And he says "that the mountains are fairer For once being held in your thought;" That each rock "holds a wealth that is rarer Than ever by gold-seeker sought." (Which are words he would put in these pages, By a party not given to guile; Though the claim not, at date, paying wages, Might produce in the sinful a smile.) He remembers the ball at the Ferry, And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, And the rose that you gave him,--that very Same rose he is "treasuring now." (Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk, Miss, And insists on his legs being free And his language to me from his bunk, Miss, Is frequent and painful and free.) He hopes you are wearing no willows, But are happy and gay all the while; That he knows--(which this dodging of pillows Imparts but small ease to the style, And the same you will pardon)--he knows, Miss, That, though parted by many a mile, Yet, were HE lying under the snows, Miss, They'd melt into tears at your smile. And "you'll still think of him in your pleasures, In your brief twilight dreams of the past; In this green laurel spray that he treasures,-- It was plucked where your parting was last; In this specimen,--but a small trifle,-- It will do for a pin for your shawl." (Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle, Was his last week's "clean up,"--and HIS ALL.) He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss, Were it not that I scorn to deny That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss, In view that his fever was high; But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive. And now, my respects, Miss, to you; Which my language, although comprehensive, Might seem to be freedom, is true. For I have a small favor to ask you, As concerns a bull-pup, and the same,-- If the duty would not overtask you,-- You would please to procure for me, GAME; And send per express to the Flat, Miss,-- For they say York is famed for the breed, Which, though words of deceit may be that, Miss, I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed. P.S.--Which this same interfering Into other folks' way I despise; Yet if it so be I was hearing That it's just empty pockets as lies Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers That, having no family claims, Here's my pile, which it's six hundred dollars, As is YOURS, with respects, TRUTHFUL JAMES. "THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS" (MUD FLAT, 1860)