I woo’d a woman once, But she was sharper than an easter… Tennyson “What may I do to make you glad, To make you glad and free,

The air falls chill; The whippoorwill Pipes lonesomely behind the Hill: The dusk grows dense, The silence tense;

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…

They ain’t no style about 'em, And they’re sorto’ pale and faded, Yit the doorway here, without ‘em, Would be lonesomer, and shaded With a good ’eal blacker shudder

The Crankadox leaned o’er the edg… And wistfully gazed on the sea Where the Gryxabodill madly whist… To the air of ‘Ti-fol-de-ding-dee… The quavering shriek of the Fly-u…

‘My grandfather Squeers,’ said Th… As he solemnly lighted his pipe an… ‘The most indestructible man, for… And the grandest on earth, was my… ’He said, when he rounded his thre…

O her eyes are amber-fine— Dark and deep as wells of wine, While her smile is like the noon Splendor of a day of June. If she sorrow—lo! her face

He leant against a lamp-post, lost In some mysterious reverie: His head was bowed; his arms were… He yawned, and glanced evasively: Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put

O The South Wind and the Sun! How each loved the other one Full of fancy—- full folly— Full of jollity and fun! How they romped and ran about,

When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree… It’s a long, sweet way across the… The bird sings low as the bumble-b… It’s a long, sweet way across the… The poor shote-pig he says, says h…

The harp of the minstrel has never… As sad as the song in his bosom to… For the magical touch of his finge… Can not waken the echoes that brea… But oh! as the smile of the moon m…

My little story, Cousin Rufus sai… Is not so much a story as a fact. It is about a certain willful boy— An aggrieved, unappreciated boy, Grown to dislike his own home very…

She sang a song of May for me, Wherein once more I heard The mirth of my glad infancy— The orchard’s earliest bird— The joyous breeze among the trees

I’m twins, I guess, 'cause my Ma… I’m two little girls. An’ one o’… Is _Good_ little girl; an’ th’oth… Is _Bad little girl as she can be… An’ Ma say so, 'most ever’ day.

‘Why do I sing—Tra-la-la-la-la! Glad as a King?—Tra-la-la-la-la! Well, since you ask,— I have such a pleasant task, I can not help but sing!