THE MORTUARY POET.

Dunstan Times, Issue 1072, 10 November 1882, Page 3

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 starled advertising clerk of the Bangor Patriot with the mysterious whisper of—- “ She’s gone." “ Who’s gone ? ” asked the clerk, “ Mariar." “Who in thunder’s Maria?” “ My wife ; she’s gone." “ Gone where ? ” “ Up above— died last night—want you to put it in your next issue.” • • What ailed her ?’’ “ Lockjaw. She lay for t.iroo weeks and couldn’t speak ; never had such a quiet time in the house before Jest do th> notice up fine, will you. an’ I’ll see that everything is fixed up all right.” Accordingly the clerk scribbled away for a minute, handed out what he had written for inspection, and curtly remarked—- “ Dollar thirty five.’’ The bereaved husband read it over 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 kink of a verse do you want ?” “Somethin’ tender-like an’ sorrowful.” “ How would this do ?” asked the clerk scratching his head with the end of his pe u holder, A perfect female, folks did consider her, She’s gone and left a weepin widower. “ That’s kinder melancholy,” reflected the stranger, “ but I reckon it’s a leetle—jest a leetle—too personal. Just you try it again. 1 don’t mind puttin’ up handsum for somethun’ 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 lockjaw. “ 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 carp— Gone to be an angel, And play on a golden harp. “Don’t believe that’!! suit. You see Mariar couldn’t even play on a pianner, an’ 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 ain’t a Longfellow or Tennyson.” “ I know,” meekly replied the weepin’ widower. “Jest try once more, won’t you ?” So the clerk did try, and at last ground out the following : On earth could not stay Maria, So she died and went up higher. “ Sorter irreverent, arn’t it ?” anxiously asked Maria’s relict. “ 1 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 mors— Joined the 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. Mariar hadn’t any more melody in her than an old plough, an’ it’s deliberit lyin’ to speak of her as a vocalist. None of them other syrups ’(seraphs) you allude to could keep time with her.” “Well,” thoughtfully remarked the discomfited clerk, “ if this ain’t all O.K. you’ll have to hire a special poet; I’m played out: Affliction sore Long time she bore, Physicians were in vain ; Lockjaw ketched her, Death it fetched her— G ne : to rise again. “Tell you what,” enthusiastically ex claimed the widower, “ that’s tip-top. Here’s your two dollars ; you’ve airnt them A young man that can make up sich affec tin’ 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 — Printers' Circular (Phil.) ___________