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bizzness, liabel tew git out ov repair and bust at enny minnit.

Court a gal for fun, for the luv yu bear her, for the vartue and bizzness thare iz in her; court her for a wife and for a mother, court her as yu wud court a farm, for the strength ov the sile and the parfeckshun ov the title; court her as tho she wan't a fule, and yu a nuther; court her in the kitchen, in the parlor, over the wash-tub, and at the pianner; court this way, yung man, and if yu do n't git a good wife and she do n't a good hustband, the falt won't be in the courting.

- Josh Billings.


“It was a sad funeral to me,” said the speaker, “the saddest I have attended for many years."

“That of Edmonson?”
“How did he die ?”

“Poor-poor as poverty. His life was one long struggle with the world, and at every disadvantage. Fortune mocked him all the while with golden promises that were destined never to know fulfillment."

“Yet he was patient and enduring,” remarked one of the company. “Patient as a Christian-enduring as a martyr," was the

“Poor man, he was worthy of a better fate. He ought to have succeeded, for he deserved success.

“Did he not succeed?” questioned the one who had spoken of his patience and endurance.

“No, sir; he died poor, just as I have stated. Nothing that he ever put his hand to succeeded. A strange fatality seemed to attend every enterprise."

“I was with him in his last moments,” said another, “and he thought he died rich.” “No, he has left nothing behind,” was replied. “The

K. N. E.-42.


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heirs will have no concern as to the administration of his estate.”

“He left a good name,” said one, “and that is something." “And a legacy of noble deeds," said another. “And many precious examples," said a third.

“Lessons of patience in suffering; of hope in adversity; of heavenly confidence when the sunbeams fell upon his bewildering path,” was the testimony of another.

• And high truths, manly courage, heroic fortitude.”

“Then he died rich,” was the emphatic declaration. “Richer than the millionaire who went to his long home on the same day, a miserable pauper in all but gold. A sad funeral, did you say? No, my friend, it was a triumphant procession! Not the burial of the human cold, but the ceremonies attendant on the translation of an angel. Did not succeed! Why his whole life was a series of successes. In every conflict he came off the victor, and now the victor's crown is upon his brow. Any grasping, soulless, selfish man, with a moderate share of brains, may gather in money, and learn the art of keeping it, but not one in a hundred can conquer bravely in the battle of life, as Edmonson conquered and stepped forth from the ranks of men a hero. No, nó; he did not die poor, but rich, rich in neighborly love, and rich in celestial affections. And his heirs have an interest in the administration of his affairs. A large property has been left his heirs, and let them see to it that they do not lose precious things through false estimates and ignorant appreciations.”

“You have a new way of estimating the wealth of man," said the one who had first expressed sympathy with the deceased. “Is it not the right way?" was answered.

“There are higher things to gain in this world than the wealth that perishes. Riches of princely value ever reward the true merchant who trades for wisdom, buying it with the silver of truth and the gold of love. He dies rich who can take his treasures with him to the new land where he is to abide forever; and he who has to leave all behind on which he placed his affection, dies poor indeed. Our friend Edmonson died richer than a Girard or an Astor; his monument is built of good deeds and noble examples. It will abide forever.”


“How does the water
Come down at Lodore?
My little boy asked me

Thus once on a time;
And, moreover, he tasked me

To tell him in rhyme.

Anon at the word,
There first came one daughter
And then came another,

To second the third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water

Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar

As many a time
They had seen before.

So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store,

And 't was in my vocation

For their recreation
That so I should sing;
Because I was Laureate

To them and the King.

From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell;
From its fountains

In the mountains, Its rills and its gills;

Through moss and through brake

It runs and it creeps

For a while, till it sleeps
In its own little lake.

And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,

Among crags in its flurry,


Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till, in this rapid race

On which it is bent,
It reaches the place

Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging,

As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among:

Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking.

Spouting and frisking
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound:
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in,

Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound;

Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and saving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaring,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;

And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;

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