Said all diseases that ever he had—­
    The mumps, er the rheumatiz—­
  Er ever’-other-day-aigger’s bad
    Purt’ nigh as anything is!—­
  Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck,
    Er a felon on his thumb,—­
  But you keep the blues away from him,
    And all o’ the rest could come!

  And he’d moan, “They’s nary a leaf below! 
    Ner a spear o’ grass in sight! 
  And the whole wood-pile’s clean under snow! 
    And the days is dark as night! 
  You can’t go out—­ner you can’t stay in—­
    Lay down—­stand up—­ner set!”
  And a tetch o’ regular tyfoid-blues
    Would double him jest clean shet!

  I writ his parents a postal-kyard,
    He could stay ’tel Spring-time come;
  And Aprile first, as I rickollect,
    Was the day we shipped him home! 
  Most o’ his relatives, sence then,
    Has either give up, er quit,
  Er jest died off; but I understand
    He’s the same old color yit!

THE BAT.

I.

  Thou dread, uncanny thing,
  With fuzzy breast and leathern wing,
    In mad, zigzagging flight,
  Notching the dusk, and buffeting
    The black cheeks of the night,
      With grim delight!

II.

  What witch’s hand unhasps
    Thy keen claw-cornered wings
    From under the barn roof, and flings
  Thee forth, with chattering gasps,
      To scud the air,
  And nip the lady-bug, and tear
  Her children’s hearts out unaware?

III.

  The glow-worm’s glimmer, and the bright,
  Sad pulsings of the fire-fly’s light,
    Are banquet lights to thee. 
  O less than bird, and worse than beast,
  Thou Devil’s self, or brat, at least,
    Grate not thy teeth at me!

THE WAY IT WUZ.

  Las’ July—­an’, I persume
    ’Bout as hot
  As the ole Gran’-Jury room
    Where they sot!—­
  Fight ‘twixt Mike an’ Dock McGriff—­
  ‘Pears to me jes’ like as if
    I’d a dremp’ the whole blame thing—­
      Allus ha’nts me roun’ the gizzard
    When they’re nightmares on the wing,
        An’ a feller’s blood’s jes’ friz! 
      Seed the row from a to izzard—­
    ‘Cause I wuz a-standin’ as clost to ’em
        As me an’ you is!

  Tell you the way it wuz—­
    An’ I do n’t want to see,
  Like some fellers does,
    When they ’re goern to be
  Any kind o’ fuss—­
  On’y makes a rumpus wuss
    Far to interfere
      When their dander’s riz—­
  But I wuz a-standin’ as clost to ’em
  As me an’ you is!

  I wuz kind o’ strayin’
    Past the blame saloon—­
  Heerd some fiddler playin’
    That “ole hee-cup tune!”
  Sort o’ stopped, you know,
  Far a minit er so,
    And wuz jes’ about