One mornin’ he, mysteriously, An’ smilin’ quite ironical, Spoke to the other editor, The man who run the _Chronicle:_ “The _Ledger_ has a hoss express By which your lottery news he flogs.” “Yes, that is true, But what’s to do?” Replied the man to Mister Boggs. Then Mister Boggs let down his brows, And with a long deep knowing wink, Said, “Hosses travel mighty fast, But ther air faster things, I think; An’ kerrier-pidgings, as you know, Kin find their way thro’ storm and fogs: Them air the bugs To fly like slugs!” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. “And in my glorious natyve land, Which lies acrost the Delaware, I hev a lot upon the spot,— Just twenty dollars fur a pair. These gentle insects air the things To make the _Ledger_ squeal like hogs; That is the game To hit ’em lame!” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. The editor looked back again, And saw him better on his wink. “It is the crisis of our fate— Say, Boggs, what is your style of drink? Step to the bar of Congress Hall;— We’ll try your poultry on, by Gogs! An’ let ’em fly Tarnation high!” “Amen!” said Zion Jersey Boggs. The pidgins came, the pidgins flew, They lit upon the lofty wall; They made their five an’ ninety miles In just about no time at all. Compared to them, the _Ledger_ team Went just as slow as haulin’ logs. But all was mum, Shut close an’ dum, By the request of Mister Boggs. Then on the follerin’ Monday he, Lookin’ profounder as he prowled, This son of sin an’ mystery, Into the _Ledger_ orfice owled. “An’ oh! to think,” he sadly groaned, “That earth should bear setch skalliwogs! Setch all-fired snakes, And no mistakes!” Said Mister Zion Jersey Boggs. “Why, what is up?” asked Mr. Swain; “It seems you’ve had some awful shoves.” “The _Chronicle_,” his agent cried, “Has went an’ bin an’ bought some doves! Them traitors, wretches, swindlers, cheats, Hev smashed us up like polywogs. They’ve knocked, I guess, Our hoss express Higher than any kite,” said Boggs. “Have you no plan?” asked Mister Swain, “To keep the fellows off our walks?” “I _hev_,” said Boggs, as grim as death; “What do you think of pidging-horks? For in my glorious natyve land, Acrost the river, ’mong the frogs, I hev a lot All sharply sot To eat them pidgings up,” said Boggs. “They are the chosen birds of wrath, They fly like arrers through the air, Or angels sent by orful Death— Jist fifty dollars fur a pair; An’ cheap to keep, because, you see, Upon the enemy they progs.” “Well, try it on, And now begone!” Said Mister Swain to Mister Boggs.