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He drops his whip, he drops his rein,
He clutches fiercely for a mane;
He'll lose his hold-he sways and reels-
He'll slide beneath those trampling heels !
The knees of many a horseman quake,
The flowers on many a bonnet shake,
And shouts arise from left and right,
“Stick on ! Stick on !” “Hould tight ! Hould tight !"

Cling round his neck and don't let go,
That

pace can't hold—there! steady! whoa !”
But like the sable steed that bore
The spectral lover of Lenore,
His nostrils snorting foam and fire,
No stretch his bony limbs can tire ;
And now the stand he rushes by,
And “Stop him!-stop him!” is the cry.
Stand back ! he's only just begun-
He's having out three heats in one !

“Don't rush in front ! he'll smash your brains ;
But follow

up and grab the reins !”
Old Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard,
And sprang impatient at the word;
Budd Doble started on his bay,
Old Hiram followed on his gray,
And off they spring and round they go,
The fast ones doing “all they know.”
Look; twice they follow at his heels,
As round the circling course he wheels,
And whirls with him that clinging boy,
Like Hector round the walls of Troy ;
Still on, and on, the third time round !
They're tailing off! they're losing ground !
Budd Doble's nag begins to fail !
Dan Pfeiffer's sorrel whisks his tail !
And see! in spite of whip and shout,

Old Hiram's mare is giving out !

Now for the finish! at the turn,
'The old horse--all the rest astern
Comes swinging in with easy trot;
By Jove ! he's distanced all the lot!
That trot no mortal could explain;
Some said, “ Old Dutchman come again;
Some took his time,—at least they tried,
But what it was could none decide;
One said he couldn't understand
What happened to his second hand;
One said 2.10; that couldn't be-
More like two twenty-two or three ;
Old Hiram settled it at last;
“ The time was two-too dee-vel-ish fast !
The parson's horse had won the bet;
It cost him something of a sweat.
Back in the one-horse shay he went ;
The parson wondered what it meant,
And murmured, with a mild surprise
And pleasant twinkle of the eyes,
" That funeral must have been a trick,
Or corpses drive at double-quick;
I shouldn't wonder, I declare,
If brother Murray made the prayer !”
And this is all I have to say
About the parson's poor old bay,
The same that drew the one-horse shay.
Moral for which this tale is told :
A horse can trot, for all he's old.

Good common sense iz az helthy az onions; we often see thoze who are good simply bekauze they haint got sense enuff tew be bad, and thoze who are bad just bekause they haint got sense enuff tew be good.

The man who don't kno himself iz a poor judge ov the other phellow.

JOSH BILLINGS.

Charles F.

F. Adains.

(Mr. Adams has only published one small volume of poems, and, “moving only in the

mercantile world,” he modestly deprecates criticism which his original genius need never cause him to fear. His style is in many ways akin to that of Hans Breitmann.) SEQUEL TO THE "ONE-HORSE SHAY."

“ “
DOUBTLESS my readers all have heard

Of the “wonderful one-horse shay”
That “went to pieces all at once"

On the terrible earthquake-day.
But did they ever think of the horse,

Or mourn the loss of him—
The "ewe-necked bay” (who drew the "shay "),

So full of life and vim ?

He was a wonderful nag, I'm told,

In spite of his old "rat-tail ;"
And though he always minded the rein,

He laughed at the snow and hail.
He had the finest stable in town,

With plenty of oats and hay;
And to the parson's oft “Hud-dup '

He never would answer neigh.
To the parson's shay he was ever true,

Though her other felloes were tired :
To live and die with his fiancée

Was all that his heart desired
He was much attached to his ancient mate ;

So the parson "hitched them together ;
And when they went on their bridle tour,

His heart was light as a feather.
We all remember her awful fate,

On that sad November day,
When nothing remained but a heap of trash,

That once was a beautiful shay.

Oh! what could stir-up the equine breast

Like this feaful, harrowing blow,
Which put a check on his happiness,

And filled his heart with wh)oa.

As he wheeled about, a shaft of pain

Entered his faithful breast,
And he there beheld the sad remains

Of her whom he loved the best.

With a sudden bound and fearful snort,

He sped away like the wind;
And a fact most queer I'll mention here-

No traces were left behind.

OUR SUMATRA CORRESPONDENCE.

(From "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.)

Do I think that the particular form of lying often seen in newspapers, under the title, “From our Foreign Correspondent," does any harm ?—Why, no,- I don't know that it does. I

suppose it doesn't really deceive people any more than the Arabian Nights or Gulliver's Travels do. Sometimes the writers compile too carelessly, though, and mix up facts out of geographies, and stories out of the penny papers, so as to mislead those who are desirous of information. I cut a piece out of one of the papers the other day which contains a number of improbabilities and, I suspect, misstatements. I will send up and get it for you, if you would like to hear it.—Ah, this is it: it is headed

“OUR SUMATRA CORRESPONDENCE.

“This island is now the property of the Stamford family,having been won, it is said, in a raffle, by Sir Stamford, during the stock-gambling mania of the South-Sea Scheme. The history of this gentleman may be found in an interesting scries of questions (unfortunately not yet answered) contained in the 'Notes and Queries. This island is entirely surrounded by the ocean, which here contains a large amount of saline substance, crystallising in cubes remarkable for their symmetry, and frequently displays on its surface during calm weather the rainbow tints of the celebrated South Sea bubbles. The summers are oppressively hot, and the winters very probably cold; but this fact cannot be ascertained precisely, as, for some peculiar reason, the mercury in these latitudes never shrinks, as in more northern regions, and thus the thermometer is rendered useless in winter.

“The principal vegetable productions of the island are the pepper-tree and the bread-fruit tree. Pepper being very abundantly produced, a benevolent society was organised in London during the last century for supplying the natives with vinegar and oysters, as an addition to that delightful condiment. It is said, however, that, as the oysters were of the kind called natives in England, the natives of Sumatra, in obedience to a natural instinct, refused to touch them, and confined themselves entirely to the crew of the vessel in which they were brought over. This information was received from one of the oldest inhabitants, a native himself, and exceedingly fond of missionaries. He is said also to be very skilful in the cuisine peculiar to the island.

“During the season of gathering the pepper, the persons employed are subject to various incommodities, the chief of which is violent and long-continued sternutation or sneezing. Such is the vehemence of these attacks, that the unfortunate subjects of them are often driven backwards for great distances at immense speed, on the well-known principle of the æolipile. Not being able to see where they are going, these poor creatures dash themselves to pieces against the rocks or are precipitated over the cliffs, and thus many valuable lives are lost annually. As, during the whole pepper-harvest, they feed exclusively on this stimulant, they become exceedingly irritable. The smallest injury is resented with ungovernable rage. A young man suffering from the pepperfever, as it is called, cudgelled another most severely for appropriating a superannuated relative of trifling value, and was only pacified by having a present made him of a pig of that peculiar species of swine called the Peccavi by the Catholic Jews, who, it

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