love me,

Still I felt that she felt above me; (I was awkward, an' hung my head, An' she was a reg'lar thorough-bred.)

Marjorie, by the bye,

Had more ancestors than I;
She had a knack of goin' back
Along in History's covered track,
An' pickin' her great-grandfathers out,
An' stan'in' 'em up to be bragged about.
She had a book of 'em, all in rows,
Some several thousan', I suppose;
One was a colonel, an' one a squire,
An' one was a king, or somethin' higher:
There were three brothers on fortune-
hunts,

That all come over the sea at once;
An' some of 'em, by the bye,
Helped make the Fourth of July;

But though their acts she couldn't c to

demn,

She hadn't much time to dwell or But sailed her gallant ancestral b

forgive;

that live

The same as the sheep at the stack.

But walked an' walked an' hung her head,

An' "Why are you hateful to me?" she said.

"I couldn't be hateful", says I,

"To one that I've loved five years or mcre,

An' never dared to tell it before,
Because she was born in the lap of fame,
An' I hadn't an ancestor to my name."
She walked a little closer to me:
"I've got enough for us both", says she:
An' looked as if she would cry,
There on the Fourth of July.

Then back to your covert creeping, Try again the art of sleeping,

With such critics grouped around.

I can stand the fitful walker,

Oft he comes-but oft he goes; But that everlasting talker

Underneath the window's nose! Words, and words, without endeavor, Speech-brook, flowing on forever! Talking every subject weary, Till it wilts-a phantom dreary; Pauseless he-this rura! Solon; Comma, period, semi-colon, None of these will he set free. Oh what blessedness, if he

And like old Lord Timothy,

Let them all appear together!

From the country's clash and chatter,
Creep I, not by half so merry,
And, to try and mend the matter,
Seek the silent cemetery.
There, where sleeping is the fashion,
I, by some lone grave, mayhap,
Can indulge my silent passion,
And secure a morning nap.
Even then, some early-rising
Bug may see me, I suppose,
And begin the day by sizing
The compartments of my nose.
Only dead folks, buried deep,

Asleep in the howl of the storm.

No grasses tonight will grow under your feet

The cattle are calling for something to eat;

feet,

Or easily hung to the back.

Make ready, my laddies, and think as you go,

They're not to be worried because they

are so;

forgive;

In sheds that are cozy and warm.

that live

The same as the sheep at the stack.