fatriot with the mysterious -words of ' she's gone.' 'Who's gone?' asked the clerk. ' Maria.' ' Who in thunder's Maria ?' 'My -wife ; she's gone.' ' G-one where ?' 'Up above—died last night—want you to put it in your next issue.' ' What ailed her ?' ' Lockjaw. She lay for three weeks and couldn't speak j never had such a quiet time in the house before. Just do the notice up fine, -will you, an' I'll see that everything is fixed up.' Accordingly, the clerk scribbled away for a moment, handed out what he had written for inspection, and curtly remarked : —' Dollar thirty-five.' The bereaved husband read it carefully, and finally gave a sigh of satisfaction. ' That's all right,' he said, handing over the required specie, 'but I s'pose you could put a verse on the end, couldn't you ?' ' Well, yes,' ruminated the clerk, ' guess so. What kind of a verse do you want ?' ' Something tender-like and sorrowful.' ' How would this do?' asked the clerk, scratching his head with the end of his penholder. A perfect female, folks did consider her, She's gone and left a weeping widower. 'That's kinder melancholy,' reflected the stranger, but I reckon it's a leetle —just a leetle —too personal. Just you try it again. I don't mind putting up hansum for sumthun' that'll rake folks heartstrings.' The clerk gazed at the ceiling for a moment, and then suggested: The husband's lost a wife, The children ma, Died on Friday night, From the lock-jaw. ' Yes, , broke out the mourner, wiping his nose with a black-bordered handkerchief, ' but you see I don't own any young uns.' ' What do you think of this, then ?' She always was contented, At life she'd never carpGone to be an angel, And play on a golden harp. 'Don't believe that'll suit. You see Maria couldn't even play on a pianner, and I know a harp would stump her, sure. Poor woman; she had a tender heart, though, and made the most elegant biscuit you ever saw.' ' Hanged if I won't have to charge you extra,' growled the clerk, ' I aint a Longfellow or a Tennyson, I know,' meekly replied the weeping widower. ' Just try once more, will you ?' So the clerk did, and at last ground out the following : On earth could not stay Maria, So she died and went up higher. ' Sorter irreverent, aint it ?' anxiously asked Maria's relict. ' I reckon I wouldn't grudge a couple of dollars for a bang-up verse.' Thus stimulated the machine poet became suddenly inspired, and exultingly produced : Cry for Maria! Alas ! She is no more— Joined tho singing seraphs Upon the other shore The afflicted one uneasily took a chew of tobacco, and whispered ; ' Beautiful; but there's one thing that spiles it. Maria I hadn't anymore melody in her than an old plough, and it's deliberate lying to speak of her as a vocalist. None of them other syrups (seraphs) you alludn to could keep time Tkitb her. , 'Well,' thoughtfully remarked the discomforted clerk, ' If this aiut all 0.X., you'll have to hire a special poet; I'm played out. .

Affiction sore Long time she bore, Physlciane were In vain ; Lock-jaw ketched her, Death it fetched her— Gone ; to rise again. ' Tell you what, , enthusiastically exclaimed the widower, • that's tip-top. Here's your two dollars j you've airnt them. A young man that can make rip such affecting lines as them has got a glorious future before him!' And squeezing the exhausted poet's hand, the elated speaker left in search of a pair of black kid gloves.—Printer's Circular (Philadelphia.)