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You'd never suspect he sold bacon

And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting

In the glare of the grand chandelier, -
In the bustle and glitter befitting

The “ finest soirée of the year,"
In the mists of a gaze de Chambéry,

And the hum of the smallest of talk,-
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the “Ferry,"

And the dance that we had on The Fork ;

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Of Harrison's barn, with its muster

Of flags festooned over the wall ;
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre

And tallow on head-dress and shawl ;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle;

Of the dress of my queer vis-à-vis; And how I once went down the middle

With the man that shot Sandy McGee ;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping

On the hill, when the time came to go, Of the few baby peaks that were peeping

From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that ride,—that to me was the rarest ;

Of-the something you said at the gate : Ah, Joe ! then I wasn't an heiress

To “the best-paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny

To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money,

That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water,

And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter.

The Lily of Poverty Flat?

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!

(Mamma says my taste still is low,)
Instead of my triumphs reciting,

I'm spooning on Joseph,-heigh-ho!
And I'm to be “finished” by travel,

Whatever's the meaning of that, -
Oh! why did papa strike pay gravel

In drifting on Poverty Flat ?

Good-night,-here's the end of my paper ;

Good-night,-if the longitude please-
For may-be, while wasting my taper,

Your sun 's climbing over the trees.
But know, if you haven't got riches,

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
That my heart 's somewhere there in the ditches,

And you've struck it,-on Poverty Flat.



Being asked by an intimate party, —

Which the same I would term as a friend, Which his health it were vain to call hearty,

Since the mind to deceit it might lend; For his arm it was broken quite recent,

And has something gone wrong with his lung, Which it is why it is proper and decent

I should write what he runs off his tongue:

First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter

To the end, -and the end came too soon; That a slight illness kept him your debtor

(Which for weeks he was wild as a loon); That his spirits are buoyant as yours is ;

That with you, Miss, he challenges Fate

(Which the language that invalid uses

At times it were vain to relate).

And he


that the mountains are fairer, For once being held in your thought; That each rock holds a wealth that is rarer

Than ever by gold-seeker sought
(Which are words he would put in these pages,

By a party not given to guile;
Which the same not, at date, paying wages,

Might produce in the sinful a smile).

He remembers the ball at the Ferry,

And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, And the rose that you gave him,- that very

Same rose he is treasuring now (Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk, Miss,

And insists on his legs being free;
And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,

Is frequent and painful and free);

He hopes you are wearing no willows,

But are happy and gay all the while ;
That he knows (which this dodging of pillows

Imparts but small ease to the style,
And the same you will pardon),-he knows, Miss,

That though parted by many a mile, Yet were he lying under the snows, Miss,

They'd melt into tears at your smile.

And you 'll still think of him in your pleasures,

In your brief twilight dreams of the past; In this green laurel-spray that he treasures,

It was plucked where your parting was last; In this specimen,—but a small trifle,

It will do for a pin for your shawl (Which the truth not to wickedly stifle

Was his last week's “clean up,”—and his all)

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He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss,

Were it not that I scorn to deny
That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss,

In view that his fever was high ;
But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive.

And now, my respects, Miss, to you;
Which my language, although comprehensive,

Might seem to be freedom,-it's true.
Which I have a small favour to ask you,

As concerns a bull-pup, which the same,
If the duty would not overtask you, –

You would please to procure for me, game;
And send per express to the Flat, Miss,

Which they say York is famed for the breed,
Which though words of deceit may be that, Miss,

I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.
P.S.-Which this same interfering

Into other folk's way I despise ;
Yet if it so be I was hearing

That it's just empty pockets as lies
Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers,

That, having no family claims,
Here's my pile; which it's six hundred dollars,
As is yours, with respects,



lays in hiz

A HUMBUG iz like a bladder, good for nothing till it is blowed up, and then ain't good for nothing after it iz pricked. A bigg noze iz sed tew be a sighn ov genius—if a man's genius noze, i should

say the sign waz a good one. Vanity iz seldom malishous. A woman (like an echo), will hav the last word.

When a man is squandering hiz estate, even those. who are getting it call him a phool.

Men mourn for what they hav lost-wimmin for what they

hain't got.


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