Part 3 (1/2)

'N' 'en it sorter pleased my whim To have him die and bury him.

It got printed, too, it did That small pome about the kid,

In a paper in the West; Put ten dollars in my vest.

Every pa an' ma about Cried like mighty--cried right out.

I jess took each grandma's heart, Lammed and bruised it, made it smart;

'N' everybody said o' me, ”Finest pote we ever see,”

'Cept one beggar, he got mad.

Got worst lickin' ever had;

Got my head atween his fists, Called me ”Prince o' anarchists.”

Clipped me one behind my ear-- Laid me up for 'most a year.

”'Cause,” he said, ”my poetry 'D made his wife an' mother cry;

”'Twarn't no poet's bizness to Make the wimmin all boo-hoo.”

'N' 'at is why to-day, by Jings!

I don't fool with hearts an' things.

I don't care how high the bids, I've stopped scribblin' 'bout dead kids;

'R if I haven't, kinder sorter Think 'at maybe p'r'aps I'd oughter.

The lines were received with hearty appreciation by all save Dobbs Ferry, who looked a trifle gloomy.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”IT FILLED ME WITH DISMAY”]

”It is a strange thing,” said the latter, ”but that mince-pie affected me in precisely the same way, as you will see for yourselves when I read my contribution, which, holding ball number four as I do, I will proceed to give you.”

Mr. Ferry then read the following poem, which certainly did seem to indicate that the man who prepared the fatal pie had certain literary ideas which he mixed in with other ingredients:

I bought a book of verse the other day, And when I read, it filled me with dismay.

I wanted it to take home to my wife, To bring a bit of joy into her life;

And I'd been told the author of those pomes Was called the laureate of simple homes.

But, Jove! I read, and found it full of rhyme That kept my eyes a-filling all the time.

One told about a pretty little miss Whose father had denied a simple kiss,

And as she left, unhappy, full of cares, She fell and broke her neck upon the stairs.