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Who asked with the " don't let me bother you" air.
"How are ye? " The editor rose with a smile
And pleasantly yielded his chair—
(Which exhibited symptoms of wear)
(A shocking old plug, by the way),
"Can we do anything for you to-day?"
"No—I jest called to see ye "—the visitor said;
"I'm a friend to the newspaper man"— Here he ran a red handkerchief over his head,
And accepted the editor's fan— "I hev read all the pieces you've writ for your sheet,
And they're straight to the p'int, I confess— That 'ar slap you gin Keyser was sartinly neat—
You're an ornyment, sir, to the press!"
"I am glad you are pleased," said the writer, " indeed;
But you praise me too highly, by far—
And while reading it, try this cigar.
I've been keeping it nestled in ice,
Now, perhaps, you will relish a slice?"
Then the stranger rolled up half a dozen or more
Of the choicest exchanges of all— Helped himself to the fruit, threw the rinds on the floor,
Or flung them at flies on the wall.
In a manner uncommonly able,"
That hung at the side of the table.
"By the way, I've neglected to ask you your name,"
Said the scribe as the stranger arose: "That's a fact," he replied, " I'm Abimalech Bame,
You have heerd o' that name, I suppose?
Where I own a good house and a lot;
I'm the constantest reader you've got!"
"Abimalech Bame," mused the editor, " B-a-m-e—" (Here his guest begged a chew of his ' twist')
"I am sorry to say your mellifluous name Doesn't happen to honor my list!"
THE MYSTIC VEIL.
This world I deem but a beautiful dream
Hardly they shine thro' the outer shrine,
I gaze aloof on the tissued roof,
A tapestried tent, to shade us meant,
From the ever radiant firmament,
So the blaze of the skies comes soft to the eyes
Thro' the veil of mystical imageries.
But could I see as in truth they be
The glories of heaven which encompass me,
I should lightly hold the fleeting fold
Of that marvellous curtain of blue and gold.
Soon the whole like a parcheVl scroll,
Oh! who shall bear the blinding glare
THE THREE WAR? KGS.—Mrs. Thrale.
The tree of deepest root , found
That love of life increased with years
The greatest love of life appears.
When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room, And looking grave—" You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." "With you! and quit my Susan's side! With you!" the hapless" husband cried; "Young as I am 'tis monstrous hard I Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared: My thoughts on other matters go; This is my wedding-day you know."
What more he urged, I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And grant a kind reprieve;
Well pleased the world will leave."
What next the hero of our tale befell,
The willing muse shall tell:
Nor thought of death as near;
He passed his hours in peace.
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood
As all alone he sat,
Once more before him stood.
"So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies: "Surely, my friend, you're but in jest!
Since I was here before
And you are now fourscore."
"So much the worse," the clown rejoined;
"I know," cries Death, "that at the best
"Hold," says the farmer, " not so fast! I have been lame these four years past."
"And no great wonder," Death replies:
"Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight."
"This is a shocking tale, t'is true,
"There's none," cries he; "and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I couldnot hear." "Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined,
"These are unjustifiable yearnings; "If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your three sufficient warnings. So, come along, no more we'll part," He said, and touched him with his dart. And now old Dodson turning pale, Yields to his fate—so ends my tale.