How to Cure a Scold

How to Cure a Scold

The mildest, prettiest little girl—

Ah! woe is me!—

Who ever wore her hair in curl,

Was Rosalie.

Her hazel eyes and hair of jet

I put in rhyme;

I loved her from the hour we met—

O, happy time.

On day I asked her, "Wi't thou wed?"

Assent she sighed

And soon unto the church I led

A lovely bride.

The roses o'er our cottage door

Bloomed red and sweet,

And deftly pattered on the floor

Her tiny feet.

A month rolled by all peacefully—

It passed too soon—

That happiest month that man can see,

The honeymoon.

Then slowly came a woful change

Upon my life,

For Rosalie grew cold and strange,

And fond of strife.

No more I found her meek and mild

As therefore;

The woman had displaced the child

Forevermore.

And when I chanced, as oft might be,

Her name to call,

She either answered peevishly,

Or not at all.

Ere long, before our marriage vows

Were twelve months old,

I found I'd taken for a spouse

A common scold!

Worse, worse she grew with every day,

Till oft I said

I wished that she would run away,

Or I were dead.

But no such happiness I found—

To me she clung,

And wrathfully, the whole year round,

She wagged her tongue.

In January, month of thaws,

By chance it happed

That Rosie scolded me because

Her lips were chapped.

"'Tis caused by talk; keep silent then,

My dear," said I;

She only scolded me again

For my reply.

So out I went, nor dared to stop

For mud and wet,

Down to the nearest druggist's shop

Some salve to get.

I purchased something—man is frail—

And bore it home;

The strangest part of this strange tale

Is yet to come.

"Here is your lip-salve. Rosalie,"

I muttered low;

And once more Rosie scolded me,

For being slow

She took the bottle; its contents

She quckly applied;

Ah! she knew not the consequences

Until it dried!

O! nevermore did she unclose

Her lips to speak!

They stayed for aye in mute repose,

Silent and meek.

I did thenceforth as I thought best;

She ne'er complained;

No opposition she expressed,

But dumb remained.

Come, all who wish a quiet life,

I'll tell to yon

With what I cursed my scolding wife—

'Twas Spalding's Glue!

Unattributed

1:48, p. 4

6.16.1860

From Moore's Rural New Yorker