* * * * *
WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA
Oh! they’ve swept the parlor carpet, and they’ve
dusted every chair,
And they’ve got the tidies hangin’ jest exactly on the square;
And the what-not’s fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat,
And the pantry’s brimmin’ over with the bully things ter eat;
Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she’s frizzin’ up her bangs;
Ma’s got on her best alpacky, and she’s askin’ how it hangs;
Pa has shaved as slick as can be, and I’m rigged way up in G,—
And it’s all because we’re goin’ ter have the minister ter tea.
Oh! the table’s fixed up gaudy with the gilt-edged
And we’ll use the silver tea-pot and the comp’ny spoons, you bet;
And we’re goin’ ter have some fruit-cake and some thimbleberry jam,
And “riz biscuits,” and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham.
Ma, she’ll ’polergize like fury and say everything is bad,
And “Sich awful luck with cookin’,” she is sure she never had;
But, er course, she’s only bluffin’, for it’s as prime as it can be,
And she’s only talkin’ that way ’cause the minister’s ter tea.
Everybody’ll be a-smilin’ and as good
as ever was,
Pa won’t growl about the vittles, like he generally does,
And he’ll ask me would I like another piece er pie; but, sho!
That, er course, is only manners, and I’m s’posed ter answer “No.”
Sis’ll talk about the church-work and about the Sunday-school,
Ma’ll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the Golden Rule,
And if I upset my tumbler they won’t say a word ter me:—
Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea!
Say! a minister, you’d reckon, never ’d
say what wasn’t true;
But that isn’t so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too;
’Cause when Sis plays on the organ so it makes yer want ter die,
Why, he sets and says it’s lovely; and that, seems ter me, ’s a lie:
But I like him all the samey, and I only wish he’d stay
At our house fer good and always, and eat with us every day;
Only think of havin’ goodies every evenin’! Jimmi_nee_!
And I’d never git a scoldin’ with the minister ter tea!
* * * * *
I’ve got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind
Who jest ain’t good fer nothin’ but ter eat and sleep and “yap.”
Fer all ’round general wuthlessness I never see his beat,
And yet he makes more fuss and noise than all the farm complete.
There ain’t a mite of sense inside that yaller hide of his;
But, as he ain’t no good, he likes ter pester them that is.
The critters all despise him, but there ain’t a one but feels
A little mite oneasy when he’s “yappin’” round their heels.