As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew
O’er the moldering stern of the old canoe.
The mule is such an ungainly animal that very few ladies are given over to admiring him. As for me, I’d rather see an old mule coming my way when I have the blues, than to see a long absent friend.
A Mule and a Proposal.
I know that is a broad assertion, but when you hear the why, I know you will agree with me, and say as did a little negro, that “one end of him was good.”
When a little girl, I lived with my people on a handsome farm three miles distant to the church we attended.
Charley, my dear lord and master, lived only a mile from the church. You see, Charley was the most bashful man around the neighborhood, and while everyone knew ages before he proposed, that he loved me, it begun to look as though he would never gather courage enough to say so.
Night after night he would call, and invariably told me “I was looking kind of pretty,” and after a dreadful silence, he would break out suddenly, “I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” giving me such a start that I would nearly jump out of my chair.