“This is the first piece of poetry I ever had printed in a magazine. I thought I was happy when I had my first poetry printed in the _Gimlet_. But my feelin’s wasn’t any more to be compared to what they are now—than a small-sized cook stove to a roarin’ volcano. To have a piece of poetry printed in a magazine was a pinakel I always thought would make me happy to set on; and, when I got up there, I was happy—I was too happy,” sez she, claspin’ her hands together. “Fate loves a shinin’ mark; he aimed another arrer at me and it has struck me here,” sez she, layin’ her bony hand upon the left breast of her brown alpaka bask. “I was jest as careful of this book as if it was so much gold,” she continued. “I have refused to lend it to as much as two dozen persons; but Miss Briggs, she that was Celestine Peedick, wanted to take it. She said a cousin of hers, a young man, was comin’ there a-visitin’, and she wanted him to read it; he was a great case fer poetry, and was real romantick and wanted to get a romantick wife. And she urged me so to let her have it, I consented. And now look at it,” sez she; “and he didn’t come, and Celestine had a letter from him that he was married and couldn’t come.” She looked as if she would burst out cryin’ agin; and so, to kinder get her mind off her trouble—not that I care a straw for poetry—I spoke up and sez I: “What is the poetry? I suppose you can read it out of the fragments.” “Yes,” sez she, in a plaintive axent, “I could rehearse it without anything to look at.” When anybody has had considerable trouble, they don’t mind so much havin’ a little more. So sez I: “Rehearse it.” And she rehearsed, as follows: STANZAS ON DUTY. BY BETSEY BOBBET. Unless they do their duty see, Oh! who would spread their sail On matrimony’s cruel sea, And face its angry gale? Oh! Betsey Bobbet I’ll remain, Unless I see my duty plain. Shall horses calmly brook a halter, Who over fenceless pastures stray? Shall females be dragged to the altar And down their freedom lay? No! no! B. Bobbet I’ll remain, Unless I see my duty plain. Beware! beware! oh, rabid lover, Who pines for intellect and beauty; My heart is ice to all your over- tures, unless I see my duty. For Betsey Bobbet I’ll remain, Unless I see my duty plain. Come not with keys of rank and splendor, My heart’s cold portals to unlock; ’Tis vain to search for feelin’s tender— Too late you’ll find you’ve struck a rock. For Betsey Bobbet I’ll remain, Unless I see my duty plain. ’Tis vain for you to pine and languish; I cannot soothe your bosom’s pain. In vain are all your groans: your blandish- ments, I warn you, are in vain; For Betsey Bobbet I’ll remain, Unless I see my duty plain.