"Kid, how do you reckon that old machine Columbia is getting along with my turn, back there at Blowout?"
And the happy bridegroom made blissful answer: "I don't know—or keer—honey. She can go it on her head for all of us, can't she? She give us our chance to get away, and that was all we wanted. Aunt Huldy is the Lord's own people. I'll never forget her. You wouldn't hardly 'a' thought I was good enough, if Aunt Huldy hadn't a-recommended me, I don't believe. My little girl ain't never a-goin' to get to walk no more wires."
ONE OF THE PALLS
BY DOANE ROBINSON
I were a pall to the burrying,
Joe's finally out of the way,
Nothing 'special ailing of him,
Just old age and gen'ral decay.
Hope to the Lord that I'll never be
Old and decrepit and useless as he.
Cuss to his family the last five year—
Monstrous expensive with keep so dear—
'Sides all the fuss and worrying.
Terrible trial to get so old;
Cur'us a man will continue to hold
So on to life, when it's easy to see
His chances for living, tho' dreadfully slim,
Are better than his family are lotting for him.
Joe was that kind of a hanger on;
Hadn't no sense of the time to quit;
Stunted discretion and stall-fed grit
Helped him unbuckle many a cinch,
Where a sensible man would have died in the pinch.
Kind of tickled to have him gone;
Bested for once and laid away,
Got him down where he's bound to stay;
I were a pall to his burrying.
Knowed him for more than sixty year back—
Used to be somewhat older than him
Fought him one night to a husking bee;
Licked him in manner uncommon complete;
Every one said 'twas a beautiful fight;
Joe he wa'n't satisfied with it that way,
Kept dinging along, and when he got through
The worst looking critter that you ever see
Were stretched on a bed rigged up in the hay—
They carted me home the following day.
Got me a sweetheart purty and trim,
Told me that I was a heap likelier than Joe;
Mittened him twict; he kept on the track,
Followed her round every place she would go;
Offered to lick him; says she, "It's a treat,
Let's watch and find out what the poor critter will do."
Watched him, believing the thing was all right—
That identical girl is Joe's widow to-night.
Run to be justice, then Joe he run, too;
Knowed I was pop'lar and he hadn't a friend,
So there wa'n't no use of my hurrying.
The 'lection came off, we counted the votes;
I hadn't enough; Joe had them to lend.
Now all the way through I had been taking notes
Of his disagreeable way,
And it tickles me now to be able to say
He's bested for good in the end;
Got him down where he's bound to stay;
I were a pall to his burrying.
THE V-A-S-E
BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE
From the madding crowd they stand apart,
The maidens four and the Work of Art;
And none might tell from sight alone
In which had Culture ripest grown—
The Gotham Million fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,
The Boston Mind of azure hue,
Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo—
For all loved Art in a seemly way,
With an earnest soul and a capital A.