Remembered as the mile
Our panting ancle barely passed
When night devoured the road;
But we stood whispering in the house,
And all we said, was “Saved!”
[Note by the writer of the verses.] I spelled ankle wrong.
It would seem that at first I tried a little—a very little—to lead her in the direction of rules and traditions; but I fear it was only perfunctory, and that she interested me more in her—so to speak—unregenerate condition. Still, she recognizes the endeavor. In this case, as will be seen, I called her attention to the fact that while she took pains to correct the spelling of a word, she was utterly careless of greater irregularities. It will be seen by her answer that with her usual naïve adroitness she turns my point:—
Dear Friend,—Are these more orderly? I thank you for the truth.
I had no monarch in my life, and cannot rule myself; and when I try to organize, my little force explodes and leaves me bare and charred.