THE MORTUARY POET.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2326, 17 September 1881, Page 3

THE MORTUARY POET.

He was a country-looking chap, with an odd mixture of sorrow and resignation on hia loan countenance, and ho dropped upon tho startled advertising clerk of the “ Bangor Patriot ” 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.” “ Gene where ?” “ Up above —died last r> ; ght—want you to put it in your next issue.” “ What a : led her ?”

“ Lockjaw. She lay for three weeks and couldn’t speak; never had such a quiet time in the house before. Just do the notice up fine, will you, an’ I’ll gee that everyth'ng is fixed up.” Accordingly, the clerk scribbled away for a momen’, handed out what he had written for inspection, and curtly remarked—- “ Dollar thirty five.” The bereaved husband read it over cr-e fully, and finally gave a sigh of satisfaction “That’s all right,” ho said, handing over the required specie, “ but s’poso you cor'd put a verse on the end, couldn’t you ?” " Wc’l, yes,” ruminated the clerk, “guess so. What kind of a verse do you want ?” ‘‘Somethin’ touder-like and sorrowful.” ‘‘How would this do?” asked the clerk, scratching his head with the head of f ; s penholder. A perfect female, folks did consider her. She’s gone and left a weeping widower. “ That’s k-nder melancholy,” reflected the stranger, but I reckon it’s a leetle —just a little—too personal. Just you tiy it again. I don’t mind putting up hansum for ’sumthun’ that’ll rake folk’s heart strings.” The clerk gazad at the cei' ng for a moment, and then suggested— The husband’s lost a wife, The children mu, Died on Friday night, From the lockjaw. “ £cs,” broke out the mourner, wiping his nose with a black-bordered handkerchief, “ but you sec I don’t o* J any young uns.” “ What do you think of th‘>, 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’ll suit. You see Slariar couldn’t oven play on a planner, an’ I know a harp would stump her, sure. Poor woman j 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 a Tennyson, I know,” meekly replied the weeping widower. “Just try once more, won’t you ?” So the clerk did, and at last ground out the following : On earth could not stay Mariar, So she died and went up higher. “Sorter irreverent, ain’t it?’ anxiously asked Maria’s relict. “ I reckon I wouldn’t grudge a couple of dollars for a bang-up verso.” Thus stimulated, the machine poet became suddenly inspired, and exultiugly produced— Cry for Mariar 1 Alas she is no more— Joined the singing seraphs Upon the other shore. The Efllicted one uneasily took a chew of tobacco, and whispered : “ Beautiful ; but there’s one thing that sp'les it, Mariar hadn’t any more melody in her than an old plow,’ and it’s deliborot 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 0.K., you’ll have to hire a special poet; I’m played out.” Affliction sore Long time she bore, Physicians were in vain ; Lockjaw ketohed her, Death it fetched her— Gone ; to rise again.

“Tell yon what,” enthusiastically exclaimed the widower, “ that’s tip-top. Here’s your two dollars ; you’ve airnt them. A young man that can make up 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).