. The select works of Bret Hartte in prose and poetry. star afore me, I went wharever it led. a q 450 PENELOPE, It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and nigh,Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby s cry. Listen! thars the same music; but her lungs they are stronger nowThan the day I packed her and her mother,—Im denied it I jest know the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o the whole thing isThat Cis never knew what happened from that very night to this! But Cicely says youre a poet, and maybe you might, some day,Jest sling her a rhyme bout a baby that was
. The select works of Bret Hartte in prose and poetry. star afore me, I went wharever it led. a q 450 PENELOPE, It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and nigh,Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby s cry. Listen! thars the same music; but her lungs they are stronger nowThan the day I packed her and her mother,—Im denied it I jest know the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o the whole thing isThat Cis never knew what happened from that very night to this! But Cicely says youre a poet, and maybe you might, some day,Jest sling her a rhyme bout a baby that was born in a curious see what he says ; and, old fellow, when you speak of the star, dont tellAs how twas the doctors lantern,—for maybe twont sound so welL PENELOPE. SIMPSONS BAR, 1858. CO youve kem yer agen> And one answer wont do ;Well, of all the derned menThat Ive struck, it is Sal! yers that derned fool from Simpsons cavortin roundyer in the dew. Kem in, ef you will. Thar,—quit! Take a cheer PENELOPE. —SIMPSONS BAR, 18« Dont you go, Joe. Or Ill faint,—sure T shall. PENELOPE. 451 Not that; you cant fill Them theer cushings this year,— For that cheer was my old mans, Joe Simpson, and they dont make such men about yer. He was tall, was my Jack, And as strong as a his gun on the rack,— Just you heft it, and you come a courtin his widder. Lord! where can that crittur, Sal, be! Youd fill my Jacks place 1 And a man of your size,—With no baird to his face, Nor a snaj) to his eyes,—And naiy—Sho ! thar ! I was foolin,—I was, Joe, for sar- tain,—dont rise. Sit down. Law ! why, sho! Im as weak as a gal,Sal ! Dont you go, Joe,Or Ill faint,—sure, I down,—anywheer, where you like, Joe,—in that cheer, ifyou choose,—Lord, wheres Sal! 452 JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. POEMS FROM i860 TO 1868, —:-o-:— JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. TT AYE you heard the story that gossips tell ?*^*- Of Burns of Gettysburg 1—No ! Ah,
Size: 1338px × 1868px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookidselectworkso, bookyear1872
