Don't you give it to me; now, don't ye, don't ye, don't!
You think it's a put-up job; so I'll thank ye, sir, if you won't.
But hand him the stamps yourself: why, he isn't even my pal;
And if it's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he shall.




His Answer to "Her Letter."

Reported by Truthful James.



Being asked by an intimate party,--
Which the same I would term as a friend,--
Which his health it were vain to call hearty,
Since the mind to deceit it might lend;
For his arm it was broken quite recent,
And has something gone wrong with his lung,--
Which is why it is proper and decent
I should write what he runs off his tongue:

First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter
To the end,--and the end came too soon;
That a slight illness kept him your debtor
(Which for weeks he was wild as a loon);
That his spirits are buoyant as yours is;
That with you, Miss, he challenges Fate