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lle was tall, was my Jack,

And as strong as a tree.
Thar's his gun on the rack,-

Jest you heft it, and see.
And you come a courtin' his widder. Lord ! where

can that critter, Sal, be ?
You'd fill my Jack's place?

And a man of your size, -
With no baird to his face,

Nor a snap to his eyes,
And nary-Sho! thar ! I was foolin',-- I was,

Joe, for sartain,-don't rise.

Sit down. Law! why, sho!

I'm as weak as a gal.
Sal! Don't you go, Joe,
Or I'll faint,

-sure I shall.
Sit down,-anywheer where you like, Joe,-in that

cheer, if you choose,-Lord, where's Sal?

TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL.

A GEOLOGICAL ADDRESS.
“Speak, O man less recent! Fragmentary fossil !
Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,
Hid in lowest drisis below the earliest stratum

Of volcanic tufa!

Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium ;
Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;
Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions

Of earth's epidermis !
“Eo-Mio-Plio-whatsoe'er the '-cene' was
That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,-
Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches, –

Tell us thy strange story!

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“Or has the professor slightly antedated
By some thousand years thy advent on this planet,
Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted

For cold-blooded creatures ?

"Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest
When above thy head the stately Sigillaria
Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant

Carboniferous epoch?

1

Tell us of that scene,—the dim and watery woodland
Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect
Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses,

Lycopodiacea, -
" When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,
And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus,
While from time to time above thee flew and circled

Cheerful Pterodactyls.
Tell us of thy food,- those half-marine refections,
Crinoids on the shell and Brachipods au naturel,-
Cuttle-fish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo

Seems a periwinkle.
"Speak, thou awful vestige of the Earth's creation,-
Solitary fragment of remains organic !
Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence,

Speak ! thou oldest Primate !"
Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,
And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,
With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication,

Ground the teeth together.
And, from that imperfect dental exhibition,
Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian,
Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs

Of expectoration ;
" Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted
Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County ;
But I'd take it kịndly if you'd send the pieces

Home to old Missouri !”

ROBERT H. NEWELL. [This popular writer is author of the Orpheus C. Kerr (i.e. Office-seeker) Papers; from which book the following piece is taken).

THE AMERICAN TRAVELLER.
To Lake Aghmoogenegamook,

All in the State of Maine,
A man from Wittequergaugaum came

One evening in the rain.
“I am a traveller," said he,

“Just started on a tour,
And go to Nomjamskillicook

To-morrow morn at fonr.”

He took a tavern-bed that night ;

And, with the morrow's sun, By way of Sekledabskus went,

With carpet-bag and gun.

A week passed on; and next we find

Our native tourist come
To that sequestered village called

Genasagarnagum.
From thence he went to Absequoit,

And there--quite tired of Maine-
He sought the mountains of Vermont,

Upon a railroad train.

Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State,

Was his first stopping-place;
And then Skunk's Misery displayed

Its sweetness and its grace.

By easy stages then he went

To visit Devil's Den ;
And Scrabble Hollow, by the way,

Did come within his ken.

Then via Nine Holes and Goose Green

He travelled through the State ; And to Virginia, finally,

Was guided by his fate.

Within the Old Dominion's bounds,

He wandered up and down ;
To-day, at Buzzard Roost ensconced,

To-morrow, at Hell Town.

At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week,

Till friends from Bull Ring came, And made him spend a day with them

In hunting forest-game.
Then, with his carpet-bag in hand,

To Dog Town next he went ; Though stopping at Free Negro Town,

Where half a day he spent.

From thence, into Negationburg

His route of travel lay ; Which having gained, he left the State,

And took a southward way.

North Carolina's friendly soil

He trod at fall of night,
And, on a bed of softest down,

He slept at Hell's Delight.
Morn found him on the road again,

To Lousy Level bound ;
At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizard too,

Good provender he found.
The country all about Pinch Gut

So beautiful did seem
That the beholder thought it like

A picture in a dream.
But the plantations near Burnt Coat

Were even finer still,
And made the wondering tourist feel

A soft delicious thrill,
At Tear Shirt, too, the scenery

Most charming did appear,
With Snatch It in the distance far,

And Purgatory near.
But, spite of all these pleasant scenes,

The tourist stoutly swore
That home is brightest, after all,

And travel is a bore.
So back he went to Maine, straightway ;

A little wife he took ;
And now is making nutmegs at

Moosehicmagunticook.

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A Band, a Bob-wig, and a Feather
A brace of sinners, for no good
A country that draws fifty foot of water
A Fox, in life's extreme decay
A gentle maid, of rural breeding
A gentle squire would gladly entertain
A great Law Chief whom God nor demon scares
A Jubilee is but a spiritual fair
A learn'd society of late
A Lion, tired with state affairs
A man, in many a country town, we know
A modest love of praise I do not blame
A poore widow, somedeal stope in age
A shifting knave about the town
A spending hand that alway pouręth out
A Tailor, a man of upright dealing
Alas ! how dismal is my tale
All the Bard's rhymes, and all his inks
All upstarts, insolent in place
Almighty God, Maker of all
An oaken broken elbow-chair
As Bathian Venus t'other day
As he that makes his mark is understood
As I went to the wake that is held on the green
As it befell one Saturday at noon
As some raw youth in country bred
At Wapping I landed, and called to hail Mog
Away, fond dupes ! who, smit with sacred lore

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Back and side, go bare, go bare
Balmy Zephyrs lightly fitting

I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe
Begin, my Muse, the imitative lay.
Behold the hero, who has done all this
Beneath the hill you may see the mill
Blow, Boreas, foe to human kind

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