How by thy high, bold torch we're stridin' led:
Thou lurest us up, cold mountain top upon,
And seated by us there, thou scoffest at bread.

"Thou lookest down, Ambition, on the ovens brim;
Thou brookest not a word of him save with contumalee:
And yet, wert thou afar, how sweet to set by him
And cut low slices of sweet joy with G ,

"Oh! Fel Ambition, wert but thou away,
Could we thy hauntin' form no more, nor see;
How sweet 'twould be to linger on with A-,
How sweet 'twould be to dwell for aye with G-."

Wall, as I say, she gin good satisfaction in the deestrict and I
declare for it, I got to likin' her dretful well before the
winter wuz over. Softer she wuz, and had to be, than any fuz
that was ever on any cotton flannel fur or near. And more verses
she wrote than wuz good for her, or for anybody else, - Why she
would write "Lines on the Tongs," or "Stanzas on the Salt
Suller," if she couldn't do any better; it beats all! And then
she would read 'em to me to get my idees on 'em. Why I had to
call on every martyr in the hull string of martyrs sometimes to
keep myself from tellin' her my full mind about 'em unbeknown to
me. For, if I had, it would have skairt the soft little creeter
out of what little wit she had.

So I kep' middlin' still, and see it go on. For she wuz a good
little soul, affectionate and kinder helpful. A good creeter now
to find your speks. Why she found 'em for me times out of