How'll you trade your place fer mine?" (Purty sharp way o' comin' the shine Over Smith! Wasn't it?) Well, sir, this Brown Played out his hand and brought Smithy down-- Traded with him an', workin' it cute, Raked in two thousand dollars to boot As slick as a whistle, an' that wasn't all,-- He managed to trade back ag'in the next fall,-- And the next--and the next--as long as Smith stayed He reaped with his harvests an annual trade.-- Why, I reckon that Brown must 'a' easily made-- On an AVERAGE--nearly two thousand a year-- Together he made over seven thousand--clear.-- Till Mr. Smith found he was losin' his health In as big a proportion, almost, as his wealth; So at last he concluded to move back to town, And sold back his farm to this same Mr. Brown At very low figgers, by gittin' it down. Further'n this I have nothin' to say Than merely advisin' the Smiths fer to stay In their grocery stores in flourishin' towns And leave agriculture alone--and the Browns. A POET'S WOOING I woo'd a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind. --TENNYSON. "What may I do to make you glad, To make you glad and free, Till your light smiles glance And your bright eyes dance Like sunbeams on the sea? Read some rhyme that is blithe and gay Of a bright May morn and a marriage day?" And she sighed in a listless way she had,-- "Do not read--it will make me sad!" "What shall I do to make you glad-- To make you glad and gay, Till your eyes gleam bright As the stars at night When as light as the light of day Sing some song as I twang the strings Of my sweet guitar through its wanderings?" And she sighed in the weary way she had,-- "Do not sing--it will make me sad!" "What can I do to make you glad-- As glad as glad can be, Till your clear eyes seem Like the rays that gleam And glint through a dew-decked tree?-- Will it please you, dear, that I now begin A grand old air on my violin?" And she spoke again in the following way,-- "Yes, oh yes, it would please me, sir; I would be so glad you'd play Some grand old march--in character,-- And then as you march away I will no longer thus be sad, But oh, so glad--so glad--so glad!" MAN'S DEVOTION A lover said, "O Maiden, love me well, For I must go away: And should ANOTHER ever come to tell Of love--What WILL you say?" And she let fall a royal robe of hair That folded on his arm And made a golden pillow for her there; Her face--as bright a charm As ever setting held in kingly crown-- Made answer with a look, And reading it, the lover bended down, And, trusting, "kissed the book." He took a fond farewell and went away. And slow the time went by-- So weary--dreary was it, day by day To love, and wait, and sigh. She kissed his pictured face sometimes, and said: "O Lips, so cold and dumb, I would that you would tell me, if not dead, Why, why do you not come?"