Her bang grew limp beneath its net,
Her brow was gemmed with beaded sweat,
And to her bed she went, you bet.
ANON.
IN THE OL' TOBACKER PATCH.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to do,
When I think about them days we used to spend
A hoein' out tobacker in th' clearin'—me an' you—
An' a wishin' that the day was at an end.