This sort o' thing aint jest like thet,- I wish thet I wuz furder,-*

Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer

murder,

(Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some fer Deacon Cephas Billins,

An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten

shillins,)

There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller,

It comes so nateral to think about a hempen col

lar;

It 's glory, but, in spite o' all my tryin' to git

callous,

I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gal

lus.

But wen it comes to bein' killed,—I tell ye I felt

streaked

The fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz

peaked ;

*he means Not quite so fur i guess. — H. B.

Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fan

dango,

The sentinul he ups an' sez,

you can go."

"Thet 's furder 'an

"None o' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!"

Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I 've ben to

muster;

I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to

eat us;

Caleb haint no monopoly to court the seenoree

tas;

My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!"

An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin' wut would

folly,

The everlastin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork

in me

An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz

an in❜my.

Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole

Funnel

Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant

Cunnle,

*

(It 's Mister Secondary Bolles, thet writ the prize

peace essay;

Thet 's wy he did n't list himself along o' us, I

dessay,)

An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but don't put his foot in it,

Coz human life 's so sacred thet he 's principled

agin' it,

Though I myself can 't rightly see it 's any wus achokin' on 'em

Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on 'em ;

How dreffle slick he reeled it off, (like Blitz at our

lyceum

Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em,)

*the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he ollers stuck to his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone.-H. B.

About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be

handy

To du the buryin' down here upon the Rio Gran

dy),

About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled ban.

ner,

Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out ho

sanner,

An' how he (Mister B. himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky,

I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite hister

icky.

I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' priv

ilege

Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's

drivelage;

I act❜lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drum

min',

An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz

in'

acom

Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the

state prison)

An'

every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.*

This 'ere 's about the meanest place a skunk could

wal diskiver

(Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Salt

river).

The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all

nater,

I'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose

tater;

The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so

charmin'

Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin'.

*it must be aloud that thare 's a streak o' nater in lovin' sho, but it sartinly is 1 of the curusest things in nater to see a rispecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) a riggin' himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round in the Reign aspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of himself. Ef any thin 's foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishy gloary.-H. B.