Finding that the editorial treasury did not redeem its verbal promissory notes, my boy, the proprietor of this establishment suddenly put forth a new sign, conspicuously reading:-- TIMOTHY TROT, LICENSED LIQUOR DEALER, AND ASSOCIATE EDITOR OF THE "LILY OF THE VALLEY." The editor went to him, and says he: "What do you mean by this impertinence, Timothy?" The liquor chap stuck his hands into his pockets, my boy, and says he: "If I furnish inspiration for nothing, I may as well have some literary credit. The village swallows what you furnish," says the chap, reasoningly, "and you swallow what I furnish, and so I'm the head editor after all." But he took down the sign, my boy, when the editor dissolved the partnership by paying his score. What are called Spirited Editorials in the New York papers, my boy, very often involve two swallows as well as a spread-eagle. While looking over some old magazines in the _Lily_ office one day, I found in an ancient British periodical a raking article upon American literature, wherein the critic affirmed that all our writers were but weak imitators of English authors, and that such a thing even as a Distinctively American Poem _sui generis_, had not yet been produced. This radical sneer at the United States of America fired my Yankee blood, my boy, and I vowed within myself to write a poem, not only distinctively American, but of such a character that only America could have produced it. In the solitude of my room, that night, I wooed the aboriginal muse, and two days thereafter the _Lily of the Valley_ contained my distinctive American poem of THE AMERICAN TRAVELER. To Lake Aghmoogenegamook, All in the State of Maine, A man from Wittequergaugaum came One evening in the rain. "I am a traveler," said he, "Just started on a tour, And go to Nomjamskillicook To-morrow morn at four." He took a tavern bed that night, And with the morrow's sun, By way of Sekledobskus went, With carpet-bag and gun. A week passed on; and next we find Our native tourist come To that sequestered village called Genasagarnagum. From thence he went to Absequoit, And there--quite tired of Maine-- He sought the mountains of Vermont, Upon a railroad train. Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State, Was his first stopping-place, And then Skunk's Misery displayed Its sweetness and its grace. By easy stages then he went To visit Devil's Den; And Scrabble Hollow, by the way, Did come within his ken. Then, _via_ Nine Holes and Goose Green, He traveled through the State, And to Virginia, finally, Was guided by his fate. Within the Old Dominion's bounds, He wandered up and down, To-day, at Buzzard Roost ensconced, To-morrow, at Hell Town.