"I care not a whit, —He's not grown a bit," Says my Aunt, "it will still be a very good fit." So Janet, and She, Now about thirty-three, (The maid had been jilted by Mr. Magee,) Each taking one end of "the Shirt" on her knee, Again began working with hearty good will, "Felling the Seams," and "whipping the Frill,"— For, twenty years since, though the Ruffle had vanish'd, A Frill like a fan had by no means been banish'd; People wore them at playhouses, parties, and churches, Like overgrown fins of overgrown perches.—
Now, then, by these two thus laying their caps Together, my "Shirt" had been finish'd, perhaps, But for one of those queer little three-corner'd straps, Which the ladies call "Side-bits," that sever the "Flaps;" —Here unlucky Janet Took her needle, and ran it Right into her thumb, and cried loudly, "Ads cuss it! I've spoiled myself now by that 'ere nasty Gusset!"
For a month to come Poor dear Janet's thumb Was in that sort of state vulgar people call "Rum." At the end of that time, A youth, still in his prime, The Doctor's fat Errand-boy,—just such a dolt as is Kept to mix draughts, and spread plaisters and poultices,— Who a bread-cataplasm each morning had carried her, Sigh'd,—ogled,—proposed,—was accepted,—and married her!
Much did Aunt Fan Disapprove of the plan;— She turn'd up her dear little snub at "the Man." She "could not believe it"— "Could scarcely conceive it Was possible—What! such a place!—and then leave it!— And all for a 'Shrimp' not as high as my hat— A little contemptible 'Shaver' like that!! With a broad pancake face, and eyes buried in fat!" —For her part, "She was sure She could never endure A lad with a lisp, and a leg like a skewer.— Such a name too!—('twas Potts!)—and so nasty a trade— No, no,—she would much rather die an old maid!— He a husband, indeed!—Well—mine, come what may come, Shan't look like a blister, or smell of Guaiacum!"— But there! She'd "declare, It was Janet's affair— —Chacun à son goût— As she baked she might brew— She could not prevent her—'twas no use in trying it— Oh, no—she had made her own bed, and might lie in it.— They 'repent at leisure who marry at random.' No matter—De gustibus non disputandum!"
Consoling herself with this choice bit of Latin, Aunt Fanny resignedly bought some white satin, And, as the Soubrette Was a very great pet After all,—she resolved to forgive and forget, And sat down to make her a bridal rosette, With magnificent bits of some white-looking metal Stuck in, here and there, each forming a petal.— —On such an occasion one couldn't feel hurt, Of course, that she ceased to remember—my Shirt!
Ten years,—or nigh,— Had again gone by, When Fan, accidentally casting her eye On a dirty old work-basket, hung up on high In the store-closet where herbs were put by to dry, Took it down to explore it—she didn't know why.—
Within, a pea-soup colour'd fragment she spied, Of the hue of a November fog in Cheapside, Or a bad piece of gingerbread spoilt in the baking.— —I still hear her cry,— "I wish I may die If here isn't Tom's Shirt, that's been so long a-making! My gracious me! Well,—only to see! I declare it's as yellow as yellow can be! Why, it looks just as though't had been soak'd in green tea. Dear me! Did you ever?— But come—'twill be clever To bring matters round; so I'll do my endeavour— 'Better Late,' says an excellent proverb, 'than Never!'— It is stain'd, to be sure; but 'grass-bleaching' will bring it To rights 'in a jiffy,'—We'll wash it, and wring it; Or, stay,—'Hudson's Liquor' Will do it still quicker, And—" Here the new maid chimed in, "Ma'am, Salt of Lemon Will make it, in no time, quite fit for the Gemman!"— So they "set in the gathers,"—the large round the collar, While those at the wrist-bands of course were much smaller,— The button-holes now were at length "overcast;" Then a button itself was sewn on—'twas the last!
All's done! All's won! Never under the sun Was Shirt so late finish'd—so early begun!— —The work would defy The most critical eye. It was "bleach'd,"—it was wash'd,—it was hung out to dry,— It was mark'd on the tail with a T, and an I! On the back of a chair it Was placed, just to air it, In front of the fire.—"Tom to-morrow shall wear it!"—
—O cæca mens hominum!—Fanny, good soul, Left her charge for one moment—but one—a vile coal Bounced out from the grate, and set fire to the whole!