A rustic child of ours, Who in Green Mountain bowers Was born to earth, Attained a giant life ’Mid scenes of bitter strife That prov’d his worth! And, dying, leaves behind him, In hearts that have enshrined him Affection’s links that bind him To every hearth! Let the solemn church bell toll For the passing of a soul To peaceful rest: Let tender tears be shed For the illust’rous dead Who’s hand we’ve prest! For hearts to-day are riven— A LIGHT went out at even To glow anew in Heaven Among the Blest! —New York Evening Telegram. To FREDERIC HUDSON, THE TALENTED JOURNALIST AND COURTEOUS GENTLEMAN, WHOSE FRATERNAL INTEREST IN YOUNG WRITERS, AND WHOSE CONSIDERATE AND PATIENT TREATMENT OF ALL WITH WHOM HE HAS HAD BUSINESS RELATIONS, HAVE ENDEARED HIM TO THEM, THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED, BY HIS LATE SUBORDINATE AND SINCERE ADMIRER, The Author. [Illustration] CONTENTS. PAGE. THE CURSE OF PEDERGOGUE SCOTT 9 BOB MUNN OF CAPE COD 16 MY RERLIGION 24 LITTLE BOOTS 32 THE BUZZIN’ BEES OF BERKS 39 THAT LITTLE BLACK PET OF OUR’N 49 OLD TOM GIN 57 THE SIGN OF JOE BALL 66 ILLUSTRATIONS. PLANTING THE THISTLES 13 BOB MUNN’S TRANSFIGURATION 21 DEACON SPARLING’S DEVOTION 26 THE TAR HEEL’S RETURN 35 A MULE’S BAPTISM 46 JONAH’S LANDLORD 50 [Illustration] THE CURSE OF PEDERGOGUE SCOTT. That’s a question I don’t like ter speak of: How these pesky thistles come here; But, boys, if ye will listen attentervely, I will breathe a strenge tale in yer ear. But afore I bergin I would warn ye, Ye may fix yer faces ter blush; So jist let thar be silence all around And I’ll spin the yarn with a rush. Ha! ha! ha! I larf when I think of it— The days when a youngster I sat On a rough pine bench in the lorg school house, And din’d orf the rim of my hat! The other boys war bigger than I war, And studied thar lesson right well, While I ermus’d myself as I wish’d ter In quar tricks on which I’ll not dwell. I war ter young ter learn my letters,— They let me ’tend school for all that; And then when I run short of ermusement I jerk’d at the tail of the cat! As I increas’d in years and mischief, Sich as hazin’ our neighbor’s pig, Pourin’ ink on the floor, or applyin’ Powder’d chalk ter the master’s wig—