The Universal Reciter Part 18

_Mrs. F._ Why! what a hor--a handsome bonnet! Did you ever see anything like it, Dora?

_Dora._ Never, mamma!

_Aunt H._ That's the style, marm.

_Mrs. F._ Really! I want to know! And this is Thompson's most stylish bonnet! Really, how the fas.h.i.+ons do change! Did you ever, Dora!

_Dora._ Never, mamma!

_Kitty._ (_Aside._) I do believe they are laughing! Aunt Hopkins, I cannot get it off! You've tied it in a hard knot!

_Mrs. F._ It's very becoming--isn't it, Dora?

_Dora._ O, very, mamma.

_Mrs. F._ (_Aside to_ DORA.)--What a horrid fright!

_Dora._ Frightful, mamma!

_Mrs. F._ I believe we must be moving, for I must hurry to Thompson's and order just such a bonnet for Dora. Good day. You have such a charming taste--hasn't she, Dora?

_Dora._ Charming, mamma! (_They bow, and exeunt_, L., _with their handkerchiefs to their mouths, endeavouring to conceal their laughter._)

_Kitty._ Good day. Call again.--The hateful things! They are laughing at me. What ails this bonnet. (_Goes to gla.s.s._) Goodness gracious; what a fright! This is not my bonnet. Aunt Hopkins, you've ruined me!

I shall be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. (_Tears off the bonnet._)

_Enter_ MRS. CLIPPER, R.

_Mrs. C._ Have the Fastones gone?

_Kitty._ I hope so. O, mother, send aunt Hopkins home; she's made me look ridiculous!

_Aunt H._ Well, I declare! this comes of trying to please folks!

_Mrs. C._ Is _that_ your love of a bonnet, Kitty?

_Kitty._ No, indeed! Aunt Hopkins, where did you get this hateful thing?

_Aunt H._ Out of that bandbox.

_Kitty._ (_Takes up the cover._) It's marked "Miss Katy Doolan."

You've made a pretty mess of it!

_Aunt H._ Sakes alive! It's the hired gal's! Well, I never!

_Mrs. C._ But where's the bonnet you sent from Thompson's?

_Katy._ (_Outside._) O, murder! that iver I should say this day!

_Enter_ KATY, R., (_holding in her hand an elegant bonnet._)

The mane, stingy blackgurd has sint me this whisp of a bunnet, that I'll niver git on my head at all at all!

_Kitty._ That's my bonnet!

_Katy._ Is it, indade? and perhaps ye's be afther claiming the letther Cornalius Ryan sint wid it.

_Mrs. C._ No, no, Katy; there's a little mistake here. This is your bonnet.

_Katy._ Faith, now, isn't that a darling, jist! I'll wear it to church to-morrow, sure.

_Kitty._ Put it on now, Katy; and then take this wisp of a bonnet, as you call it, to Miss Thompson, with my best compliments and tell her I have decided not to keep it.

_Mrs. C._ Why, Kitty, I thought your heart was set upon having it.

_Kitty._ So it was, mother; but I shall never dare to wear it, after the ridiculous appearance I have just made. It's too fine for me. My conscience gave me a little twinge as I was coming home. Send Harry the money for his new suit. My old bonnet is quite good enough for me.

_Aunt H._ Neow that's what I call a self-denyin' gal. I'll fix it up for you; for if there's anything I pride myself on doin', it's fixing up old bunnets.

_Kitty._ And trying on new ones! No, I thank you, aunt Hopkins.

Hereafter I'll look after my bonnets myself. I think our acquaintance with Mrs. Fastone will be broken off by this adventure; and so I will make a merit of necessity, abandon fas.h.i.+onable society, and be more humble in my demeanor and in my dress.

_Mrs. C._ Ah, my child, you will be better satisfied with your decision, as you grow older, and see how frivolous are the demands of fas.h.i.+on, and how little happiness can be obtained by lavish display.

And I think this little adventure, though a severe lesson, will be far more profitable than the possession of that "love of a bonnet."

DRAFTED.

MRS. H.L. BOSTWICK.

The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted:--in the end the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of resignation fills the mother's heart:

My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books; No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie--as delicate, too, in his looks.

Why, it seems but a day since he helped me girl-like, in my kitchen at tasks; He drafted! Great G.o.d, can it be that our President knows what he asks?

He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best; Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest.

Too slender for over much study--why, his master has made him to-day Go out with his ball on the common--and you have drafted a child at his play!

"Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I wimper when Robert stood up with his gun, And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run?

Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall, "There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert, "if I am to fall."

"Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot for Clay.

Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame We'll lay on the candidate's altar"--and christened the child with his name.

Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with harm, (Troubling only my G.o.d for the suns.h.i.+ne and rain on my rough little farm,) That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my eyes, That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?