It seems as if everything melancholy and cast down appeared right in front on me. Seems as if I could see old Fate a encouragin' and pompeyin' the more opposite sect, and turnin' her back and lookin' down onto me and my sect, and refusin' me and us things she might have gin us if she'd a mind to. But bein' a female we might know she'd be contrary and love to tromple on us, and on me in petickular. As I sot there in them solemn night hours, with Samantha sleepin' peacefully in the next room and the old clock tickin' away as if onmindful of the sufferin' sperit near it, it seemed as if every mean jab old Fate had ever gin me from her sharp elbows and hard knuckles riz right up before me, and I seemed to see all the agreable things she might have did for the benefit of me and my sect if she hadn't been so contrary, but as I said, what could you expect of a female? My feelin's wuz turrible; the verses I gin vent to relieved me a little some like prickin' a bile and after writin' 'em I went back to bed and slep' so sound that I never hearn Samantha buildin' a fire and gittin' breakfast till the sweet uroma of the coffee and briled chops stole on my wakened senses and I forgot for the moment the trials of me and my sect and felt better than I did feel. The verses wuz entitled: A CHRISTMAS OWED _By Josiah Allen, Esq., P.M.S.J.C.F._ Yes Christmas has come, it got here at last, A bringin' me memories out of the past, And a pair of galluses, a necktie sad-- A gray night-shirt and a paper pad; Useful presents, but nothin' gay, _Useful presents_, dum 'em! I say! I wanted some jew'lry for the brethren to see, But it wuzn't to be, it wuzn't to be. Ministers preach 'tis a blessed day, And so it is in a meetin' house way; But to me it has been a day of gloom, Samantha I see didn't like the broom, And mop-stick, and pair of cowhide shues, It took me the heft of a hour to chuse; It made me deprested, and mournfulee I've mused on the things that wuzn't to be. Weak females risin' on every hand Pertendin' that they're equal to man-- Wantin' to stand right up by his side, Instead of the place where they ort to abide Down in the safety and peace at his feet; Oh the dear old times, so happy so sweet, Will never come back to my sect, nor to me, No, it wuzn't to be, it wuzn't to be. Yes, I guess old Fate made a slip of her pen, When fixin' the lot of the children of men, 'Twas bad for the world and for me I ween That I wuzn't born a king or a queen; My bald head shines out bare and cold, Or wears a hat, oh a crown of gold Would set it off fur agreabler to me, But it wuzn't to be, it wuzn't to be.