bobbin up and down on his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on.

*

wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and arter I 'd gone to bed I heern Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the chollery or suthin anuther ses she, don't you Bee skeered, ses I, he's oney amakin pottery ses i, he's ollers on hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure enuf, cum mornin, Hosy he cum down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his varses to Parson Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows o' book larnin himself, bimeby he cum back and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit.

Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos the parson kind o' slicked off sum o' the last var. ses, but he told Hosee he didn't want to put his ore

in to tetch to the Rest on 'em, bein they wuz verry well As thay wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o' didn't hear him, for I never hearn o' nobody o' that name in this villadge, and I've lived here man and boy 76 year cum next tater diggin, and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer 'n I be.

If you print 'em I wish you'd jest let folks know who hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he's a likely kind o' lad.

EZEKIEL BIGLOW.

THRASH away, you 'll hev to rattle
On them kittle drums o' yourn, -

"Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle

Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;

Put in stiff, you fifer feller,

Let folks see how spry you be,

Guess you 'll toot till you are yeller

'Fore you git ahold o' me!

Thet air flag 's a leetle rotten,

Hope it aint your Sunday's best ;Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton

To stuff out a soger's chest:

Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't,
Ef you must wear humps like these,
Sposin' you should try salt hay fer 't,
It would du ez slick ez grease.

"T would n't suit them Southern fellers, They're a dreffle graspin' set,

We must ollers blow the bellers

Wen they want their irons het;

May be it's all right ez preachin',
But my narves it kind o' grates,

Wen I see the overreachin'

O' them nigger-drivin' States.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth, (Helped by Yankee renegaders,)

Thru the vartu o' the North!

We begin to think it's nater

To take sarse an' not be riled;

Who 'd expect to see a tater

All on eend at bein' biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder,

There you hev it plain an' flat;

I don't want to go no furder

Than my Testyment fer that;
God hez sed so plump an' fairly,
It 's ez long ez it is broad,
An' you 've gut to git up airly
Ef you want to take in God.

'Taint your eppyletts an' feathers

Make the thing a grain more right;

'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers

They may talk o' Freedom's airy Tell they're pupple in the face,It's a grand gret cemetary

Fer the barthrights of our race;
They jest want this Californy

So 's to lug new slave-states in
To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,
An' to plunder ye like sin.

Aint it cute to see a Yankee

Take sech everlastin' pains

All to git the Devil's thankee,

Helpin' on 'em weld their chains?