An old-fashioned type
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
For ‘Mabel Brown’ I never cared
(My rightful name by birth),
But when the name of Smith I shared,
I seemed to own the earth,
(I wrote it without ‘y’ or ‘e’ -
Plain ‘Mrs. Jack Smith’ suited me.)
My happiest hour, as I look back
On times of great content,
Was when folks called me ‘Mrs. Jack,’
Though ‘Mrs. Smith’ was meant.
It was the pleasure of my life
To hear them say: ‘That’s Jack Smith’s wife.’
One day I joined a club. They said
That I must speak or write.
So I did both. I wrote and read
A speech one fateful night.
It made a hit, but proved, alack,
A death blow to poor ‘Mrs. Jack.’
As ‘Mrs. Mabel Smith’ I’m known
Throughout my town and State;
My heart feels widowed and alone;
The case is intricate.
Though darling Jack is mine, the same,
I am divorced somehow in name.
Just ‘Mabel Smith’ I can endure;
It leaves the world in doubt;
But ‘Mrs.’ makes the marriage sure,
Yet leaves the husband out.
It sounds like Reno, or the tomb,
And always fills me full of gloom.
They say the honours are all mine;
Well, I would trade the pack
For one sweet year in which to shine
Again as ‘Mrs. Jack.’
That gave to life a core, a pith,
Not found by ‘Mrs. Mabel Smith.’
For one suggests the chosen mate,
And all the joy love brings;
And one suggests a delegate
To federated things.
I’m built upon the old-time plan -
I like to supplement a man.
If on each point of glory’s star
My name shone like a pearl,
I’d feel a pleasure greater far
In being ‘Jack Smith’s girl.’
It is ridiculous, I know,
But then, you see, I’m fashioned so.