Where the heavenly sunshine can’t manage to spring,—
And, talking of that, I’ve a notion, by Jing!
Let we ourselves mine out some coal lumps to-day
To show to the folks,—which I think, by the way,
Would be a poetical thing.”
So they filled up their pockets, untried by a doubt,
And in the hotel they unveiled ’em all out;
But their glances grew strange as they turned o’er the weight,
Till one of them shouted, “By thunder, it’s slate!”
Yet the youngest among them had dealered in coal,