But they turned to me a-smilin', an' she hangin' on his arm, An' he said, "I beg your pardon; let Josiah have the farm. We've accomplished the sweet object for which we so long have striven, And, as usual in such cases, are prepared to be forgiven." An' the whole thing seemed so funny, when I thought of it a while, That I looked 'em both all over, an' then blessed 'em with a smile. Then Josiah Baker junior took his spavined mare for home, An' 'twas difficult decidin' which indulged the most in foam; An' he said, "I'll drive alone, sir, if the same you do not mind; An' your son an' daughter Wheeler maybe'll take you up behind." An' he yelled, while disappearing with a large smile on his mouth. "I kin git a gal whose father jines my father on the south!" IV. I was workin' in my wood-house on a snowy winter day, An' reflectin' on a letter that had lately come our way, How that Belle had every blessin' that a married gal could need, An' had bought her two twin daughters a small-sized velocipede, When the thought came stealin' through me, "Well, so far as I can see, In the line of love an' lovin', what's to be is apt to be." * * * * * NOVEMBER 21, 18--. Went into Congress for a little spell, Where everything seemed going pretty well; But all through boyhood's easy-moulding day I'd heard so much of Webster and of Clay, That, though they had been dead for many a year, I thought at least by proxy they'd appear. It was a disappointment, I declare: Daniel or Henry--neither one was there! * * * * * NEW YORK, _January_ 1, 18--. Got back from several cities; and it looks As if the things we've seen would fill ten books! Some time I'll write our wanderings to and fro; It's a large job: I'll have to take it slow. [_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._] [ONLY A BOX.] Only a box, secure and strong, Rough, and wooden, and six feet long, Lying here in the drizzling rain, Waiting to take the up-bound train. [Illustration: "ONLY A BOX, SECURE AND STRONG, ROUGH AND WOODEN, AND SIX FEET LONG."] Only its owner, just inside, Cold, and livid, and glassy-eyed; Little to him if the train be late! Nothing has he to do but wait. Only an open grave, somewhere, Heady to close when he gets there; Turfs and grasses and flowerets sweet, Ready to press him 'neath their feet. Only a band of friends at home, Waiting to see the traveller come; Naught he will tell of distant lands; He cannot even press their hands. He has no stories weird and bright, He has no gifts for a child's delight; He did not come with anything; He had not even himself to bring. Yet they will softly him await, And he will move about in state; They will give him, when he appears, Love, and pity, and tender tears.