“'Bitters he took the rod, and pretty soon A teamster comes, whistling an ex-psalm tune. A likelier chap you wouldn’t ask to see, No different, but his limp, from you or me'-- 'No different, Perez! Don’t your memory fail? Why, where in thunder was his horns and tail?' 'They’re only worn by some old-fashioned pokes; They mostly aim at looking just like folks. Sech things are scarce as queues and top-boots here; ’Twould spoil their usefulness to look too queer. Ef you could always know ’em when they come, They’d get no purchase on you: now be mum. On come the teamster, smart as Davy Crockett, Jinglin' the red-hot coppers in his pocket, And clost behind, ('twas gold-dust, you’d ha' sworn,) A load of sulphur yallower’n seed-corn; To see it wasted as it is Down There Would make a Friction-Match Co. tear its hair! “Hold on!” says Bitters, “stop right where you be; You can’t go in athout a pass from me.” “All right,” says t’other, “only step round smart; I must be home by noon-time with the cart.” Bitters goes round it sharp-eyed as a rat, Then with a scrap of paper on his hat Pretends to cipher. “By the public staff, That load scarce rises twelve foot and a half.” “There’s fourteen foot and over,” says the driver, “Worth twenty dollars, ef it’s worth a stiver; Good fourth-proof brimstone, that’ll make ’em squirm,-- I leave it to the Headman of the Firm; After we masure it, we always lay Some on to allow for settlin' by the way. Imp and full-grown, I’ve carted sulphur here, And given fair satisfaction, thirty year.” With that they fell to quarrellin' so loud That in five minutes they had drawed a crowd, And afore long the Boss, who heard the row, Comes elbowin' in with “What’s to pay here now?” Both parties heard, the measurin'-rod he takes, And of the load a careful survey makes. “Sence I’ve bossed the business here,” says he, “No fairer load was ever seen by me.” Then, turnin' to the Deacon, “You mean cus, None of your old Quompegan tricks with us! They won’t do here: we’re plain old-fashioned folks, And don’t quite understand that kind o' jokes. I know this teamster, and his pa afore him, And the hard-working Mrs. D. that bore him; He wouldn’t soil his conscience with a lie, Though he might get the custom-house thereby. Here, constable, take Bitters by the queue, And clap him into furnace ninety-two, And try this brimstone on him; if he’s bright, He’ll find the masure honest afore night. He isn’t worth his fuel, and I’ll bet The parish oven has to take him yet!”’