No answer! no! no answer!
All's still as death within;
The sheriff eyes the jailer,
The jailer strokes his chin.
"I shouldn't wonder, Nahum, if
It were as you suppose."
The hangman looked unhappy, and
The turnkey blew his nose.
They entered. On his pallet
The noble convict lay,—
The bridegroom on his marriage-bed,
But not in trim array.
His red right hand a razor held,
Fresh sharpened from the hone,
And his ivory neck was severed,
And gashed into the bone.
****
And when the lamp is lighted
In the long November days,
And lads and lasses mingle
At the shucking of the maize;
When pies of smoking pumpkin
Upon the table stand,
And bowls of black molasses
Go round from hand to hand;
When slap-jacks, maple-sugared,
Are hissing in the pan,
And cider, with a dash of gin,
Foams in the social can;
When the goodman wets his whistle,
And the goodwife scolds the child;
And the girls exclaim convulsively,
"Have done, or I'll be riled!"
When the loafer sitting next them
Attempts a sly caress,
And whispers, "O! you 'possum,
You've fixed my heart, I guess!"