A QUESTION OF COLOR.
BY NELLIE L. TINKHAM.
“Dear me!” said Mrs. Strawberry Jam,
A-growing very red,
“What a most unfortunate creature I am;
I can scarce hold up my head.
To think that I should live to see
An insult offered, like this, to me!
That I should be placed on the very same shelf
(Oh dear! I hardly know myself)
By the side of that odious Blackberry Jam—
That vulgar, common, Blackberry Jam!”
So she fumed and fretted, hour by hour,
Growing less and less contented,
Till her temper became so thoroughly sour
That she at last fermented.
While Mr. Blackberry Jam kept still,
And let her have her say—
Kept a quiet heart, as blackberries will,
And grew sweeter every day.
One morn there stopped at Dame Smither’s fence
The parson—to say that he might,
By the kind permission of Providence,
Take tea with her that night.
And the good old lady, blessing her lot,
Hastened to open her strawberry pot.
“Oh, what a horrible mess! Dear—dear!
Not a berry fit to eat is here.
After all,” putting it down with a slam.
“Nothing will keep like good Blackberry Jam,
Honest, reliable, Blackberry Jam.”
Mrs. Strawberry J. went into the pail;
Oh my—what a dire disgrace!
And the pig ate her up, with a twitch of his tail
And a troubled expression of face.
While Blackberry J., in a lovely glass dish,
Sat along with the bread and honey,
And thought, while happy as heart could wish,
“Well, things turn out very funny!”
—The Century.