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He was six foot o' man, A 1,
Clear grit an' human natur';
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,
Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells —
All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run
All crinkly like curled maple,
The side she breshed felt full o' sun
Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir;

My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,
She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin'-bunnet
Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair
O' blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some!
She seemed to've gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper,
All ways to once her feelin's flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk

Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?"
"Wal... no . . . I come dasignin'”.
"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals acts so or so,
Or don't, 'ould be presumin';
Mebby to mean yes an' say no
Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t'other,
An' on which one he felt the wust
He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin;'

Says she, "Think likely, Mister: " Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An'... Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,

All kin' o' smily roun' the lips
An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind

Whose naturs never vary,

Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued

Too tight for all expressin',

Tell mother see how metters stood,
An' gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,

An' all I know is they was cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

James Russell Lowell

THE TWINS

In form and feature, face and limb,
I grew so like my brother,
That folks got taking me for him,
And each for one another.
It puzzled all our kith and kin,
It reach'd an awful pitch;
For one of us was born a twin,
Yet not a soul knew which.

One day (to make the matter worse),
Before our names were fix'd,
As we were being wash'd by nurse
We got completely mix'd;

And thus, you see, by Fate's decree,
(Or rather nurse's whim),

My brother John got christen'd me,
And I got christen'd him.

This fatal likeness even dogg'd
My footsteps when at school,
And I was always getting flogg'd,
For John turned out a fool.
I put this question hopelessly
To every one I knew

What would you do, if you were me,
To prove that you were you?

Our close resemblance turn'd the tide
Of my domestic life;

For somehow my intended bride

Became my brother's wife.

In short, year after year the same

Absurd mistakes went on;

And when I died.

the neighbors came

And buried brother John!

Henry S. Leigh

LITTLE BREECHES

A PIKE COUNTY VIEW OF SPECIAL PROVIDENCE

I don't go much on religion,

I never ain't had no show;

But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,

On the handful o' things I know.

I don't pan out on the prophets

And free-will, and that sort of thing, — But I b'lieve in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along, –
No four-year-old in the county

Could beat him for pretty and strong,
Peart and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight, And I'd larnt him ter chaw terbacker, Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket
As I passed by Taggart's store;

I went in for a jug of molasses

And left the team at the door.

They scared at something and started,
I heard one little squall,

And hell-to-split over the prairie

Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie!

I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches,

And sarched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat, — but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.

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And here all hope soured on me
Of my fellow-critters' aid,

I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

By this, the torches was played out,
And me and Isrul Parr

Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed
Where they shut up the lambs at night.
We looked in, and seen them huddled thar,
So warm and sleepy and white;

And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
As peart as ever you see,

"I want a chaw of terbacker,

And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm.
They jest scooped down and toted him

To whar it was safe and warm.
And I think that saving a little child,
And fotching him to his own,

Is a derned sight better business
Than loafing around The Throne.

John Hay

COMPANIONS

A TALE OF A GRANDFATHER

By the Author of "Dewy Memories," etc.

I know not of what we ponder'd

Or made pretty pretence to talk,

As, her hand within mine, we wander'd

Tow'rd the pool by the lime-tree walk,

While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers

And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.

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