And some day I to church will go,
And never more come back;
And when the folks gets up to sing--
Whene'er that time shall be--
I do not want no _patent_ thing
A-squealin' over me!





THE EDITOR'S GUESTS.

The Editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care,
His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair,
His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head,
His eyes on his dusty old table, with different documents spread:
There were thirty long pages from Howler, with underlined capitals
topped,
And a short disquisition from Growler, requesting his newspaper stopped;
There were lyrics from Gusher, the poet, concerning sweet flow'rets and
zephyrs,
And a stray gem from Plodder, the farmer, describing a couple of heifers;
There were billets from beautiful maidens, and bills from a grocer or two,
And his best leader hitched to a letter, which inquired if he wrote it,
or who?
There were raptures of praises from writers of the weakly mellifluous
school,
And one of his rival's last papers, informing him he was a fool;
There were several long resolutions, with names telling whom they were by,