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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, -
The “ finest soirée of the year,"
And the hum of the smallest of talk,-
And the dance that we had on The Fork ;
Of Harrison's barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall ;
And tallow on head-dress and shawl ;
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,)
I'm spooning on Joseph,-heigh-ho!
Whatever's the meaning of that, -
In drifting on Poverty Flat ?
Good-night,-here's the end of my paper ;
Good-night,-if the longitude please-
Your sun 's climbing over the trees.
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
And you've struck it,-on Poverty Flat.
HIS ANSWER TO “HER LETTER.”
REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES.
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).
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
By a party not given to guile;
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;
Is frequent and painful and free);
He hopes you are wearing no willows,
But are happy and gay all the while ;
Imparts but small ease to the style,
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)
He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss,
Were it not that I scorn to deny
In view that his fever was high ;
And now, my respects, Miss, to you;
Might seem to be freedom,-it's true.
As concerns a bull-pup, which the same,
You would please to procure for me, game;
Which they say York is famed for the breed,
I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.
Into other folk's way I despise ;
That it's just empty pockets as lies
That, having no family claims,
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