Complete Poetical Works

MRS. JUDGE JENKINS

     (BEING THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO "MAUD MULLER")

     Maud Muller all that summer day
     Raked the meadow sweet with hay;

     Yet, looking down the distant lane,
     She hoped the Judge would come again.

     But when he came, with smile and bow,
     Maud only blushed, and stammered, "Ha-ow?"

     And spoke of her "pa," and wondered whether
     He'd give consent they should wed together.

     Old Muller burst in tears, and then
     Begged that the Judge would lend him "ten;"

     For trade was dull, and wages low,
     And the "craps," this year, were somewhat slow.

     And ere the languid summer died,
     Sweet Maud became the Judge's bride.

     But on the day that they were mated,
     Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated;

     And Maud's relations, twelve in all,
     Were very drunk at the Judge's hall.

     And when the summer came again,
     The young bride bore him babies twain;

     And the Judge was blest, but thought it strange
     That bearing children made such a change;

     For Maud grew broad and red and stout,
     And the waist that his arm once clasped about

     Was more than he now could span; and he
     Sighed as he pondered, ruefully,

     How that which in Maud was native grace
     In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;

     And thought of the twins, and wished that they
     Looked less like the men who raked the hay

     On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain
     Of the day he wandered down the lane.

     And looking down that dreary track,
     He half regretted that he came back;

     For, had he waited, he might have wed
     Some maiden fair and thoroughbred;

     For there be women fair as she,
     Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.

     Alas for maiden! alas for judge!
     And the sentimental,—that's one-half "fudge;"

     For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore,
     With all his learning and all his lore;

     And the Judge would have bartered Maud's fair face
     For more refinement and social grace.

     If, of all words of tongue and pen,
     The saddest are, "It might have been,"

     More sad are these we daily see:
     "It is, but hadn't ought to be."