Richard Scott—that war the pedergogue’s name— Declar’d in wrath he’d be killin’ Me, if I did not be quiet and sit Bertween ter gals—I war willin’! Young as I war I lik’d that ye may swar On the hilts of yer bowie knives; And though but eight years I bergun ter sigh For a plurality of wives! Now, Tip Tracey, ye may smile over thar At the picter I’ve painted you; But that gal-punershment of Richard Scott War a pleasure ter them gals, too! By-an’-by I had master’d my letters, And bergun on my _b i bi’s_; From that I prergress’d to somethin’ better— Admirin’ my companions’ eyes. Nearly every day I got the ferule Jist for winkin’ at Sue Minals; But very soon I had so far prergress’d I war plighted ter sev’ral gals! I had not been ter school quite a twelvemonth When I’d whal’d each boy in the class, Kiss’d and hugg’d every gal, eaten Scott’s lunch, And ten rivals had sent ter grass! I put toads in Scott’s pockets, and dead mice Scatter’d everywhar in his desk, Till he froth’d at the mouth in his madness, And cuss’d me for a little pest. All this tuk place over in Canada, Whar my gov’ner had gone ter preach The Gospel of Jesus ter them sinners, As successor ter Elder Beech. But don’t tire at th’ length of my story: I’m drawin’ erlong ter the close, Whar I gather’d the seeds that have blarsted, And fill’d a whole nation with woes. [Illustration] One day when I’d been worse than usual,— Put snuff in the master’s whistle— _Old Scott tuk me out berhind the rear wall, And sot me down on a thistle!_ An hour and a half he held me thar, While the barbs pen’trated the skin! Havin’ planted the crop, the pedergogue, With my trousers harrer’d it in! That harrerin’ event I can’t forget, For it fairly set me rantin’: I wood not car’d had the agricult’rist Chosen higher soil ter plant in! But that war cruel, and for months I felt Them bull thistle seeds takin’ root, And creepin’ about in the tender flesh From hat crown ter toe of my boot. After that I went back on old Dick Scott, And lit out for York State ye bet; But each Spring I war sowin’ the thistles, No rest anywhar could I get. I have toted them thistles all over, And planted ’em in every field, Whar I’ve halted ter rest; but dog on it! Thar seems a ter bounterful yield! Now, neighbors, that is a right true story I’ve told ye, and is it not queer That I cannot get shut of ’em? That is How Canada thistles reached here! So whenever ye cut down yer thistles Don’t cuss me ter strong. May I rot In a roadside ditch if I can help it! _They are the curse of Richard Scott!_ [Illustration] BOB MUNN OF CAPE COD.