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Ir's been a year to-day sence last I kneeled 'nd thanked the Lord
For all the wondrous blessin's 'nd the joys these days afford,
'Nd here I am agin this year, prepared to do my part
At renderin' of thanks devout, most humbly, from the heart,
For all the good things I have got from this here sinful life, Although I vow I've seed of late a mighty lot of
My craps went back on me this year; my Jersey cow, she's dead; 'Nd I for sixteen mortal weeks lay groanin' on my bed
With rheumatiz; 'nd cracky! Gee! It wasn't any fun,
I tell ye. Then my little mare-the speedy sorrel one
I sot so much store on-one day she shied 'nd
'Nd lamed herself for life, 'nd smashed to smithereens the shay.
'Nd then my darter Susan, she eloped the fourth
With that young Silas Tompkins. He's a worthless sort o' 'coon.
He never earned an honest cent, 'nd, far as I can
Ain't never likely to begin. The couple lives with me.
'Nd wife's gone kind o' flighty, too. It was indeed a sin
For me to sell for rags the sock she kep' her
'Nd yet, you know, I'm thankful, spite of all my beastly luck,
Because I don't get flabbergasted ev'ry time I'm struck.
I know there's lean 'nd fat for all, 'nd I've just had my lean,
'Nd now a juicy slice of fat 'll come my way, I
'Nd even if it doesn't come, you'll hear my thankful roar Because this dog-goned year just past 's behind me-not before.
SCAGGS'S MARE POLLY.
THEY were talking about horses, and more particularly about Nancy Hanks's wonderful record of 2.054. Every one seemed to be more or less impressed with the marvellousness of this record except old Mr. Scaggs, a retired farmer.
"She's fast, yes," he said. "But I oncet owned a mare up on the farm as could beat her. That mare was lightnin' on legs. Polly was her name-named her after Mrs. Scaggs's mother, and a finer woman you never met. She could bake all around any other woman in the county, an' when it came to me bein' sick, she'd nurse me tenderlier than as if I wasn't a son-in-law at all, but her own boy. My, how she could trot!"
"Your mother-in-law?" asked one of the circle.
"No; the boss," snapped Scaggs, with fire in his eye. "I'm talkin' about the hoss. I bought her when she was eight years old from old Mrs. Tompkins. She wasn't much on looks, Mrs. Tompkins wasn't, but she was business all through. When her husband died she took charge of the grocery, an' added a millinery department to it, 'nd by Joe! inside of a year she was able to close up the grocery 'nd do nothin' but make hats. Tompkins used to hitch her up to the delivery wagon, you know, but of course
"You don't mean to say that any man was ever mean enough to hitch his wife up to a grocery wagon, and make her haul the packages about town?" queried the inquisitive member of the party.
"Ain't said nothin' o' the kind," retorted Scaggs. "Don't you get too funny. I'm talkin' about the hoss. I was goin' on to tell ye how when old Mrs. Tompkins got makin' twodollar hats for the women folks 'nd sellin' 'em to 'em for ten, she give up the grocery business, 'nd so didn't have any use for the hoss old Tompkins had used for drivin' his delivery wagon. It happened I wanted a hoss 'bout that time, 'nd so I called on old Mrs. Tompkins to talk it over. She was only eight years old at the time, and hadn't much style about her, though she was calculated to be faster'n anything else in town. I ast old Mrs. Tompkins what she'd take, 'nd she says $24.
"That's pretty high for an eight-year-old,' says I. 'I'll give ye a dollar'nd a half a year for the hoss. That's $12.'
"Make it two, and she's yours,' says old Mrs. Tompkins.
"Throw in a hat for my wife,' says I, "'nd it goes.'
"Done,' says she.
"So I bridled her, paid the money, 'nd led her home. Few days later some o' the boys, knowin' as I had sportin' blood, came an' ast me to let Polly trot on a mile track for the record. My wife didn't want me to at first, because she was a little off her feed, 'nd didn't approve of racin' anyhow, but when the boys offered a purse of $10 if she could beat 2.10, she let up. So I said all right, 'nd we set a date." "Well, what was the result?" asked the inquisitive youth.
"Two four for the mile," said Scaggs. "Two four?" cried the whole circle at
EVERY MAN HIS OWN NEWSPAPER.
THERE lives in a prominent Hudson River town a young man of considerable energy and some wit whose chief ambition it is to be original, and to attain to this, as he tersely puts it, the only true way is in the line of minding his own business. One of the results of his system has been that he writes his own newspaper, since the newspapers as published contain only information as to the business of other people. Probably the most interesting column in this personal journal-which he calls the Yellowplush Gazette-is that which is devoted to society notes, among which, in the August issue, are found these:
The dashing Mrs. Porco-Sayre, of Chicago, who lately married Peter H. Sayre of the same city, is summering at Harrowgansett. She is reported engaged to Harry Beemington, of Providence, the wedding to take place as soon as her present husband will consent to a divorce.
Owing to the unexpected illness of Mrs. Pottleton Potts at Newport, her bathing suits that have aroused so much curiosity will be exhibited at the Casino for one week-admission, twenty-five cents -the proceeds to be devoted to a Fresh-Air Fund in which Mrs. Pottleton Potts is interested, the object of which is, I am told, to send the little Pottleton Potts off to a farm during the heated term.
Henderson Hicks Harlow, the famous young poet who had a quatrain in the Bumbleton Gazette two years ago, is summering at the Pike House, in New
burytown, Connecticut. He is interesting himself in a projected Author's Reading for the benefit of the Newburytown library, at which, it is expected, Mr. Harlow will read his quatrain.
The eccentric banker Theodore B. Spendelton, has hit upon a novel way of spending the summer, having engaged for himself and family a suite of ten state-rooms on the Albany night boat for the whole month of August. The experiment will be watched with considerable interest, particularly by the transient passengers.
Thomas Peterby Parkins, the well-known poet, spent Sunday at the Mawkish House, Spattsville, New York. Mr. Parkins will be remembered as the author of that extraordinary volume of verse, Huckleberries from Helicon, which ran through three-eighths of an edition last winter.
The town band of Hicks Centre, the popular Pennsylvania watering-place, gave a concert at the Hawkins House last Saturday. Yankee Doodle was rendered with great effect as a trombone solo, and Jerry Stimpson, the favorite base-drummer of the village, superbly played a solo arrangement of "Tara-ra-boom-de-ay," made for him by his fiancée, Miss Maude Perkins, of St. Smithers P. E. Church choir.
A HARD POSITION.
"It's awful to be foot of the class," said Master Tommy, after school was over. “1 knew my lesson splendid this mornin', but by the time the teacher got down to me I'd forgotten it all.”
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SAM WHEELER was an uncouth rustic who, had his chances of education and observation been more complete, might have been launched upon the world as a second Munchausen. His favorite had to do with a sea-serpent, and ran something like this:
"When I wuz comin' over the ocean," he said, "we wuz all woke up one mornin' by the ship a-rollin' 'round considerable. Goin' on deck, we saw a sea-serpent crawlin' over it, an', gentlemen, it wuz such a big serpent that it took two days to git across that deck!"
"Why didn't you kill it, Sam?"
"It went over so quick we couldn't," said Sam.
NOT AVAILABLE AS AN INTERPRETER. THE late General Donaldson, a veteran of the Seminole war, the Mexican war, and the rebellion, used to relate the following anecdote of General Zachary Taylor. During hostilities with Mexico, General Taylor was, upon
a certain occasion, present at an advanced outpost. While there a Texan scout in the employ of our government, speaking Spanish only, evidently the bearer of very important tidings, rode headlong into the outpost, and leaping to the ground, rushed up to the General, whose uniform showed him to be an officer of high rank, and began in the most excited manner to pour forth a torrent of Spanish. The General, whose linguistic attainments ended with a knowledge of his mother-tongue, was completely taken aback, and so plainly did his face express his feelings that a sentry on duty near by burst into laughter. Noticing this, with a frown the General called to the sentry:
"Fellow, come here!" Trembling for the consequences probably attendant upon his want of respect the soldier obeyed. "Fellow," asked the General, "do you know any one around here who speaks Spanish?"
"Yes," replied the abashed soldier, designa"that man does." ting the Texan; C. B. MOORE.
"Do you make much money out of your orange grove?"
"Yes; that is, I have since I planted palm-trees. I find that fans and dates are less perishable than