And yet, just this moment, when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier,-- In the bustle and glitter befitting The "finest soiree of the year,"-- In the mists of a gaze de Chambery, And the hum of the smallest of talk,-- Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry," And the dance that we had on "The Fork;" Of Harrison's barn, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall; Of the candles that shed their soft lustre And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis; And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee; Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that ride--that to me was the rarest; Of--the something you said at the gate. Ah! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress To "the best-paying lead in the State." Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money, That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat. But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing! (Mamma says my taste still is low), Instead of my triumphs reciting, I'm spooning on Joseph,--heigh-ho! And I'm to be "finished" by travel,-- Whatever's the meaning of that. Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat? Good-night!--here's the end of my paper; Good-night!--if the longitude please,-- For maybe, while wasting my taper, YOUR sun's climbing over the trees. But know, if you haven't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it,--on Poverty Flat. HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER" (REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES) Being asked by an intimate party,-- Which the same I would term as a friend,-- Though his health it were vain to call hearty, Since the mind to deceit it might lend; For his arm it was broken quite recent, And there's something gone wrong with his lung,-- Which is why it is proper and decent I should write what he runs off his tongue. First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter To the end,--and "the end came too soon;" That a "slight illness kept him your debtor," (Which for weeks he was wild as a loon); That "his spirits are buoyant as yours is;" That with you, Miss, he "challenges Fate," (Which the language that invalid uses At times it were vain to relate).