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ing, Mr. Mudge rose, drew from his pocket—his waistcoat pocket—a crumpled piece of paper, and handed it over.
Then he drew from his coat-tail pocket a large cotton handkerchief, with a red ground and yellow figure, slowly unfolded it, blew his nose
an awful blast it was—wiped his eyes, and disappeared. We publish Mr. Mudge's lines, with the remark that anyone who says they have no poets or poetry in Arkansas would doubt the existence of William Shakespeare:
DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF JEAMES HAMBRICK
BY MR. ORION W. MUDGE, Esq.
it was on June the tenth
Jeames Hambrick was his name
on the peacus river side
on the road his character good
a few words only he spoke
we wraped him in a blanket good
and as we stood around his grave
This is all, but I writ at the time a epitaff which I think is short and would do to go over his grave:
here lies the body of Jeames Hambrick
who was accidently shot
by a young man
he was accidently shot with one of the large size colt's revolver with no stopper for the cock to rest on it was one of the old fashion kind brass mounted and of such is the kingdom of heaven.
ORION W MUDGE Esq
Such has been the demand for the back numbers of the “ Phænix” Herald, that our editions have been entirely exhausted, and we have at last concluded to have the whole of them stereotyped. We have now seven hundred and eighty-two Indians employed night and day in mixing adobe for the type molds, and as no suitable metal is to be found in San Diego to cast the stereotypes, we have engaged 324,000 ball cartridges, from the Mission, for the sake of the lead. A very serious accident came near occurring in our office this morning owing to the ignition of a cartridge, caused by friction, resulting from the rapid manner in which it was unrolled, but fortunately we escaped, with slight loss, one of our compositors having had his leg fractured just above the knee-joint. The injured member was promptly and neatly taken off by “ Phænix,” with a broadaxe in 2.46, and the sufferer is now doing well and engaged in setting type with his teeth. Our steam roller presses having failed to arrive (owing to the non-arrival of the Goliah, as a matter of course), we
have been obliged to work off the Pictorial Herald on our solitary Power Press.
“ The Press is a tremendous engine.” We have two tremendous Indians working at ours. Four men remove the papers as fast as printed, and forming a line to the outer door four boys distribute them from the gallery to the excited crowd below.
Nothing is heard but the monotonous houp! hank! of the Indians, as in a cloud of steam of their own manufacture they strike off the paper. Nothing can be seen without but a shower of quarters, bits, and dimes darkening the air as they are thrown from the purchasers. Fourteen bushels and three pecks of silver have been received since we commenced distribution, and the cry is still they come.