And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ; And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee.

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping

On the hill when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping

From under their bed-clothes of snow; Of that ride that to me was the rarest;

Of the something you said at the gate; Ah! Joe! then I wasn't the heiress

To" the best paying lead in the state."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare,
Of fashion, and beauty, and money,

That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that,

Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But, Goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!
Mamma says my taste is still low;
Instead of my triumphs reciting,

I'm spooning on Joseph-heigh-ho!
And I'm to be "finished" by travel,
Whatever's the meaning of that;
Oh, why did papa strike pay-gravel,
In drifting on Poverty Flat?
Good-night! Here's the end of my paper;
Good-night-if the longitude please;
For maybe, while wasting my paper,
Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know, if you haven't got riches,

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,

And you've struck it-on Poverty Flat! (FRANCIS) BRET HARTE.

fired into music

And what's her history? Vio. A blank, my lord; she never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed