KATYDIDS:—A NEW CHAPTER IN NATURAL HISTORY.

John Jones, a man who said he hated strife, Had from the altar led an able wife. No lines told scandal on a wrinkled brow; Temper and Time are rivals with their plow. Some said that she was gentle as the May; That Jones, the dog, was now to have his day. Your pardon, men, I pray you now dispense, If I proclaim you void of common sense, When you would have your wives to know no will, To have no thought but such as you instill; To be your shadows, never to suggest, Each judgment crossing yours at once represt; And to suppose, that every chiding word Shall from your bearded lips alone be heard. If no resistance met us in our home, What petty tyrants would all men become? The little wits that most of men possess, For want of sharp'ning would become far less; The selfish streams that flow from out our will, So far corrupted be more stagnant still: And restless, we should wage an inward war, But for the soothing rays of home's true star. Oh, let this wrong abuse of women end, In me, at least, they'll find a sturdy friend. I give my witness, I who have been thrown, Widely with all in Country and in Town, Women are best of all our fallen race, Richer in heart, than e'en in outward grace, And if our homes are not the abodes of peace, The fault is ours; and the complaint should cease. In that small dwelling there—from morn to night, A woman toils, withdrawn from human sight; A plain poor woman, in a common dress, Of kindly tones, and of uncouth address. Just wend thy way unto the little brook, Day after day upon its waters look, See every day the self-same ripples there, On those same stones, for ages smooth and bare. So she from day to day the course of life, Finds one recurring call of labor's strife, Save when God's blessed day of rest hath come, And its sun shines, as in the church, at home. Unlike the stream she has no murmuring tone, She has God's will to do, and it is done. With tender care she trains her youthful band, And never wearies in her heart or hand; Is ready, when the music in her ear, From one loved step, proclaims her husband near, To spread the frugal board, the welcome give, In each act say, for self I do not live. Oh man, o'erlook thy wife's unceasing care How her dear love doth follow everywhere, Forget her, as she stood beside thy bed, When the long sickness bowed thy weary head, Watching,—to her all sacrifice as light, As 'tis to stars to watch o'er earth at night. Ah 'tis most noble, manly, not to know How light o'er all doth from her presence flow, And when a quicker word in haste doth fall, To speak of her, as if strife was her all. What could she say, if she replied to thee, Told to the world her secret misery, Showed the sad wounds that thy neglect had wrought, Where but a look the healing balm had brought. One, at this hour, lies on the bed of death, A neighbor lovely as the morning's breath. Slowly she dies,—and with prophetic eye Tracing the course of human destiny, I see a home she brightened, hence so lone, Its calm day darkened, and its music gone; The young, the old with anxious cares opprest, Their hearts, like shadows feeling for their rest On the green sward, where flickering sunbeams glide, My tears can fall, and standing by thy side, I know a woman's place, a woman's worth,— I know the gift of God in her to earth. Thou will not let thy wife become to thee, That which her nature claims that she should be. Thou hast a cold dead life from her apart, Thou art not moulded by her gentler heart, Else by her sweet, pure thoughts thou wert more true More wise, more bold each noble deed to do. Of woman's weakness dost thou speak? Thou'lt find Her strength indeed, by this just bond of mind. You are the weak one, cannot grasp her might, Forever boasting that thy wrong is right. Without her soul to thine, the page is dull Of all life's work,—and with this it is full Of all illumined splendors, as of old, The precious writings were adorned with Gold. Ah view that cell so dark!—the felon there, With glaring eye that speaks his vast despair. He once in princely splendor lived his day, Lord of the street, a monarch in his way. His costly revels gained an envied fame, Where shallow fops, and women like them came. Oh man! how couldst thou thus thy God defy? Could riches pay thee for thy long-told lie? If thou hadst said thy secret to thy wife, Made known to her the secret guilty strife, Told of the awful chance, the business dice, The gambling sales, the shameful, well-named vice, Asked what to risk, asked what a man should do, Would that shame-darkened cell have been for you? She would have said, in woman's faith so strong, "We may be poor,—we never will do wrong. Take all this splendor; let it fade away, But stand thou honest as the open day." Would she have been to thee a feeble stay? We make the woman weak where she is weak; We school her feeble; feebleness we seek. We make believe that life is pompous pride, That she is blest, by gold when gratified, This my conclusion, as the world we scan, What's wrong in woman tells of wrong in man. But where is Jones? While I have thus digressed, Why Jones, poor fellow, is by care oppressed. He draws his trail of briars round life's ring, And wonders he is caught by everything. Jones snaps at every woman, man, and child, Just as a turtle by hot coals made wild. Jones had a daughter, and her name was Kate, As like her sire as pewter plate to plate. And they together almost vexed to death, The wife, the target of their arrowed breath. Sometimes the patient creature's anger rose Their petty wrongs, and malice to oppose. And tempers such as hers, men do not try By single deeds that cause some misery; Stirred at the last by injuries borne so long, Their anger speaks accumulated wrong. Kate had her beauty, and her household skill, And in due time her Jack had found his Gill, He was a man as meek as man could be, And could not dream of woman's tyranny. He was a pleasant man to smile "good day," And had the art to say what others say; Thought his old saws came from a welling-spring In his own mind—not knowing he did bring All that so softly from his lips e'er fell, As vapid water from his neighbor's well— The poor dog never stole a good-sized bone, And so the world of curs let him alone. Not to an infant could Kate gentle be, As to a creature, meek and kind as he. How could she tear the vine that round her grew, Ready to fall with every wind that blew. The wife made battle for him with his friends; And fighting them, she thus made good amends For all her patience with him. Thus with care She spread her shield, and said, attack, who dare. Strange, how 'mid peace we make the show of war, And shout unto the battle from afar, And her defense at last such habit wrought Had she assailed him, she herself had fought. In time, ill-temper wrought upon her mind, And illness, too, its miseries combined. Oh! sad to read of intellect o'erthrown! Sometimes all blank. Sometimes one train alone Of thought, declares that reason is denied. We hear of one who said, I must abide Behind the door, because I am a clock. And there he stood, and ticked. And one was shocked To feel a rat within his stomach run. The doctor heard: the story being done, He wisely smiled, and said, "I soon can cure. You need not be a rat-trap long I'm sure." "Why how, O doctor, can you reach the rat?" "'Tis easy: down your throat I'll send a cat." The man at such a pill must need rebel. And with good sense he quietly got well. Kate had her fancies—said she soon would die, And wasting seemed to prove her prophecy. "Poor Will," she said, "you soon my loss will mourn, The wife who shielded you from many a thorn; I'm glad the pigs are killed, the sweet-meats made, Our turnips gathered, and our butcher paid. I'm glad I sent away to Jericho, That lazy Bess, that tried my temper so. I'm glad I told my mind to Jane Agree, About that scandal that she said of me: That I was jealous, to my apron string Tied you—distrustful of my marriage ring. I'm glad I told her that it was a lie, And somewhat sorry, since it made her cry. "And, Oh! poor Will—so helpless when alone, What wilt thou do, dear one, when I am gone? How would I love, a spirit round thy way, To move, and be thy blessing every day! To fan thy forehead, and to dry thy tears, To nerve thy soul, and banish all thy fears. All I can do for thee, thou patient one, So gentle, tender, loving, all is done. I feel so lonely, in thy loneliness. This is, in death, my very great distress. Some one will fill my place, ere long, I trow, Your clothes are whole—in perfect order now. Be sure you get a wife that is like me, In gentle temper, and sweet sympathy. For you, so long to gentleness allied, Could not a bristling woman, sure, abide." Poor Will! At first his tears fell down like rain Most at the time when she inflicted pain, By her unkind surmise, that he would take Another wife—did she the world forsake. "You are a wife," he said, "so fond, so true, I cannot have another—none but you. You made me what I am the people say; Another wife might make me; what I pray? An eight-day clock, they say, I am most like, Wound up by you, and by you taught to strike. Another wife might keep the time too late, Take out the wheels, and snatch away each weight: And I, neglected, come to a dead stop, Like some old time-piece in a lumber shop. But if you think, dear wife, that I must wed, When you, at last, are numbered with the dead, As I depend upon your good advice, Choose you the bride. Shall it be Susan Price?" Never had Bill so great a blunder made; Never had demon so his cause betrayed. Changed in her view—a villain lost to shame— She scarced believed that he could bear his name. She saw the future. Susan Price was there. With hazel eyes, and curls of Auburn hair. The rooms she swept would that vile Susan sweep? The cup-board key would that bad Susan keep? With those same pans would Susan cook their food, For that fool Bill, and for some foolish brood? Would Susan drink the wine that she had made? Would all those pickles be to her betrayed? "Shall that vain thing sit there,—a pretty pass! Neglecting work, to simper in that glass? Will she cut down that silk frock, good, though old, And puff it out with pride in every fold? And of all other insults, this the worst,— My beating heart is ready here to burst— She'll use my blue-edged china,—yes she will— Oh! I could throw it piece by piece at Bill. "I see her, proud to occupy my chair, To pour out tea, to smile around her there, While my false friends will praise her half-baked cake, And Bill will chuckle o'er each piece they take. And while his grief is lettered o'er my grave, He'll laugh, and eat, and show himself a knave." Hast thou on some huge cliff, with oaks around, Heard the full terror of the thunder sound? Hast thou at sea, all breathless heard the blast Rolling vast waves on high whene'er it past? Then mayst thou form some thought of her dread ire Poured on the man to burn his soul like fire. But soon the burst of anger all was o'er,— And softened, she could speak of death once more. "And Susan Price can marry whom she will, And,"—so she argued, "will not marry Bill." One day she said,—"It is revealed to me That ere I die, a warning there shall be." Will looked, and saw her mind now wandered more, As thus she spake, than it had done before. "Yes," she exclaimed, "before I leave this scene, Death will appear,—the warning intervene. Death will appear in this our quiet home— A chicken without feathers will he come." Fame spreads the great, and fame will spread the small, Fame gives us tears,—for laughter it will call. Fame spreads this whim,—this foolish crazy fear,— The neighbors laughed, and told it far and near. There dwelt close by, a restless heedless wight— Mischief to him was ever a delight.— He heard the story, and his scheme prepared, And what his brain had purposed, that he dared. He from a rooster all his feathers tore, —Had he been learned in the Grecian lore Heard of the Cynic, old Diogenes, Who, lying in his tub, in dreamy ease, Said to the hard-brained conqueror of old time, With heedlessness to human wants sublime, When he inquired, "What shall for you be done?" "All that I ask, hide not from me the sun." He might have thought of him; and Plato's scowl, When in the school he hurled the unfeathered fowl, And said, ere murmuring lips reproof began, "There, Plato, is, as you defined, a man." But of the Greeks our wight had not a thought. Under his arm the fowl, all plucked, was brought, And forced to enter into Katy's door: Who spied him wandering o'er her sanded floor. She looked upon him, and began to weep. Bill sat not far off on a chair asleep. "And so," she said, "Oh death! and thou art come To take my spirit far away from home." Then as inspired a sudden hope to trace, She waved the unfeathered monster from its place. Would drive far off from her the coming ill,— "Shoo shoo, thou death, now leave me, go to Bill." 'Twas overheard—and wide the story spread. It reached John Jones, and to his wife he said, In precious wrath,—"They slander thus our Kate; Some foe devised this in malicious hate; And you, perhaps, were one to make the lie." Thus deeply stung, she made a fierce reply. "She did it, I am sure," replied the wife, "She did it, sure as I have breath and life." "No—Katy didn't," said the man in rage. "Yes, Katy did," she said. And so they wage A war of words, like these upon my page. The Indian Fairy spirit heard the din, And first to patience strove them both to win, Sent the cool breeze to fan the burning brow, Volcanic fires to die by flakes of snow. In war incessant, still the clamor rose, Still Katy did, and didn't, and fierce blows. At last the spirit took their souls away, And in their cottage lay their lifeless clay; Their bodies changed—and insects they became— Green as the grass—but still their cry the same. Hence in all trees, we hear in starry night, The contradiction, and the wordy fight. We hear John Jones, and his unhappy wife, And all their brood forever in a strife: And Katy did, and Katy didn't still Are sounds incessant as a murmuring rill.