You see that hoss, don't you, there, sir, ahead? Well, that's JAKE. An hour ago, The last trip up, he fell--stone dead: Drop't right flat in his harness, you know. He'd fell down, too, pooty often before, And--I guess he won't do it, though, any more.
I allas pitied the poor old cuss; He was mighty hard driv and terrible thin, And many a time when he quit the 'bus I've led the mis'rable creetur in And giv him a reg'lar bang-up feed That the Company thought he didn't need.
And now, to see him lyin' there All by himself, a feast for the flies,-- Why, it kinder makes a feller's hair Creep all over, first, then straighten and rise. Maybe you'll say to yourself: "That's all stuff." But I tell you what--_I_ think it's blamed rough.
It makes me feel, too, a little bit glum, To see how everything goes on the same; Some day, I s'pose, _my_ turn 'll come, When I'll have to try on poor JAKE'S little game, And they won't mind me any more, I'll bet. Than they do him.--Off, here, sir?--G'long, JEANETTE!
_Younger Party_. "LOOK HERE, VAN, CAN'T YOU LEAVE THOSE "PERSONALS" ALONE, FOR A MINUTE, AND GIVE ME A CANDID OPINION ON THE BACK FIT OF MY NEW COAT?"]
Leaves are falling (though, coal is not,) And pumpkins are yellow, and maids are blue; Potatoes and apples begin to rot; There's many a liver congested, too.
The dews stay late on the cabbage-leaf, And the red, red beet forsakes the ground; And lovers' wanderings grow more brief, And fewer loafers are loafing around.
The celery rivals the turnip fair; There's new delight in the tender steak; And boys go munching the chestnut rare, Without one thought of the stomach-ache.
The last of the cattle-shows is seen; The monster squash to the cows is fed; Everything's brown that once was green, Except tomatoes, and they are red.
The drowsy citizen hates to rise; The hash may be cold, but so is the air: 'Tis heaven to slumber, for now the flies Are less affectionate, and more rare.
And who is the busiest man we see? 'Tis the Doctor, dashing by in his chaise; And well may he hurry, you will agree, For it isn't every patient that pays.
'Tis a rare, rare season,--so breezy and bright! The dahlias, and even the squashes, are gay! One wouldn't regret the cold at night, If it wasn't so deucedly cold by day.