I muse as I gaze on their arms softly twined; How soon some young maidens can alter their mind! ’Tis scarcely three weeks since I heard her declare, When speaking of him who now walks by her there, In marriage she never would give him her hand Though rolling in gems, like a horse in the sand. But she clings to him now, as a green, sappy vine
Embraces the trunk of a time-honored pine; While her looks and her manner would seem to imply That she never before on a man cast an eye; But I, delving back through the layers of Time, Exhume the pale ghost of a youth in his prime, Whose feelings were tortured, whose reason was muddied, Whose pistol was emptied, whose temple was ruddied; Because of coquetry so heartless and strange, Her passion for diamonds, her longing for change.
Pass on, happy bride, with your beaming young face; May happiness still with your moments keep pace, And never mistrust pierce the groom at your side That wealth, and not virtues, have won him his bride.
Last night while a party of us were sitting around the table in the cabin of the _New World_, talking about the “Avitor” and aerial sailing generally, our conversation was interrupted by a dark, raw-boned Hoosier who had entered the cabin shortly after the steamer left her wharf. He kept squirming on his chair for some time, and was evidently anxious to take part in the conversation. “I say, boys, I’m Sam Patterson,” he commenced at last, “and if this yer dish is free and no one han’t no objections, I’d like mi’ty well to dip _my_ spoon in.”
All turned to look at the speaker. Even the fat old gentleman who during our conversation had not taken his eyes from the _Christian Guardian_ he was reading, stretched up and peered over the top of the paper at Sam. Before any one could reply the Hoosier gave his chair a hitch nigher the table and went on:
“I say, boss,” he continued, addressing his conversation to me, perhaps because I had just been expressing my opinion, “I don’t go a picayune on navigatin’ the air. They ain’t no need of talkin’ and gassin’ about crossin’ the ’tlantic or any of them foolish ventur’s. I happen to know somethin’ about balloonin’, and understand pooty near what you _can_ do and what you _can’t_ do with one of them fellers. I’d a plag’y sight ruther undertake to cross the ocean in a dug-out, than ventur’ in one of them tricky cobwebs; you can’t depend on ’em. Thar like a flea—when a man thinks he’s got ’em he hain’t.”