When we growed up, and they shet down
  On me and her a-runnin’ roun’
  Together, and her father said
  He’d never leave her nary red,
  So he’p him, ef she married me,
  And so on—­and her mother she
  Jest agged the gyrl, and said she ’lowed
  She’d ruther see her in her shroud,
      I writ to Marthy Ellen—­

  That is, I kindo’ tuck my pen
  In hand, and stated whur and when
  The undersigned would be that night,
  With two good hosses saddled right
  Far lively travelin’ in case
  Her folks ’ud like to jine the race. 
  She sent the same note back, and writ
  “The rose is red!” right under it—­
      “Your ’n allus, Marthy Ellen.”

  That’s all, I reckon—­Nothin’ more
  To tell but what you’ve heerd afore—­
  The same old story, sweeter though
  Far all the trouble, don’t you know. 
  Old-fashioned name! and yit it’s jest
  As purty as the purtiest;
  And more ’n that, I’m here to say
  I’ll live a-thinking thataway,
      And die far Marthy Ellen!

MOON-DROWNED.

  ’Twas the height of the fete when we quitted the riot,
    And quietly stole to the terrace alone,
  Where, pale as the lovers that ever swear by it,
    The moon it gazed down as a god from his throne. 
  We stood there enchanted.—­And O the delight of
    The sight of the stars and the moon and the sea,
  And the infinite skies of that opulent night of
    Purple and gold and ivory!

  The lisp of the lip of the ripple just under—­
    The half-awake nightingale’s dream in the yews—­
  Came up from the water, and down from the wonder
    Of shadowy foliage, drowsed with the dews,—­
  Unsteady the firefly’s taper—­unsteady
    The poise of the stars, and their light in the tide,
  As it struggled and writhed in caress of the eddy,
    As love in the billowy breast of a bride.

  The far-away lilt of the waltz rippled to us,
    And through us the exquisite thrill of the air: 
  Like the scent of bruised bloom was her breath, and its dew was
    Not honier-sweet than her warm kisses were. 
  We stood there enchanted.—­And O the delight of
    The sight of the stars and the moon and the sea,
  And the infinite skies of that opulent night of
    Purple and gold and ivory!

LONG AFORE HE KNOWED WHO SANTY-CLAUS WUZ.

Jes’ a little bit o’ feller—­I remember still,—­
Ust to almost cry far Christmas, like a youngster will. 
Fourth o’ July’s nothin’ to it!—­New-Year’s ain’t a smell: 
Easter-Sunday—­Circus-day—­jes’ all dead in the shell! 
Lordy, though! at night, you know, to set around and hear
The old folks work the story off about the sledge and deer,
And “Santy” skootin’ round the roof, all wrapped in fur and fuzz—­
Long afore
I knowed who
“Santy-Claus” wuz!