Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket; An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it, An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented. He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin; An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ taprin’; He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it: An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it? De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’s a-singin’; De ha’r’s so long an’ thick an’ strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin’; Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as washday-dinner graces: An’ sorted ob ’em by de size—f’om little E’s to basses. He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twuz “_Nebber min’ de wedder_,”— She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder: Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’: Noah called de figgers; An’ Ham he sot an’ knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers! Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’ Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’; An’ curi’s, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em— Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum! _Edith M. Thomas_ Edith Matilda Thomas was born at Chatham, Ohio, August 12, 1854. She was educated in the Normal Institute at Geneva, Ohio, and has been living in New York since 1888. Miss Thomas is the author of some dozen books of verse, most of them lightly lyrical in mood, although many of her individual poems have a spiritually dramatic quality. The best of her work may be found in _Lyrics and Sonnets_ (1887) and _The Flower from the Ashes_ (1915). “FROST TO-NIGHT” Apple-green west and an orange bar; And the crystal eye of a lone, one star ... And, “Child, take the shears and cut what you will, Frost to-night—so clear and dead-still.” Then I sally forth, half sad, half proud, And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd, The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,— The dahlias that reign by the garden-side. The dahlias I might not touch till to-night! A gleam of shears in the fading light, And I gathered them all,—the splendid throng, And in one great sheaf I bore them along. · · · · · · In my garden of Life with its all late flowers I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours: “Frost to-night—so clear and dead-still” ... Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill. _George Edward Woodberry_