At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week, Till friends from Bull Ring came, And made him spend the day with them, In hunting forest game. Then with his carpet-bag in hand, To Dog Town next he went; Though stopping at Free Negro Town, Where half a day he spent. From thence into Negationburg His route of travel lay, Which having gained, he left the State And took a southward way. North Carolina’s friendly soil He trod at fall of night, And, on a bed of softest down, He slept at Hell’s Delight. Morn found him on the road again, To Slouchy Level bound; At Bull’s Tail, and Lick Lizzard, too, Good provender he found. But the plantations near Burnt Coat Were even finer still, And made the wondering tourist feel A soft, delicious thrill. At Tear Shirt, too, the scenery Most charming did appear, With Snatch It in the distance far And Purgatory near. But spite of all these pleasant scenes The tourist stoutly swore That home is brightest after all, And travel is a bore. So back he went to Maine straightway. A little wife he took; And now is making nutmegs at Moosehicmagunticook. In his note introductory of this poem the editor of the _Lily_ affirmed that I had named none but veritable localities (which was strictly true), and ventured the belief that the composition would remind his readers of Goldsmith. Upon which his scorpion contemporary in the next village observed that there was rather more smith than gold about the poem. Up to the time when this poem appeared in print, I had succeeded in concealing from my father the nature of my incidental occupation; but now he must know all. He _did_ know all; and the result was that he gave me ten dollars, and sent me to New York to look out for myself. “It’s the only thing that will save him,” says he to my mother; “and I must either send him off or expect to see him sink by degrees to editorship and begin wearing disgraceful clothes.” I went to New York; I became private secretary and speech-scribe to an unscrupulous and, therefore, rising politician, and now I am in Washington. I had a certain postmastership in my eye when I first came hither; but war’s alarms indicate that I may do better as an amateur hero. _R. H. Newell_ (“_Orpheus C. Kerr_”). ------------------------------------------------------------------------