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Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair
O' blue eyes sot upun 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 feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

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

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk

Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work,

Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?

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"Wal... no . . I come da signin'"

"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

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To say why gals acts 'so or so,

Or don't, 'ould be persumin'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women.

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He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t'other,
An' on which one he felt the wust

He could n't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin;"

Says she, "Think likely, Mister: "
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips
An' teary roun' the lashes.

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,
An' 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.

James Russell Lowell.

1848. 1862.

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WHICH I wish to remark-
And my language is plain-
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,

The heathen Chinee is peculiar,

Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name;

And I shall not deny

In regard to the same

What that name might imply;

But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third,

And quite soft was the skies;

Which it might be inferred

That Ah Sin was likewise;

Yet he played it that day upon William

And me in a way I despise.

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Which we had a small game,

And Ah Sin took a hand: It was Euchre. The same He did not understand;

But he smiled, as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked
In a way that I grieve,

And my feelings were shocked

At the state of Nye's sleeve,

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Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,

And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played

By that heathen Chinee,

And the points that he made,

Were quite frightful to see,-

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Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 36

Then I looked up at Nye,

And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be?

We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,”— And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued

I did not take a hand,

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But the floor it was strewed

Like the leaves on the strand

With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game "he did not understand." 48
In his sleeves, which were long,

He had twenty-four packs,-
Which was coming it strong,
Yet I state but the facts;

And we found on his nails, which were
taper,-

What is frequent in tapers,-that's

wax.

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark

And for tricks that are vain,

The heathen Chinee is peculiar,—

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Which the same I am free to maintain. 60

1870.

Francis Bret Harte.

THE ONE-HOSS-SHAY

OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE

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,

And then, of a sudden, it-ah, but stay,

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