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Title: Tar-Heel Tales in Vernacular Verse
Author: Doyle, John E. P.
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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Transcriber's Notes:

  Underscores "_" before and after a word or phrase indicate
    _italics_ in the original text.
  Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.
  Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved.
  Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other
    variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.
  In TOC, page no. for "Bob Munn of Cape Cod" was corrected
    from 14 to 16.



                  Tar-Heel Tales IN VERNACULAR VERSE.

                             [Illustration]

                        BY _MAJOR JEP JOSLYNN_.

                               NEW YORK:

                     M. DOOLADY, 98 NASSAU STREET.

                                 1873.

                            “LITTLE BOOTS.”

                             MY RERLIGION.

                       THE BUZZIN’ BEES OF BERKS.

                         BOB MUNN OF CAPE COD.



                  Tar-Heel Tales IN VERNACULAR VERSE.

                             [Illustration]

                        _BY MAJOR JEP JOSLYNN_.

                         ILLUSTRATED BY BONAR.

                               NEW YORK:

                     M. DOOLADY, 98 Nassau Street.

                                 1873.

   Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1873,
                      BY J. E. P. DOYLE,
  In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.



AUTHOR’S PREFACE.


The author of this little volume, in presenting it for the amusement of
the reader, and the criticism of his co-laborers on the press, feels
it proper that he should state the circumstances of its production.
While serving as a staff officer with Sherman’s army in North Carolina,
often has he listened for hours to the recitals of adventures on the
part of the Tar-Heel refugees from the pineries, who crowded our camps
in search of food. Having studied with interest the habits and quaint
dialect of this poor, but honest class, the author has created Major
Jep Joslynn, and permitted him to weave some of these “Tales” into
verse. The incident described in “The Buzzin’ Bees of Berks” were
actually witnessed by him while on the advance of Hambright’s brigade
of the Fourteenth corps, assisting in the prevention of pillage. Two
or three of these Tales have been published in the press over Major
Joslynn’s signature. With these explanations the author will take a
back seat and request silence from pit to dome while the veracious
Tar-Heel entertains you with his Vernacular Verses.


HORACE GREELEY.

BY JEP JOSLYNN.

    Hush! a nation’s pulse stands still!
    Through it is flashed a thrill
                            Of genuine grief!
    Grief for the Great and Good—
    Grief for the one who stood
                            In strong relief,
    And half a century braved
    Opinion for the enslaved,
    To find his name engraved
                            On Life’s clear leaf!

    A rustic child of ours,
    Who in Green Mountain bowers
                            Was born to earth,
    Attained a giant life
    ’Mid scenes of bitter strife
                            That prov’d his worth!
    And, dying, leaves behind him,
    In hearts that have enshrined him
    Affection’s links that bind him
                            To every hearth!

    Let the solemn church bell toll
    For the passing of a soul
                            To peaceful rest:
    Let tender tears be shed
    For the illust’rous dead
                            Who’s hand we’ve prest!
    For hearts to-day are riven—
    A LIGHT went out at even
    To glow anew in Heaven
                            Among the Blest!

    —New York Evening Telegram.

                             To

                      FREDERIC HUDSON,

   THE TALENTED JOURNALIST AND COURTEOUS GENTLEMAN, WHOSE

       FRATERNAL INTEREST IN YOUNG WRITERS, AND WHOSE

       CONSIDERATE AND PATIENT TREATMENT OF ALL WITH

          WHOM HE HAS HAD BUSINESS RELATIONS, HAVE

            ENDEARED HIM TO THEM, THIS VOLUME IS

  DEDICATED, BY HIS LATE SUBORDINATE AND SINCERE ADMIRER,

                        The Author.

                      [Illustration]



                     CONTENTS.

                                 PAGE.
  THE CURSE OF PEDERGOGUE SCOTT     9
  BOB MUNN OF CAPE COD             16
  MY RERLIGION                     24
  LITTLE BOOTS                     32
  THE BUZZIN’ BEES OF BERKS        39
  THAT LITTLE BLACK PET OF OUR’N   49
  OLD TOM GIN                      57
  THE SIGN OF JOE BALL             66


  ILLUSTRATIONS.

  PLANTING THE THISTLES            13
  BOB MUNN’S TRANSFIGURATION       21
  DEACON SPARLING’S DEVOTION       26
  THE TAR HEEL’S RETURN            35
  A MULE’S BAPTISM                 46
  JONAH’S LANDLORD                 50

[Illustration]


THE CURSE OF PEDERGOGUE SCOTT.

    That’s a question I don’t like ter speak of:
      How these pesky thistles come here;
    But, boys, if ye will listen attentervely,
      I will breathe a strenge tale in yer ear.

    But afore I bergin I would warn ye,
      Ye may fix yer faces ter blush;
    So jist let thar be silence all around
      And I’ll spin the yarn with a rush.

    Ha! ha! ha! I larf when I think of it—
      The days when a youngster I sat
    On a rough pine bench in the lorg school house,
      And din’d orf the rim of my hat!

    The other boys war bigger than I war,
      And studied thar lesson right well,
    While I ermus’d myself as I wish’d ter
      In quar tricks on which I’ll not dwell.

    I war ter young ter learn my letters,—
      They let me ’tend school for all that;
    And then when I run short of ermusement
      I jerk’d at the tail of the cat!

    As I increas’d in years and mischief,
      Sich as hazin’ our neighbor’s pig,
    Pourin’ ink on the floor, or applyin’
      Powder’d chalk ter the master’s wig—

    Richard Scott—that war the pedergogue’s name—
      Declar’d in wrath he’d be killin’
    Me, if I did not be quiet and sit
      Bertween ter gals—I war willin’!

    Young as I war I lik’d that ye may swar
      On the hilts of yer bowie knives;
    And though but eight years I bergun ter sigh
      For a plurality of wives!

    Now, Tip Tracey, ye may smile over thar
      At the picter I’ve painted you;
    But that gal-punershment of Richard Scott
      War a pleasure ter them gals, too!

    By-an’-by I had master’d my letters,
      And bergun on my _b i bi’s_;
    From that I prergress’d to somethin’ better—
      Admirin’ my companions’ eyes.

    Nearly every day I got the ferule
      Jist for winkin’ at Sue Minals;
    But very soon I had so far prergress’d
      I war plighted ter sev’ral gals!

    I had not been ter school quite a twelvemonth
      When I’d whal’d each boy in the class,
    Kiss’d and hugg’d every gal, eaten Scott’s lunch,
      And ten rivals had sent ter grass!

    I put toads in Scott’s pockets, and dead mice
      Scatter’d everywhar in his desk,
    Till he froth’d at the mouth in his madness,
      And cuss’d me for a little pest.

    All this tuk place over in Canada,
      Whar my gov’ner had gone ter preach
    The Gospel of Jesus ter them sinners,
      As successor ter Elder Beech.

    But don’t tire at th’ length of my story:
      I’m drawin’ erlong ter the close,
    Whar I gather’d the seeds that have blarsted,
      And fill’d a whole nation with woes.

[Illustration]

    One day when I’d been worse than usual,—
      Put snuff in the master’s whistle—
    _Old Scott tuk me out berhind the rear wall,
      And sot me down on a thistle!_

    An hour and a half he held me thar,
      While the barbs pen’trated the skin!
    Havin’ planted the crop, the pedergogue,
      With my trousers harrer’d it in!

    That harrerin’ event I can’t forget,
      For it fairly set me rantin’:
    I wood not car’d had the agricult’rist
      Chosen higher soil ter plant in!

    But that war cruel, and for months I felt
      Them bull thistle seeds takin’ root,
    And creepin’ about in the tender flesh
      From hat crown ter toe of my boot.

    After that I went back on old Dick Scott,
      And lit out for York State ye bet;
    But each Spring I war sowin’ the thistles,
      No rest anywhar could I get.

    I have toted them thistles all over,
      And planted ’em in every field,
    Whar I’ve halted ter rest; but dog on it!
      Thar seems a ter bounterful yield!

    Now, neighbors, that is a right true story
      I’ve told ye, and is it not queer
    That I cannot get shut of ’em? That is
      How Canada thistles reached here!

    So whenever ye cut down yer thistles
      Don’t cuss me ter strong. May I rot
    In a roadside ditch if I can help it!
      _They are the curse of Richard Scott!_

[Illustration]


BOB MUNN OF CAPE COD.

    I berlieve it’s cornceeded on all sides
      That of all the cute bipeds made
    Since the world war created, the Yankee
      Allers gets the best in a trade!

    It’s a boast that no race can match ’em
      In expedients sure ter win:
    And all others must get up right early
      If they would n’t be taken in!

    As a proof of this ere declaration
      They tell of one up at Cape Cod,
    Who’s so all-fir’d smart he endeavor’d
      Ter play a trump kerd at his God!

    He’s a fisherman by occerpation,
      Is this feller they call Bob Munn;
    And ter dry his fish he ask’d _mandamus_
      Ter sercure more light from the sun!

    The court would not listen ter the motion,
      But this action did not appall:
    He fix’d up a merchine ter uterlize
      The rerfulgent rays of old Sol.

    With powerful glasses he center’d
      The rays on his cargoes of cod,
    And chuckl’d right smart at his success
      In stealin’ the smiles of his God!

    For a time his merchine work’d ter a charm,
      And his sackerlege war endur’d;
    While his rivals in trade war astonish’d
      At the many quintals he cur’d.

    But Bob Munn, he grew bold in his averice,
      And the splendid march he had stole
    Upon his Creator and his rivals,
      E’en at the expense of his soul.

    He had read in the Scripters of Lot’s wife
      Who ter salt war chang’d in a night,
    As a punershment for diserbedience
      And exercizin’ wimin’s right—

    (A right ter pry inter other’s affa’rs
      By evesdroppin’ if she’s inclin’d,
    For which each one of ’em should be treated
      As Lot’s mistress what look’d berhind.)

    But, endin’ he aposterphe, I must
      Return ter the exploits of Munn,
    Who ignor’d the bounty of Jerhover,
      And corntiner’d ter steal the sun!

    The story of Lot’s wife impress’d him
      With a more avericious wish—
    The diskivery of arter-fish-al means
      For ter salt his catches of fish.

    On the shores of Cape Cod in them days
      Many old maids sigh’d alone
    For the lips of a man ter caress ’em,
      And the means ter sercure a home.

    They had been doom’d ter sore diserpointment,
      The girlish bloom had diserpear’d,
    Leavin’ a shad-er of thar lost beauty
      On the features so dry and sear’d.

    Bob Munn, he long ponder’d on the subject
      Of testin’ that ere recerpe,
    What work’d ter a charm at old Gomorrer,
      And set a poor hen-peck’d man free!

    God had smil’d upon his undertakin’s,
      And he felt he might tempt him still,
    With a more ingenious expererment,
      Ter bring a fresh grist ter his mill.

    Then he sent out many invertations—
      Corlected the maids at his board,
    And while they war gossippin’ o’er thar tea
      In his chamber he ask’d the Lord—

    Ter merakerlously chenge ’em ter salt
      The cheaper ter cure his fresh cod;
    Then in faith he erose from his marrers,
      And his sinful tamp’rin’ with God!

    Now Bob Munn in his folly expected
      On rejinin’ his guests ter find
    The work he’d mapped out for the Master,
      Perform’d by His Infernite mind.

[Illustration]

    But not so. On reachin’ the tea-drinkers,
      Whar he trusted ter git his wish,
    No pillars of salt war thar; but _harf of
      Munn’s carcass war cheng’d ter a fish_!

    Bob Munn soon diskiver’d it war wrongful,
      And, chagrin’d tuk ter the water:
    Becomin’ an amphibious anermal,
      The first mermaid war his daughter.

    Two centuries have pars’d away since then;
      The mermaids have multerplied,
    And, old mariners say, it all comes from
      Lovin’ fish premerturely dri’d!

    And, although I won’t vouch for it, they say
      This is why the Yankees like cod,
    Car’fully season’d, and salted and cur’d
      By the means pervided by God.

    BUT THE MORAL—ye see it war sinful
      Ter tempt the Almighty ter fast!
    And this story will show ye how _He got_
      _The best of that Yankee at last_!

    Whenever ye hear tell of a mermaid
      Be warn’d by the sin of poor Bob,
    Who attempted ter stock the kerds upon
      His Maker, but—botch’d the job!

[Illustration]


MY RERLIGION.


    I do not gamble much on Rerligion,
      Nor show a sanctermonious look
    Down here under my hat when they mention
      The Bible—that spiritu’l book—

    What’s a guide-board ter every stray traveler
      In the pathway leadin’ ter God;
    I do not clasp my hands in dervotion,
      And at the church minister nod,—

    Extollin’ his favorite utterances;
      Nor jine in the fervent “Amen,”
    That the folks in the meetin’ may think me
      One of them most pious laymen.

    Nor go down on my marrers durin’ pr’ar,
      Raise my eyes ter Heaven and cry
    Ter God ter pour out His Holy Spirit,
      And bless me with grace from on High!

    In meetin’ I do not yell out “Glory!”
      “Bless the Lord who died for sinners!”
    “Come down, dear Jesus; I’ll clasp ye right here!”
      Nor ’nvite the parson ter dinners.

    I’ve sarch’d from Gen’ses ter Reverlation
      For a precerdent, but I can’t
    Find that Christ and His Erpostles have spent
      The Sabbath in boisterous rant!

    The knees of my Sabbath mornin’ trousers
      May not show same ermount of war’
    As those of Deacon Horatio Sparling,
      Who’s worn holes in his’n at pra’r.

[Illustration]

    _I may not show the white of my eyes, like
      The Deacon who looks for rerward
    For countin’ the number of the rarfters,
      When they pars the cup of the Lord!_

    I am not in the habit of tellin’
      Sinners they’ll be left in the lurch,
    In the last great day when Jerhover comes,
      If thar not members of the church!

    Or skeerin’ ’em with brimstone and fire,
      And the vengeance of thar Maker,
    If they turn thar backs on the Pascal Lamb,
      And fail ter be a pertaker!

    I do not prerclaim ter all my neighbors
      Who’ve not bow’d down in corntrition
    And jin’d the meetin’, that they’ve cartenly
      A through ticket ter perdition!

    That when the Lord shall come in His glory,
      If thar not as pure as snow,
    He will hurl His hot bolts of wrath at ’em,
      And tell ’em ter git up and go!

    That when the ran’som’d have enter’d in,
      With the Lord ter thar final rest
    In Heaven, and have put on the white robes
      Emblermatical of the Blest—

    The guilty sinner will be shunted orf
      Ter lakes of sul-furious fires
    Whar murderers, burgulars and drunkards
      Pursue thar unlicens’d desires.

    It is true I do not wrench from the poor
      Part of the proceeds of thar sweat,
    That my name may look large on subscriptions,
      And that I may complerments get!

    And be known as a great pherlanterpist
      When they pars the corlection plate,
    _That receives money wrung from a brother,
      Or filch’d from his orphan’s erstate_!

    O, no! I will freely own up ter it:
      This sort of Rerligion don’t meet
    My views of what’s right—what Jesus rerquires
      Of all what come near ter His seat.

    My idea of Christianity
      Is of quite a different type,
    And all them supercillious ranters
      Who think for the Harvest thar ripe,

    That, through thar pra’r and thar false prerfession,
      They have been cleans’d of all thar sin,
    Will find, when they apply for admission,
      They have a slim chance ter get in!

    My Rerligion is not a prerfession
      That “I am holier than thou!”
    That a man can not serve his Creator
      If he don’t make a saintly bow!

    The follerers of the Blessed Jesus,
      Who war cradl’d in a menger,
    Will strive ter love thar neighbor as themselves,
      And gladden the lonely strenger—

    With kindnesses what go home ter the heart
      In hour of his greatest need,
    And act the part of the Sermaritan,
      Of whom we all derlight ter read.

    I may be a sinner, and I doubt not
      Have done heaps of things that war wrong;
    But I love the example of the Lord,
      And in secret pour out in song—

    My acknolergements for His great bounty;
      And I strive ter keep His commands,
    What war written on tablets by Moses,
      When Jerhover guided his hands!

    _In them, Commandments ye get the essence
      Of the Truth as given ter man;
    And if a poor sinner lives up ter ’em,
      And labors the best that he can—
    No matter if he is out of the church,
      Whar the wicked ones are cryin’
    For mercy! He’ll not be with the Deacon
      Blubb’rin’ at the gates of Zion!_

[Illustration]


LITTLE BOOTS.

    Wal, neighbor, ye have got me right sure
      When ye put a question like that:
    The age of my youngster—“Little Boots,”
      So frolicksome, funny and fat?

    The year and the day he war cradl’d
      By the nurse what waited about;
    And stood watch over Polly jist thar,
      And heer’d his first inferntile shout?

    He’s a brilliant pearl in our cabin—
      Is “Little Boots”—that’s cartenly true:
    But durn me if I know he _war born_!
      Maybe—like Miss Topsey—he grew!

    Come, strenger; bring yer cheer ter the fire.
      Here’s some juice of the grape. Maybe
    Ye’ll not stand upon manners jist now,
      For I’ve no great larnin’, ye see.

    So I’ll tell ye the story of “Boots”—
      Dog on’d strenge as ’t may seem ter _you_;—
    But may my ha’r be cheng’d ter black snakes
      If it is not Scripterly true!

    Ye see, we come down ter Car’lina
      Five years ago, comin’ next Fall,—
    Polly and me, and our setter dorg:
      Without a mule or beast ter haul.

    Here I knock’d up a little cabin,
      And skeer’d up a nigger or so,
    At odd times ter jine in the plantin’,
      And a startin’ the crop ter grow!

    Wal, for a time we prosper’d right smart—
      Long afore “Little Boots” war born—
    But we fretted in vain for a somethin’,
      Though harvestin’ cotton and corn.

    But the drought spil’d the crops, and one day—
      Leavin’ Polly ter boss the help—
    I kissed her good bye, and dug out
      Ter rough it a while by myself!

    Three years I work’d hard in the gold mines—
      ’Way out in the mountains, ye see,
    Whar a feller don’t have sich comforts
      As a wife and a boy on the knee!

    Wal, at last I grew rather homesick,
      And, ’thout writin’ Polly a word,
    I ti’d up my kit for a journey,
      And—slop’d for the home I prerferr’d?

[Illustration]

    Forty days I war comin’ ter Clark’s:
      A week brought me here ter the door,
    _When I peek’d through a hole in the wall:_
      _“Little Boots” war squat on the floor_!

    The supper war spread on the table,
      And Polly war pourin’ the tea
    For Tom Smart, who had dropp’d in jist then
      Ter hear if she’d got word from me.

    Now, Tom Smart war an old friend of our’n,
      Who had shown much friendly corncern
    In Polly and me, and, heaps of times,
      Had render’d a neighborly turn!

    But, ter come ter the pint; I cornfess,
      I chuck’d my rerligion erside!
    And when they decla’r’d this boy war mine,
      I cussed ’em, and told ’em they lied!

    For, strenger, I’d been away three years
      From Polly and home, yet, forsooth,
    The youngster they tried ter palm on me,
      Had only jist cut his first tooth!

    But Polly, she kiss’d me so kind-like,
      And prertested that she had been true,
    That I tuk “Little Boots” ter my arms,—
      Why, strenger, what else could I do?

    Since then I’ve been thinkin’ it over:
      How this youngster chanc’d inter life,—
    Durn me, if I don’t fear it’s the fault
      Of Tom Smart and Polly, my wife!

    I don’t like ter suspicion my Polly
      Who’s jist now appearin’ in view;
    But, somehow, I don’t think it’s nat’ral
      That our “Boots” should come thus. Do you?

    However, I’ll not fret erbout it:
      Say nothin’; my wife’s at the door:
    But one thing take note on:—_We’re happy_,
      And—Tom Smart don’t come here no more!

    Now that is the whole histry of “Boots,”
      A plaguey quar case. It’s not clear!
    How this boy can be mine I can’t guess,
      Or how in the world he reach’d here!

    But he’s Polly’s, that’s carten and sure,
      And I admit him inte my heart,
    Although he bars a strikin’ rersemblance
      Ter that Tar-heel known as Tom Smart!

[Illustration]


THE BUZZIN’ BEES OF BERKS.

    Boys, ye ask me ter spin ye a story
      Of adventer by flood or field,
    Or stand for licker ter bits at the bar,—
      Ter the former, of course, I’ll yield;
    For I’m rather short of greenbacks jist now,
      Havin’ been out of work some time.
    So, hear goes for a yarn, but ye must not
      Make sport of my effort at rhyme—

    For in youth I had no eddercation,
      ’Cept crumbs pick’d up by the way,
    A scratchin’ figgers on the old school house
      Of our pedergogue, Milton Gray.
    Of course, ye know I war one of them chaps
      What with Sherman march’d ter the sea,
    From Atlanter, the stronghold we’d captur’d,
      Ter the forts down on the ’Gechee.

    It war in Nervember we burn’d the place:
      On the seventeenth we cut loose
    From our base of surplies, and started orf
      Ter exercute Sherman’s _ruse_,
    That he war playin’ on Hood, the rebel,
      Who’d unkiver’d his flanks ter soon,
    For he left the way cl’ar for us ter raid
      Ter Servanner or ter the moon!

    It war on that march the ervent tuk place
      Of which I am goin’ ter tell,
    Of how I ran inter a nest ef bees,
      And thar got a foretaste of hell!
    On the sixth day out we had got well down
      In Berks county, n’ar the borders,
    And on that ere raid, ye may bet yer pile,
      We did not car’ much for orders!

    But each man dug out upon his own hook,
      And rush’d for the front and plunder:
    N’arly all of ’em got thar full of it,
      But some of the boys went under;
    For, ye see, thar war stray rebels erbout,
      Who would swing ’em up by the necks,
    When they cetch’d ’em totin’ erway the grub—
      And hundreds parsed in thar checks!

    In them days I war not at all skeery—
      Impressin’ a mule, I lit out
    For the front, whar the bummers war raidin’
      And scourin’ the country erbout—
    Stealin’ chickens, or killin’ hogs by day,
      (Or goin’ through a trunk, perchance;)
    Then at night they would camp for ter eat ’em,
      With pickets thrown out in advance.

    They would coral thar mules in the forest,
      Unsling knapsacks and build a fire,
    Of pine logs, dry knots, or rails from the farms;
      Then, chuck full of pork, they’d rertire
    Ter slumbers disturb’d by the dyin’ squeals
      Of swine they had slaughter’d for tea,
    ’Til they thought the devils had come back from
      Those Jesus druv inter the sea!

    As I have told ye, I jin’d the bummers
      With my mule, my gun and canteen,
    And the days that I roam’d about with ’em
      War the jolliest I have seen;
    But as we pars’d out of Berks one mornin’,
      Far erhead of the “acorn” corps,
    We soon diskiver’d a fine old homestead,
      And a fair young gal in the door.

    Now while I did not do any stealin’,
      And paid cash for all I seized,
    If thar’s one thing I love it is wimin,
      And, if thar pretty, I am pleas’d;
    And when I saw more than a dozen bee hives
      Lercated right thar in the yerd,
    And the boys goin’ quickly terwards ’em,
      I felt that it war mighty hard.

    I spurr’d up my mule, and then prertested
      Not one should be tak’n from thar;
    But the fellers jist snickered right out,
      And told me ter go comb my ha’r—
    And dry up, for they would have them hives
      If they had ter eat bees berside,
    And if I did not like it I could jist
      Crawl out of my pesky old hide.

    Objections war no use erbout them days;
      And, like a cornsumate old fool,
    I drew rein at the gate ef the house, and
      Watch’d ’em from the back of my mule.
    Then them soldiers made a sortie on the bees
      With thar ponchos, and tuk ’em quick
    Ter the stream near by whar they drowned them,
      And lifted the hives from the creek.

    While this war doin’ I sat on that mule,
      Till Dick Mullens upset a hive,
    And a swarm of mad bees came tearin’ out,
      And, soarin’ around, made a dive
    Right squar for my mule; they lit on his flanks,
      And his neck, his ears and back:—
    He rear’d and snorted, threw his head in air,
      Then quickly tuk a le’ard tack!

    And erway on a fearful race he broke
      Over fences, lorgs, ditches and rocks,
    Headin’ for the water under the hill—
      He near shook me out of my socks!
    On his break-neck race for that brook berlow
      It war needless ter pull on the rein,
    For that ugly mule war dead set upon
      Gittin’ rid of his bitin’ pain!

    With me the siteration war quite bad—
      That mule’s hide war thicker than mine;
    And when they lit on me I fit a while:
      Then foller’d the mule’s bee line!
    We reach’d the creek—ye may not berlieve it—
      But that mule went down on his knees
    In that ere stream, and roll’d over on me,
      Jist ter rid himself of the bees!

[Illustration]

    The muddy water war full four feet deep,
      And I came quite n’ar bein’ drown’d,
    _As with the old mule I battl’d thar,
      With the bees what war buzzin’ ’round_!
    I shall never forget that frisky brute,
      What flounder’d erbout and shook
    Them ere buzzin’ insects from orf his ears,
      And danced like mad in the brook,—

    One minute he lay flat upon his back—
      _The next balanced, on his fores,_
    _With his tail stuck out, and kickin’ like mad,_
      _As the bees fell on him by scores_!
    Wal, while this battle war ergoin’ on
      ’Twixt the bees and the valiant mule,
    I had a chance ter crawl up ter the bank—
      Don’t say that my action war cru’l—

    For the critter war much better prepar’d
      With his tail ter banish his foes,
    While I had not a durn’d thing erbout me
      Ter aid him the battle ter close.
    I had had quite ernough of that skirmish,
      And erway up the hill I run
    As quickly as my shanks would carry me,
      In sarch of my knapsack and gun.

    When I had found them I war satersfied,
      And did not rernew the ertack
    On them wild bees; but, boys, I’m not carten
      _But that mule still lies on his back
    Erway down thar in Berks county, fightin’
      The dercendents of them mad bees
    What that day swarm’d out of that broken hive!
      That’s the yarn!_—Who’s treat is it, please?

[Illustration]


THAT LITTLE BLACK PET OF OUR’N.

    Elder, quite a good story is that
      Ye read from the Bible ter-day,
    Of how that truant, surnam’d Jonah,
      Succeeded in findin’ his way
      Ter the mouth of that erbligin’ whale,
    What tuk him in out of the wet,
      And entertain’d him three days and nights,
      Whar thar’s free erpartments ter let!

    ’Pears ter me, that whale war kind-hearted
      Ter render sich an act; I’m sure
    Most lan’lords would jist tell him ter git
      Mighty quick away from thar door—
    If he’d not the spondulicks ter pay
      For his meals, his washin’ and bed;
    But this generous whale surplied all,
      And never tax’d Jonah a red!

[Illustration]

    Do ye think ye could find a lan’lord
      In these days as kind as that whale,
    _What opened his mouth and ax’d him in
      When the sea war runnin’ a gale_!
    I guess ye’d look a long while, Elder,
      Ter find one in this ere big State,
    Who would not a cuss’d right smart at him,
      And left Mr. J. ter his fate.

    Elder, I’ve been thinkin’ it over,
      And, dog on it! I cannot see
    How that story can be at all true;
      But as _you_ say so, it must be:
    For ye teech us ter berlieve each word
      What is writ for our edderfecation,
    Ter turn poor sinners ter Jesus Christ,
      And rescue ’em from damnation!

    I’ll take the yarn, as the whale tuk in
      Mr. Jonah, without any doubt;
    But, years ago, an ervent tuk place,
      What I will tell ye all erbout—
    And if ye don’t say, it matches your’n
      My name is not Pherlander Lee:
    It tuk place when I war rarftin’ lorgs,
      Years ago, upon the Suanee,—

    With Ashley Cole, Will Starks and Ed. Flynn,
      And a dozen or more, maybe,
    Of lumbermen, who work’d all day at
      Ermanuel labor with me.
    We anchor’d our rarft n’ar Cedar Keys,
      And squatted down berside the stream
    One evenin’, and after supper dropp’d orf
      Ter slumber, ter rest and dream—

    Of wives and children we’d left erbove
      In the pineries days berfore;
    And now, worn out with lerborious toil,
      We quickly bergan for ter snore.
    Ter keep the flies orf we built a fire,
      And Fanny, my little black dorg,
    That I thought a mighty sight of, sir,
      Doubl’d up ter snooze on a lorg—

    A few yards from the fire. A sharp yelp
      Woke me from my dreams, and, springin’
    Right out of my cot, I hurried orf
      Whar the cries of my Fanny war ringin’
    On the air, as an allergater
      In his jaws had cru’lly caught her,
    And war makin’ right orf with my pet,
      Ter his young ’ns in the water!

    Seizin’ a club, I feller’d right fast
      After the stealthy, thievin’ brute;
    But the night war dark, and the critter
      Successfully baffled pursuit!
    My dorg war gone: ’twar no use frettin’
      O’er raid of that allergater,
    What had sneak’d my pet from orf that lorg,
      And, I doubted not, had ate her!

    She did not come back ter tell the tale
      Of how she had been sneak’d away,
    And I mourn’d her as lost ter me forever,
      And—had not a word ter say.
    But, Elder, that war n’t the last I saw
      Of that little black pet of our’n,
    For two months later, when we’d come down
      Agin, and one day war scourin’—

    Erbout for game, in a swamp n’ar by
      The slimy thief I once more saw!
    Liftin’ my rifle, I lodg’d a ball
      Right under his uplifted jaw.
    In them days I war reckon’d a shot,
      And, ye may bet, the critter died:
    Then over on his back we turn’d him,
      And bergun ter rermove his hide.

    While this war doin’ I heer’d a bark
      Of a dorg, what appear’d quite near!
    ’Twar so much like Fanny’s, with my sleeve
      I—jist brush’d from my cheek a tear!
    Wal, when we had cut the varment open—
      Ye won’t berlieve it, but it’s true
    As any story I’ve ever told,
      My Fanny jump’d squar inter view!

    Then, arter her came three pretty purps—
      Exact picters of thar mother!
    We ply’d our knives agin in the flesh,
      And then unkiver’d another!
    Ye see, I had rerkiver’d my pet,
      What brought back a numerous crop
    Of young dogs; now if I hain’t match’d ye,
      Why, Elder, I’ll gen’rously stop!

    But, wait a bit; a few more inches
      We come ter somethin’ kinder hard,
    That our sharpest blades would not go through,
      And then old Samuel Bard
    Pick’d up a hatchet and whack’d erway
      _Until he came ter some spruce lorgs,_
    _That, bein’ unkiver’d, dersplay’d ter view_
      _The kennel of them little dorgs_!

[Illustration]


OLD TOM GIN.

    A “smile” is it, Hank Rowland,
      Ye invite me ter take,
    At the bar of Pete Moody,
      Jist for the old time sake,
      And ter keep me erwake?
    A smile of th’ distillation
      Of hell that is call’d Gin,—
    The nectar of the devils!
      The vile parent of sin,
      What many waller in?

    I don’t like ter ’pear ’fensive,
      My friend Hank, but jist think
    The temptation ye set me
      When ye ax me ter drink!
      No, no! from it I shrink!
    Time war when a poor toper
      I reel’d erbout the place,
    A wretched victim of rum,
      That so many embrace
      Ter thar lastin’ disgrace!

    Hank, I’ll tell ye a story
      What’s call’d ter my mind
    When I come any whar n’ar
      This great curse of mankind
      With which stomachs are lin’d!
    It makes me blush for the past,
      The ’nebriate I’ve been,
    When I think of the enemy—
      The inciter ter sin—
      They have christen’d “Tom Gin.”

    When I war marri’d, Hank Rowland,
      A likelier young chap
    Ye couldn’t find anywhar
      This side Cumberland Gap,
      For I tuk no “night cap.”
    My wife, she war a Christian,
      And a true wife war she;
    And God rain’d down His blessin’s
      On Malinder and me,
      With a hand that war free.

    She bore me three fine children—
      Two fair gals and a boy—
    Whose soft chirrupin’ voices
      Fill’d the cabin with joy
      And love without erloy.
    When the honeymoon pars’d
      And love seem’d ter grow cold,
    I stray’d down ter the tavern,—
      Thar squander’d my gold,
      And nerglected the fold—

    Whar my sunny-ha’r’d treasurs
      Gather’d ’bout my wife’s side,
    As she teech’d ’em of the Lord
      Who on Calvary died,
      And for orphans pervide.
    As she told them of Heaven,
      And repeated that pra’r
    Of the Sevior of the world—
      So erquented with car’—
      They never saw me thar!

    Hank Rowland, I’m ershem’d
      Ter admit it; but, still,
    It may do another good
      Ter warn him of what’ll kill,
      And I swow that I will;
    For, ye see, thar is many
      Jist like me ’round here
    Turnin’ erway from thar homes
      When the smiles diserpear,
      ’Cause thar wedded ter beer!

    Wal, down here ter the tavern,
      As a matter of course
    I found many good fellers
      Who’d not any rermorse,
      And did not seem advarse
    Ter a toddy or a smoke,
      A yarn or a story,
    Of Ingen fights on the Plains,
      And conflicts quite gory,
      In sarch of mere glory.

    Hank, them times war attractive,
      And I drank like the rest;
    As months pars’d it grew on me,
      Till I swigg’d with the best—
      Pour’d it down with a zest.
    Then reelin’ home late at night
      The little ones would creep
    Erway ter Merlinder’s room
      With thar mother ter weep
      In vain effort ter sleep!

    As years pars’d I grew keerless—
      My farm went ter the duce—
    And I hurl’d at my treasures—
      Thinkin’ I had excuse—
      Vile curses and erbuse!
    One night I went home much later
      And prepar’d ter rertire;
    In my drink I upset the lamp—
      Then the house war afire,
      And my terror war dire!

    I stagger’d out ter the yard
      And call’d for help. Ter late!
    They got out all my children
      But baby—little Kate—
      Who met a dreadful fate!
    The next mornin’, when sober’d,
      I found my infant dead,—
    Her body charr’d and blackened—
      Her death war on my head!
      My love for whisky fled?

    Berside that rough pine coffin
      I knelt me down and wept,
    And register’d a vow thar,
      Whar little Katey slept,
      Hank Rowland, I have kept!
    ’Twar this: never ter touch it—
      This stuff they have nam’d Gin,
    What’s draggin’ others ter whar
      I, findin’ out my sin,
      Rerfus’d ter suck it in!

    A smile is it, Hank Rowland,
      Ye invite me ter take,
    At the bar of Pete Moody,
      Jist for the old time sake,
      And ter keep me erwake?
    No, Hank, none of it for me!
      ’Twould make the engels groan
    Ter see me touch it. I pars!
      (Rather be cheng’d ter stone)
      Jist run the hand alone!


THE SIGN OF JOE BALL.

    Ed Colby, yer noted for yer stories
      What are marvelous, while thar true,
    And I know ye’ll relish a good one,
      So I will rercite it ter you.

    A few nights ago I kinder crav’d for
      A small morsel of sassage meat,
    And, jist seizin’ my hat from the mantel,
      I hurri’d out inter the street.

    At the shop of Joe Ball I diskiver’d
      Some what look’d superbly nice;
    The stamps war put down, and them sassages
      War mine at a nomernal price.

    I carri’d them ter my house in triumph,
      Without gettin’ scratch’d in the least,
    And, sev’rin’ some, waited for daylight
      Ter enjoy a savory feast.

    I war up with the crow of the rooster,
      And went for my sassages straight.
    I be gol durn’d if one wasn’t purrin’,
      And rubbin’ himself ’gin the gate!

    Another had crawl’d ter the parlor,
      Whar he crouched down and purr’d,
    And wistfully watch’d a wire cage
      Whar slumber’d my favorite bird!

    Two others I found in the coal cellar,
      Anxiously layin’ for rats:
    While another had her head in a pitcher
      Whar wife kept the milk for the cats!

    I next look’d erbout for the balance,
      And, an oath I thar gave vent ter.
    Though thar tails war tied they war creepin’
      Erway from a common center!

    I survey’d ’em, and they look’d at me
      From out thar harf-closed eyes,
    As one of ’em told me that thar mother
      Had been chopp’d up inter pies.

    The poor little orphans implor’d me
      Thar infantile lives ter spar’;
    But I had sich a feline mernagerie,
      That I flatly rerfus’d thar pra’r.

    That mornin’ I miss’d my fav’rite rerpast
      Of fried sassages, ter be sure;
    But I had the satersfaction ter see
      The whole lot drown’d in the sewar!

    Whenever ye see the sign of Joe Ball,
      Be car’ful not ter enter his lair,
    For he prides himself upon his choice stock
      Of kitten spic’d sassage and hair.

[Illustration]


                            “THE TABLE,”

                    BARRY GRAY, EDITOR,

                        A MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

  _Devoted exclusively to subjects connected with the
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  _The form of_ THE TABLE _will be a large octavo,
  twenty pages to each number_.

                       TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION:

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                   Single Copies,             10

                       M. DOOLADY, Publisher,
                                 _98 Nassau Street_.


        A New, Revised, Corrected, and Illustrated Edition

                              OF THE

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  Of this work it is truly said “that no more interesting
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                 Price, Paper, 50 cents; Cloth, $1.00.

                               CONTENTS.

          At Niblo’s by Gaslight.      Grace Church Morality.
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          A Bust for Ten Cents.        A Private Post-Office.
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