The daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1878, 1868-08-05

Il We Uhnt o huILy L dki Ill stuu uOW i
| detest "a pipe. Yet here may be,
for all he cares, sleeping on Mrs.
Robinson's lounge for month or
'two, and all the time my parlor-
Miss Jemima Bloor's8 best room-
Escented with tobacco!S I wonder if
the man expects to go to Heaven
when he dies? I wonder if he ex-
poets me to pay him three dollars a
day for smoking his pipe and swing
ing his heels2 =,
All! there comes Joseph Baldwin
! just back from dinner, and-let me
see-its twenty-five minutes past 2.
If I had my way about women's
| rights, I'd put the men out of this
world altogether; that would settle
the question What are they, after
all, but an aggravatien, marplot
and general nuisance?
Now, there goes Will Wiley,
tramping right over my verbena bed!
Has the man no eyes in his head? or
did his mother never succeed in beat
ing it into his dull brain that ver-
bena bed is not to be walked on, and
that garden path is?
And, now think of it, it was only
yesterday found five broken panes
in my upstairs window. Yet that
faithless, good-for-nothing glazier
had sworn to me that very morning
that he had taken every sash out,
from garret to cellar, and left all in
perfect order. Lords of creation,
indeed! Lords of fddle-sticks!
Wonderful example of superior in
tellect-was it not? to take q window
sash out for repairs, and put it back
in perfect order with five broken
panes in It'll If Miss Jemima Bloor
were to sit in maiden lady's best
room window and smoke O pipe and
swing her heels-if she were to come
from dinner to her work at twenty
five minutes after 2-if she were to
go tramping about on peoples ver-
bena beds-if she were to declare q
window-sash with five broken panes
completely repaired-would she call
herself o lady of creation aud supe-
rior intellect? I ask the world,
would she call herself lord or a lady
of creation and su-
at this point, my indignant re-
Elections were interrupted by soft
splish-splash and q subdued little
hntter of sobs.
My hostess had been knitting
with her comfortable fat hands, a
baby's hood for Mrs. Peters, next
door.
AS [ looked up, I saw the tears
trlckle down on her knitting needles,
till they shone and winked at me in
an impish manner.
This little woman is my mental
cushion--my social rest. Mild,
round and rosy in body, crying is
the only luxury she seems thoroughly
to enjoy. The tears roll over her
plump cheek as if they were used to
it, and leave them plumper than
before. The round, light-blue eyes
are always ready for a shower, and
look all the rounder and bluer after it
is over. 1 never knew her to have
an original idea of any description.
The thought of her whole life had
been cher Willie" Mrs. Robinson,
although weak little woman enough,
has had curious history of her own.
She was an orphan; had married
at twenty, William Robinson,
sailor of the town, and had moved
into her present home with her hus-
band and an uncle, with whom she
had lived before her marriage. Two
months afterward young William
sailed for India. The appointed
time for his return has passed;
month by month went by, and still
his wife looked for him who never
came. After two years the old uncle
was laid at rest, and the little woman
was left quite alone.
How she waited and watched
watched all through youth, oil
through middle Aggravated and
watched in vain through twenty long,
long years!
CONTINUED IN OUR NEXT.