Say if you like that women have no sense,
      No self-control, no power of concentration;
    Say that hysterics is our one defence
      Our virtue but an absence of temptation;
    These I can bear, but, oh, I own it rankles
    To hear you maundering on about our ankles.

    Tell those old stories, which have now and then
      Been from the Record thoughtfully deleted,
    Repeat that favorite one about the hen,
      Repeat the ones that cannot be repeated;
    But in the midst of such enjoyments, smother
    The impulse to extol your “sainted mother.”

On Not Believing All You Hear

("Women are angels, they are jewels, they are queens and princesses of our hearts.”—­Anti-suffrage speech of Mr. Carter of Oklahoma.)

    “Angel, or jewel, or princess, or queen,
    Tell me immediately, where have you been?”

    “I’ve been to ask all my slaves so devoted
    Why they against my enfranchisement voted.”

    “Angel and princess, that action was wrong. 
    Back to the kitchen, where angels belong.”

The Revolt of Mother

("Every true woman feels——­“—­Speech of almost any Congressman.)

    I am old-fashioned, and I think it right
      That man should know, by Nature’s laws eternal,
    The proper way to rule, to earn, to fight,
      And exercise those functions called paternal;
    But even I a little bit rebel
    At finding that he knows my job as well.

    At least he’s always ready to expound it,
      Especially in legislative hall,
    The joys, the cares, the halos that surround it,
      “How women feel”—­he knows that best of all. 
    In fact his thesis is that no one can
    Know what is womanly except a man.

    I am old-fashioned, and I am content
      When he explains the world of art and science
    And government—­to him divinely sent—­
      I drink it in with ladylike compliance. 
    But cannot listen—­no, I’m only human—­
    While he instructs me how to be a woman.

The Gallant Sex

(A woman engineer has been dismissed by the Board of Education, under their new rule that women shall not attend high pressure boilers, although her work has been satisfactory and she holds a license to attend such boilers from the Police Department.)

    Lady, dangers lurk in boilers,
      Risks I could not let you face. 
    Men were meant to be the toilers,
      Home, you know, is woman’s place. 
    Have no home?  Well, is that so? 
    Still, it’s not my fault, you know.

    Charming lady, work no more;
      Fair you are and sweet as honey;
    Work might make your fingers sore,
      And, besides, I need the money. 
    Prithee rest,—­or starve or rob—­
    Only let me have your job!