Worthy and much respected friend,
   Accept the thanks I freely send;
   Your generous offer, all will say,
   Mere grateful thanks but ill repay. 
   An answer you request of me,
   But prudence calls for some delay;
   This weighty subject claims my care,
   To answer now I must forbear. 
   Could you admire a homely face,
   Devoid of beauty, charms, or grace? 
   Would you not blush, should friends deride
   The rustic manners of your bride? 
   Say, would you build a cottage near
   Some pleasant grove, where we might hear
   The blithesome wild birds’ pleasing song,
   From morn till eve, all summer long? 
   And would you plant some tall elm trees,
   Around your house, your bride to please;
   And have a little garden, too,
   Where fruit, and herbs, and flowers might grow? 
   And would you rear a mulberry grove,
   That I might thus a helpmeet prove? 
   Although I suffer no distress
   From fears of “single blessedness,”
   I’d not disdain your rustic dress,
   If generous feelings fill your breast;
   That would not bar you from my door,
   For costly clothing makes us poor. 
   Although you do not till the soil,
   You say you’re not afraid to toil: 
   By prudence, industry, and care,
   A man may prosper any where. 
   You ask, if I would you obey,
   Nor have contentious words to say? 
   I should not scold without a cause,
   Nor would I reverence rigorous laws. 
   But let our correspondence end,
   ’Twill much oblige your humble friend;
   As I’ve no gift for writing letters,
   A friendly call would suit much better. 
   Appoint a day, and I’ll prepare,
   I’ll sweep my hearth, and comb my hair;
   I’ll make the best of humble means,
   Bake pies and puddings, pork and beans;
   I’ll dress in neat, but coarse attire,
   And in my parlor build a fire. 
   Sir, I reside in Ruralville,
   Southeast of Bluff, a craggy hill;
   A broad majestic stream rolls by,
   Whose crystal surface charms the eye. 
   If you still wish to win a bride,
   Come where the farmers’ girls reside;
   Henceforth I write no more to you,
   My much respected friend, adieu!

* * * * *

NOTE.  If Jere isn’t “done brown” now, we are no judge of human nater.  Cheer up, Jere, “a faint heart never won a fair lady.”  “Pull up your dicky up,” and try again; and if you get “sacked,” remember and practice the advice of the old Poet:—­

   “Chase your shadow, it will fly you;
     Fly yourself, it will pursue;
   Court a girl, if she deny you,
     Drop your suit, and she’ll court you.”—­Editor.

NEIGHBORS’ ADVICE TO INVALIDS.

   Why sit you here, pining in languor and gloom? 
   Except you do something, you’ll sink to the tomb;
   Ah, where’s the red roses that bloomed on your brow,
   Where nothing but white ones are languishing now?