PICKLES.
The rain and snow were falling fast,
As through a down-east village passed
A youth who chalked with great display,
Upon a barrel in his sleigh,
“Pickles to sell.”
His cheeks were blue, and red his nose,
His ears and feet were nearly froze,
And tears of cold bedimmed his sight.
But still he yelled with all his might,
“Pickles to sell.”
As on he went, a maiden bold
Came out and asked him what he sold;
The youth looked up with winning smile,
And said with voice as soft as ILE,
“Pickles.”
“Oh, tell me!” cried the maid divine;
“Say, tell me are they in the brine?”
“Nay,” said the youth, “that sort don’t pay,”
Quite vexed, he heard the maiden say,
“Such Pickles!”
That one so sweet should speak so tart
(The word went deep into his heart);
That she should crush his hopes so flat,
And scorn his smiles, or worse than that,
“His Pickles.”
Away he drove, through wind and rain;
They tried to stop his course in vain.
By asking what he had to sell;
He wouldn’t stop but only yelled,
“Pickles.”
“Don’t drive so fast,” an old man said;
“That worn-out nag is nearly dead.”
“His shoes are off,” another cried;
With shout of scorn the youth replied,
“Oh, Pickles!”
“For mercy’s sake don’t cross the creek!
That wooden bridge is awful weak!”
The youth dashed on his headlong way.
And only turned his head to say,
“Oh, Pickles!”
The night was dark, the wind was cold,
The pickle boy was brave and bold;
He never stopped or checked his flight,
And soon the sleigh was lost to sight,
Pickles and all.
Next morn, two little wandering Jews
Came into town and brought the news;
Down in the drift a corpse they found,
While far and near were scattered round,
The Pickles.
Old scrap book.
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