THE MORTUARY POET.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 4161, 22 August 1881, 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 tha 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." "Gone where?" " Up above— died last night— want you to put it in your next issue." "What ailed her ?" " Lockjaw. She lay for threa weeks and couldn't speak ; never had Buch a quiet time in the house before. Just do the notice up fine, will you, and I'll see that everything is fixed up." According, the clerk scribbled away fora moment, handed out what he had written for inspection, and curtly remarked : — "Dollar thirty-fire." The bereaved husband read it ovor carefully, and finally gave a Bigh of satisfaction. "That's all right," he said, handing over the required specie, " but I s'poae you could put a verse on the end, couldn't you ?" " Well, yea," ruminated the clerk, " guess bo. What kind of averse do you want?" "Somethin' tender like and sorrowful." "How would this do?" asktd tho clork, scratching his head with tho head of his penholder.

A. perfect fcinalo, folks did consider her, She's jjoue and left a weeping widower.

"That's kinder melancholy," reilected the stranger, but I reckon it's a leetlo— just a lettlo — too personal. Jußt you try it again. I don't mind for putting up hansum for Bumthun' that'll rake folk's heartstrings." Tho clerk gazed at the ceiling for a. moment, and then suggested : —

The hnskinrt's lost n wife, The children ma, Died «n Friday niurhi, From tlie lockjaw.

" Yes," broko out the mourner, wiping his nose with a blacb-bordercd handkerchief, " but, you see, T don't own any young una." " 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 bolieve that'll suit. You see, Muriar couldn't oven play on a pianncr, and I know a harp would stump her, sure. Poor woman, sho had n tender heart, though, and made tho most elegant biscuit you over saw." " Hanged if I won't havo to charge you extra," prowled the clerk. " I ain't a Longfellow or n Tonnyaon, I know," meekly replied tho weeping widower. " Just try onco more, won't you ? " So tho clerk did, and at hint ground out the following : —

On earth could not stay Mnrinr, .S;) she died and went lin higher.

" Sorter irreverent, ain't it • ?" anxiously asked Maria's relict. " I reckon I wouldn't grudge a couplo of dollars for a bang-up verse." Thus stimulated (he mnchine poet became suddenly inspired, and cxultingly produced :

Cr.v for Mariar ! Al:ih ! she is no more — Joined (lie sini'mir sentjiliH tj'i>on the oilier shore.

The afllicted ono uneasily took n chew of tobacco, and whiserod ; "Beautiful; but thoro's ono thing that spiles it. Mariar hadn't any more melody in her than mi oh? plough, and it's delibcret. Inn' to sptalc of her as a vocalist. None of them other syrupß (t eraphe) you allude to could keep timo with her." " Weli." thoughttully remarked Iho discomfited clerk, "If this ain't all OK, you'll have to hire a special poet ; I'm played out."

.Affliction sore Lonjj time tihclmre. Physicians were in vain ; Lockjaw kotehed lier, J)i>:ith it fctclif.l lii.t— (.tone, to risi' ;::'.< in. " Tell you what," Pisthu-instii?ally cxokimcd tho widower, " that,' 3 lip top. jftro's your two dollars ; you've airnt them. A young man that c.tn make up siu-h affecting linen us them has n glorious futuro before him!" And erjuccziiig tho exhausted poet's hend, (ho eluted speaker left in search of a pair of black kid gloves.