And so after Samantha had hurt my feelin's and wownded my self respect by remindin' me of the incident mentioned, when if she had kep' still I should have come off victorious in my argument, I retired into the solitude of my corner in the settin' room where Betsy Bobbett's poetry lay heaped up in the dish-pan and I read with feelin' that I couldn't skursly describe the follerin' verses which I spoze Betsy writ after her husband had wownded her feelin's. And in readin' it I dedicate it silently to my brother men who have been aggravated by their pardners. LONGIN'S OF THE SOLE _By Betsy Bobbett Slimpsey_ Oh Gimlet! back again I float, With broken wings, a weary bard; I cannot write as once I wrote, I have to work so very hard; So hard my lot, so tossed about, My muse is fairly tuckered out. My muse aforesaid once hath flown, But now her back is broke, and breast; And yet she fain would crumple down; On Gimlet's pages she would rest, And sing plain words as there she's sot-- Haply they'll rhyme, and haply not. I spake plain words in former days, No guile I showed, clear was my plan; My gole it matrimony was; My earthly aim it was a man. I gained my man, I won my gole; Alas! I feel not as I fole. Yes, ringing through my maiden thought This clear voice rose: "Oh come up higher." To speak plain truth with candor fraught, To married be was my desire-- Now, sweeter still this lot doth seem, To be a widder is my theme. For toil hath claimed me for her own, In wedlock I have found no ease; I've cleaned and washed for neighbors round, And took my pay in beans and pease; In boiling sap no rest I took, Or husking corn in barn and stook. Or picking wool from house to house, White-washing, painting, papering, In stretching carpets, boiling souse; E'en picking hops it hath a sting, For spiders there assembled be, Mosquitoes, bugs and etc. I have to work oh! very hard; Old Toil I know your breadth and length; I'm tired to death, and in one word, I have to work beyend my strength. And mortal men are very tough To get along with, nasty, rough. Yes, tribulations doomed to her Who weds a man, without no doubt, In peace a man is singuler; His ways they are past findin' out, And oh! the wrath of mortal males-- To paint their ire, earth's language fails. And thirteen children in our home Their buttons rent their clothes they burst, Much bread and such did they consume; Of children they did seem the worst. And Simon and I do disagree; He's prone to sin continualee. He horrors has, he oft doth kick, He prances, yells--he will not work. Sometimes I think he is too sick; Sometimes I think he tries to shirk; But 'tis hard for her in either case, Who B. Bobbett was in happier days.