“Before the fire, in want of thought profound, There sat a brother-townsman weather-bound: A sturdy churl, crisp-headed, bristly-eared, Red as a pepper; ’twixt coarse brows and beard His eyes lay ambushed, on the watch for fools, Clear, gray, and glittering like two bay-edged pools; A shifty creature, with a turn for fun, Could swap a poor horse for a better one,-- He’d a high-stepper always in his stall; Liked far and near, and dreaded therewithal. To him the in-comer, 'Perez, how d’ye do?' 'Jest as I’m mind to, Obed; how do you?' Then, his eyes twinkling such swift gleams as run Along the levelled barrel of a gun Brought to his shoulder by a man you know Will bring his game down, he continued, 'So, I s’pose you’re haulin' wood? But you’re too late; The Deacon’s off; Old Splitfoot couldn’t wait; He made a bee-line las' night in the storm To where he won’t need wood to keep him warm. ’Fore this he’s treasurer of a fund to train Young imps as missionaries; hopes to gain That way a contract that he has in view For fireproof pitchforks of a pattern new. It must have tickled him, all drawbacks weighed, To think he stuck the Old One in a trade; His soul, to start with, wasn’t worth a carrot, And all he’d left ’ould hardly serve to swear at.' “By this time Obed had his wits thawed out, And, looking at the other half in doubt, Took off his fox-skin cap to scratch his head, Donned it again, and drawled forth, 'Mean he’s dead?' 'Jesso; he’s dead and t’other _d_ that follers With folks that never love a thing but dollars. He pulled up stakes last evening, fair and square, And ever since there’s been a row Down There. The minute the old chap arrived, you see, Comes the Boss-devil to him, and says he, “What are you good at? Little enough, I fear; We callilate to make folks useful here.” “Well,” says old Bitters, “I expect I can Scale a fair load of wood with e’er a man.” “Wood we don’t deal in; but perhaps you’ll suit, Because we buy our brimstone by the foot: Here, take this measurin'-rod, as smooth as sin, And keep a reckonin' of what loads comes in. You’ll not want business, for we need a lot To keep the Yankees that you send us hot; At firin' up they’re barely half as spry As Spaniards or Italians, though they’re dry; At first we have to let the draught on stronger, But, heat ’em through, they seem to hold it longer.”