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Objects: a while it kept a going on so: Fereles of danger was the happy Alegaiter!

But a las in a nevil our he was fourced to

Wake! that dreme of Blis was two

sweet for him.

1 morning the sun arose with unusool splender

Whitch allso did our Alegaiter, coming from the water,

His scails a flinging of the rais of the son back,

To the fountain-head which tha originly sprung,

But having not had nothing to eat for some time, he Was slepy and gap'd, in a short time, widely.

Unfoalding soon a welth of perlwhite teth,

The rais of the son soon shet his sinister ey

Because of their mutool splendor and warmth.

The evil Our (which I sed) was now come;

Evidently a good chans for a water

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Besides squeazing him awfully into his stomoc.

Just then, by a fortinate turn in his affairs,

He ceazed into his mouth the careless tale

Of the unreflecting water-snaik! Grown desperate

He, finding that his tale was fast squesed

Terrible while they roaled all over the iland.

It was a well-conduckted Affair: no noise

Disturbed the harmony of the seen, ecsept

Onet when a Wilow was snaped into by the roaling.

Eeach of the combatence hadn't a minit for holering.

So the conflick was naterally tremenjous!

But soon by grate force the tale was bit complete

Ly of; but the eggzeration was too much

For his delicate Constitootion: he felt a compression Onto his chest and generally over his body;

When he ecspress'd his breathing, it was with

Grate difficulty that he felt inspired again onct more.

Of course this State must suffer a revolootion.

So the Alegaiter give but one yel, and egspired.

The water-snaik realed hisself off, & survay'd

For say 10 minits, the condition of His fo: then wondering what made his tail hurt,

He sloly went off for to cool." GEORGE H. DERBY.

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE, OR THE WONDERFUL “ONEHOSS-SHAY."

A LOGICAL STORY.

HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay,

That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day,

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Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive,Snuffy old drone from the German hive.

That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down,

And Braddock's army was done so brown,

Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-
hoss-shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,

There is always somewhere a weakest spot,

In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still,

Find it somewhere you must and will,

Above or below, or within or with

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Last of its timber, they couldn't sell 'em,

Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips,

Their blunt ends frizzled like celerytips;

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;

Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide

Found in the pit when the tanner died.

That was the way he "put her through."

"There!" said the Deacon, 66 naow she'll dew!"

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She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing

Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,

When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! She seemed to've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,

Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper, -
All ways to once her feelin's flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtile o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

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For she was jes' the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer
mind

Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued

Too tight for all expressin',
Tell mother see how metters stood,
And gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is they was cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday.
LOWELL: Biglow Papers.

HER LETTER.

I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire,
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm bediamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:

In short, sir, "the belle of the sea

son

Is wasting an hour on you.

A dozen engagements I've broken; I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits on the stairs- for me yet. They say he'll be rich, when he grows up.

And then he adores me indeed.
And you,sir,are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.

"And how do I like my position?" "And what do I think of New York?"

"And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ?"

And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?"

"And aren't it a change to the ditches

And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

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