“Abe was very much of a man, though, arter all. His hosses I reckon had never bin passed before, but he didn’t bluster or git mad about it neither, though it must have bin pooty tryin’ to him. “‘By the Witch of Endor’s long eye tooth,’ he cried, as he jumped from the buggy, ‘you did it, Jim; and you did it fair. Only I kinder think you swung in ahead of me a leetle too quick, back thar where that crazy old whipperin hollered so.’ “‘No, Abe,’ ses I, ‘I didn’t take an inch o’ turnpike till I was entitled to it.’ “‘Wal,’ ses he, as he came round to look at my animals, that were standin’ thar seemingly as cool as a brace of toads in a celler, ‘I’ll be shot if them hosses of yourn ain’t somethin’ like the widder Tappan’s boarders. The speed they show in gettin’ away with anythin’ was most surprisin’.’ “So Kate Rykert got the bonnet and boots, and I gin her a new dress to go with them, and if we didn’t shine out some the next week down to Crow Bend then thar ain’t no use talkin’ about it, that’s all.” [Illustration] OLEOMARGARINE. Through the busy bustling street, Rolls a cart I often meet, The driver shouting from the seat: “Oleomargarine!” On the tail-board long and wide, Reaching fair from side to side, Shines the word in painted pride: “Oleomargarine!” What it is doth not appear, Where it comes from all may fear, Still I shudder when I hear: “Oleomargarine!” Here and there he slowly crawls, Pausing by the butcher stalls, In the kitchen door he bawls: “Oleomargarine!” Bring your tallow, bring your fat, Candle ends and all like that, They will issue from the vat Oleomargarine. Any scraps you have about, Kidney, liver, tripe, or snout, All will make, when they’re tried out, Oleomargarine. Comes the cry across the way, From a dame with rent to pay: “Do you purchase puppies? say, Oleomargarine!” “Is he fat?” the driver cries; “I should say so,” she replies; “Then pitch him in where pussy lies.” Oleomargarine! In the church, or at the play, In the parlor, night or day, Still the voices seem to say: “Oleomargarine!” From the birds that round me fly, In the brook that babbles by, Still I seem to catch the cry: “Oleomargarine!”