It was August the third,

And quite soft was the skies, Which it might be inferred

That Ah Sin was likewise;

Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game,
And Ah Sin took a hand:

It was euchre. The same

He did not understand,

But he smiled, as he sat by the table,

With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked

In a way that I grieve,
And my feelings were shocked

At the state of Nye's sleeve,

Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,
And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played
By that heathen Chinee,
And the points that he made,

Were quite frightful to see,—

Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye,

And he gazed upon me;

And he rose with a sigh,

And said, "Can this be?

We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,"

And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued

I did not take a hand,

But the floor it was strewed,

Like the leaves on the strand,

With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding.

In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long,

He had twenty-four jacks,— Which was coming it strong,

Yet I state but the facts.

And we found on his nails, which were taper,― What is frequent in tapers,-that's wax.

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,

The heathen Chinee is peculiar,

Which the same I am free to maintain.

BRET HARTE.

A PLANTATION DITTY.

DE gray owl sing fum de chimbly top:
"Who-who-is-you-oo?"

En I say:
"Good Lawd, hit 's des po' me,
En I ain't quite ready fer de Jasper Sea;
I'm po' en sinful, en you 'lowed I'd be;

Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!"

De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree : "Who-who-is-you-o0?"

"Good Lawd, ef you

look you '11 see

En I say:
Hit ain't nobody but des po' me,

En I like ter stay 'twell my time is free;
Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!"

FRANK LEBBY STANTON.

DE FUST BANJO.

Go 'way, fiddle! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'.

Keep silence fur yo' betters!-don't you hear de banjo talkin'?

About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter― ladies, listen!—

About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin':

"Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn

Fur Noah tuk the "Herald," an' he read de ribber column

An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber

patches,

An' lowed he 's gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah Natchez.

Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin'; An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin';

But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen :

An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.