And daily adds unto his hoard,
While cutworms smite the good man's gourd?

When I would rest beneath its shade
Comes the shrill-voiced book-selling maid,
And smites me with her tireless breath--
Then am I angry unto death.

When I would slumber in my booth,
Who comes with accents loud and smooth,
And talks from dawn to midnight late?
The honest labor candidate.

Who pounds mine ear with noisy talk,
Whose brazen gall no ire can balk
And wearies me of life's short span?
The accident insurance man.

And when, all other torments flown,
I think to call one hour mine own,
Who takes my leisure by the throat?
The villain taking up a vote.




A DOS'T O' BLUES

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY