Still we sat there mighty glum Till along a fellow come. And I says, says I, “Conductor, now tell us what it means, Just inform us where we be?” “Wall, now, gentlemen,” said he, “I reckon we air comin’ to the spot called New Or-leéns!” So we rushed all in a row, When we got to the depôt, To the baggage-crate, a-wonderin’ at these transformation scenes; And we found out unexpected That the box had been directed Not unto Ellanoy, but to a man in New Or-leéns! Without carin’ if I’d catch it, I straightway took a hatchet, And busted off the cover without openin’ my mouth; And found a grand pianner Which we’d followed for our banner All the way from Massachusetts unto the sunny South! Then I said, “I rather guess I can see into this mess, And explain the startlin’ error which has given you such shocks. When that Boston fellow, he Asked the route I’d take of me, I pinted, inadvertional, unto another box.” Now Eagle Davis lies Beneath the Northern skies, Where the snow is on the pine-tree while we are with the palm; But I reckon if his spirit Should ever come to hear it, He’ll be perfectly contented with the story in this psalm. ZION JERSEY BOGGS A LEGEND OF PHILADELPHIA Before the telegraphic wires Had ever run from pole to pole, Or telegirls sent telegrams To cheer the weary waiting soul; When all things went about as slow As terrapins could run on clogs, Was played a game By one whose name Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. A Philadelphia newspaper Was printed then on Chestnut Street, While ’crost the way, just opposite, There lived a sufferin’ rival sheet, Whose editors could get no news, Which made ’em cross as starvin’ hogs; The first, I guess, Had an express Which kind o’ b’longed to Mister Boggs. But in those days the only news Which reëly opened readers’ eyes, Was of the New York lottery, And who by luck had got a prize. All other news, for all they cared, Might travel to the orful dogs; And this they got All piping hot— Though surreptitiously—from Boggs. For of the crew no party knew That Boggs did any horses own. All sportin’ amputations he Did most concussively disown; For he had serious subtle aims, His wheels were full of secret cogs,— Well oiled and slow, Yet sure to go, Was Mister Zion Jersey Boggs.