IV.
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A woman toils, withdrawn from human sight;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.