But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,
          And thus his prescription ran—­
        The King will be well if he sleeps one night
          In the Shirt of a Happy Man.

* * * * *

        Wide o’er the realm the couriers rode,
          And fast their horses ran,
        And many they saw, and to many they spoke,
          But they found no Happy Man....

        They saw two men by the roadside sit,
          And both bemoaned their lot;
        For one had buried his wife, he said,
          And the other one had not.

        At last they came to a village gate,
          A beggar lay whistling there! 
        He whistled and sang, and laughed and rolled
          On the grass in the soft June air.

        The weary courtiers paused and looked
          At the scamp so blithe and gay;
        And one of them said, “Heaven save you, friend! 
          You seem to be happy to-day.”

        “O yes, fair sirs,” the rascal laughed,
          And his voice rang free and glad;
        “An idle man has so much to do
          That he never has time to be sad.”

        “This is our man,” the courier said;
          “Our luck has led us aright. 
        I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,
          For the loan of your shirt to-night.”

        The merry blackguard lay back on the grass,
          And laughed till his face was black;
        “I would do it,” said he, and he roared with the fun,
          “But I haven’t a shirt to my back.”

* * * * *

        Each day to the King the reports came in
          Of his unsuccessful spies,
        And the sad panorama of human woes
          Passed daily under his eyes.

        And he grew ashamed of his useless life,
          And his maladies hatched in gloom;
        He opened his windows and let the air
          Of the free heaven into his room.

        And out he went in the world, and toiled
          In his own appointed way;
        And the people blessed him, the land was glad,
          And the King was well and gay.

JIM BLUDSO.

BY COLONEL JOHN HAY.

      Wall, no!  I can’t tell whar he lives,
        Because he don’t live, you see: 
      Leastways, he’s got out of the habit
        Of livin’ like you and me. 
      Whar have you been for the last three years
        That you haven’t heard folks tell
      How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks,
        The night of the Prairie Bell?