“I hev,” said Boggs, as grim as death;
“What do you think of pidging-horks?
For in my glorious natyve land,
Acrost the river, ’mong the frogs,
I hev a lot
All sharply sot
To eat them pidgings up,” said Boggs.
“They are the chosen birds of wrath,
They fly like arrers through the air,
Or angels sent by orful Death—