Just such an ulster as I wear,
And heaven knows what else, too.
AUCTION EXTRAORDINARY.
BY LUCRETIA DAVIDSON.
I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers,
And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers;
My thoughts ran along in such beautiful meter,
I’m sure I ne’er saw any poetry sweeter:
It seemed that a law had been recently made
That a tax on old bachelors’ pates should be laid;
And in order to make them all willing to marry,
The tax was as large as a man could well carry.
The bachelors grumbled and said ‘twas no use—
‘Twas horrid injustice and horrid abuse,
And declared that to save their own hearts’ blood from spilling,
Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling.
But the rulers determined them still to pursue,
So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue:
A crier was sent through the town to and fro,
To rattle his bell and a trumpet to blow,
And to call out to all he might meet in his way,
“Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day!”
And presently all the old maids in the town,
Each in her very best bonnet and gown,
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red and pale,
Of every description, all flocked to the sale.
The auctioneer then in his labor began,
And called out aloud, as he held up a man,
“How much for a bachelor? Who wants to buy?”
In a twink, every maiden responsed, “I—I!”
In short, at a highly extravagant price,
The bachelors all were sold off in a trice:
And forty old maidens, some younger, some older,
Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder.
A APELE FOR ARE TO THE SEXTANT.
BY ARABELLA WILSON.
O Sextant of the meetinouse which sweeps
And dusts, or is supposed to! and makes fiers,
And lites the gas, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose,
In which case it smells orful—wus than lampile;
And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dies
To the grief of survivin’ pardners, and sweeps paths,
And for these servaces gits $100 per annum;
Wich them that thinks deer let ‘em try it;
Gittin up before starlite in all wethers, and
Kindlin’ fiers when the wether is as cold
As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlins
(I wouldn’t be hierd to do it for no sum);
But o Sextant there are one kermodity
Wuth more than gold which don’t cost nuthin;
Wuth more than anything except the Sole of man!
I mean pewer Are, Sextant, I mean pewer Are!
O it is plenty out o’ dores, so plenty it doant no
