“Oh!” says she, “what appeals to the tendah feelin’ heart of a single female woman more than to see a lonely man who has lost his relict? And pity never seems so much like pity as when it is given to the deah little children of widowehs. And,” says she, “I think moah than as likely as not, this soaring sole of genious did not wed his affinity, but was united to a mere woman of clay.” “Mere woman of clay!” says I, fixin’ my spektacles upon her in a most searchin’ manner. “Where will you find a woman, Betsey Bobbet, that hain’t more or less clay? And affinity, that is the meanest word I ever heard; no married woman has any right to hear it. I’ll excuse you, bein’ a female; but if a man had said it to me, I’d holler to Josiah. There is a time for everything, and the time to hunt affinity is before you are married; married folks hain’t no right to hunt it,” says I sternly. “We kindred soles soah above such petty feelings, we soah far above them.” “I hain’t much of a soarer,” says I, “and I don’t pretend to be; and to tell you the truth,” says I, “I am glad I hain’t.” “The Editah of the _Augah_,” says she, and she grasped the paper offen the stand, and folded it up, and presented it at me like a spear, “the Editah of this paper is a kindred sole, he appreciates me, he undahstands me, and will not our names in the pages of this very papah go down to posterety togathah?” Then says I, drove out of all patience with her, “I wish you was there now, both of you. I wish,” says I, lookin’ fixedly on her, “I wish you was both of you in posterity now.” _Marietta Holley._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _THE COURTIN’._ [Illustration: “AN’ ON HER APPLES KEP’ TO WORK, PARIN’ AWAY LIKE MURDER.”] GOD makes sech nights, all white an’ still Fur’z you can look or listen, Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill, All silence an’ all glisten. Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown An’ peeked in thru’ the winder; An’ there sot Huldy all alone, ’Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room’s one side With half a cord o’ wood in— There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin’. The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An’ leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Again the chimbley crook-necks hung, An’ in amongst ’em rusted The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted.