The same old story told again— The maiden droops her head, The ripening glow of her crimson c… Is answering in her stead. The pleading tone of a trembling v…

I’m bin a-visitun 'bout a week To my little Cousin’s at Nameless… An’ I’m got the hives an’ a new s… An’ I’m come back home where my b…

The rain! the rain! the rain! It gushed from the skies and strea… Like awful tears; and the sick man… How pitiful it seemed! And he turned his face away,

I so loved once, when Death came…    Away my face, And all my sweetheart’s tresses sh…    To make my hiding-place. The dread shade passed me thus unh…

I bear dis cross dis many a mile. O de cross-bearin’ chile— De cross-bearin’ chile! I bear dis cross 'long many a road Wha’ de pink ain’t bloom’ an’ de g…

'Twas the height of the fete when… And quietly stole to the terrace a… Where, pale as the lovers that eve… The moon it … The sight of the stars and the moo…

I had fed the fire and stirred it,… Snapped their saucy little fingers… And in dressing-gown and slippers,… throne’— The old split-bottomed rocker—and…

Her heart knew naught of sorrow, Nor the vaguest taint of sin— 'Twas an ever-blooming blossom Of the purity within: And her hands knew only touches

Wunst, 'way West in Illinoise, Wuz two Bears an’ their two boys: An’ the two boys’ names, you know, Wuz—like _ours_ is,—Jim an’ Jo; An’ their _parunts’_ names wuz sam…

Within the sitting-room, the compa… Had been increased in number. Two… Young couples had been added: Emm… Ella and Mary Mathers—all could s… Like veritable angels—Lydia Marti…

Sometimes I think 'at Parents doe… Things ist about as bad as _us_— Wite 'fore our vurry eyes, at that… Fer one time Pa he scold’ my Ma 'Cause he can’t find his hat;

The greeting of the company throug… Was like a jubilee,—the children’s… And fusillading hand-claps, with g… And detonations of the older ones, Raged to such tumult of tempestuou…

One 's the pictur’ of his Pa, And the _other_ of her Ma— Jes the bossest pair o’ babies ‘at… And we love ’em as the bees Loves the blossoms of the trees,

There’s a habit I have nurtured, From the sentimental time When my life was like a story, And my heart a happy rhyme,— Of clipping from the paper,