I don’t like ter suspicion my Polly Who’s jist now appearin’ in view; But, somehow, I don’t think it’s nat’ral That our “Boots” should come thus. Do you? However, I’ll not fret erbout it: Say nothin’; my wife’s at the door: But one thing take note on:—_We’re happy_, And—Tom Smart don’t come here no more! Now that is the whole histry of “Boots,” A plaguey quar case. It’s not clear! How this boy can be mine I can’t guess, Or how in the world he reach’d here! But he’s Polly’s, that’s carten and sure, And I admit him inte my heart, Although he bars a strikin’ rersemblance Ter that Tar-heel known as Tom Smart! [Illustration] THE BUZZIN’ BEES OF BERKS. Boys, ye ask me ter spin ye a story Of adventer by flood or field, Or stand for licker ter bits at the bar,— Ter the former, of course, I’ll yield; For I’m rather short of greenbacks jist now, Havin’ been out of work some time. So, hear goes for a yarn, but ye must not Make sport of my effort at rhyme— For in youth I had no eddercation, ’Cept crumbs pick’d up by the way, A scratchin’ figgers on the old school house Of our pedergogue, Milton Gray. Of course, ye know I war one of them chaps What with Sherman march’d ter the sea, From Atlanter, the stronghold we’d captur’d, Ter the forts down on the ’Gechee. It war in Nervember we burn’d the place: On the seventeenth we cut loose From our base of surplies, and started orf Ter exercute Sherman’s _ruse_, That he war playin’ on Hood, the rebel, Who’d unkiver’d his flanks ter soon, For he left the way cl’ar for us ter raid Ter Servanner or ter the moon! It war on that march the ervent tuk place Of which I am goin’ ter tell, Of how I ran inter a nest ef bees, And thar got a foretaste of hell! On the sixth day out we had got well down In Berks county, n’ar the borders, And on that ere raid, ye may bet yer pile, We did not car’ much for orders! But each man dug out upon his own hook, And rush’d for the front and plunder: N’arly all of ’em got thar full of it, But some of the boys went under; For, ye see, thar war stray rebels erbout, Who would swing ’em up by the necks, When they cetch’d ’em totin’ erway the grub— And hundreds parsed in thar checks! In them days I war not at all skeery— Impressin’ a mule, I lit out For the front, whar the bummers war raidin’ And scourin’ the country erbout— Stealin’ chickens, or killin’ hogs by day, (Or goin’ through a trunk, perchance;) Then at night they would camp for ter eat ’em, With pickets thrown out in advance.