The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI | Page 8

Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!-- Keep yer King ef
you'll gim me Jes the boy I ust to be!
Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal My best "goggle-eye!"--but you Can't
lay hands on joys I feel Nibblin' like they ust to do! So, in memory,
to-day Same old ripple lips away At my cork and saggin' line, Up and
down old Brandywine!
There the logs is, round the hill, Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift Out
sunfish from daylight till Dew-fall--'fore he'd leave "The Drift" And
give us a chance--and then Kindo' fish back home again, Ketchin' 'em
jes left and right Where we hadn't got "a bite!"
Er, 'way windin' out and in,-- Old path th'ough the iurnweeds And
dog-fennel to yer chin-- Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds And
cat-tails, smack into where Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare Us clean
'crosst the County-line, Up and down old Brandywine!

But the dim roar o' the dam It 'ud coax us furder still Tords the old race,
slow and ca'm, Slidin' on to Huston's mill-- Where, I 'spect, "The
Freeport crowd" Never warmed to us er 'lowed We wuz quite so overly
Welcome as we aimed to be.
Still it peared-like ever'thing-- Fur away from home as there-- Had
more relish-like, i jing!-- Fish in stream, er bird in air! O them rich old
bottom-lands, Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands!
Wortermelons--master-mine! Up and down old Brandywine!
And sich pop-paws!--Lumps o' raw Gold and green,--jes oozy th'ough
With ripe yaller--like you've saw Custard-pie with no crust to: And jes
gorges o' wild plums, Till a feller'd suck his thumbs Clean up to his
elbows! My!-- Me some more er lem me die!
Up and down old Brandywine!... Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!--
Flick me with a pizenvine And yell "Yip!" and lem me loose! --Old
now as I then wuz young, 'F I could sing as I have sung, Song 'ud
surely ring dee-vine Up and down old Brandywine!

JONES
BY LLOYD OSBOURNE
I
I could have taken "No" like a man, and would have gone away
decently and never bothered her again. I told her so straight out in the
first angry flush of my rejection--but this string business, with
everything left hanging in the air, so to speak, made a fellow feel like
thirty cents.
"It simply means that I'm engaged and you are not," I said.
"It's nothing of the kind," she returned tearfully. "You're as free as free,
Ezra. You can go away this moment, and never write or anything!"

Her lips trembled as she said this, and I confess it gave me a kind of
savage pleasure to feel that it was still in my power to hurt her.
It may sound unkind, but still you must admit that the whole situation
was exasperating. Here was five-foot-five of exquisite, blooming,
twenty-year-old American girlhood sending away the man she
confessed to care for, because, forsooth, she would not marry before
her elder sister! I always thought it was beautiful of Freddy (she was
named Frederica, you know) to be always so sweet and tender and
grateful about Eleanor; but sometimes gratitude can be carried
altogether too far, even if you are an orphan, and were brought up by
hand. Eleanor was thirty-four if a day--a nice enough woman, of course,
and college bred, and cultivated, and clever--but her long suit wasn't
good looks. She was tall and bony; worshipped genius and all that; and
played the violin.
"No," repeated Freddy, "I shall never, never marry before Eleanor. It
would mortify her--I know it would--and make her feel that she herself
had failed. She's awfully frank about those things, Ezra--surprisingly
frank. I don't see why being an old maid is always supposed to be so
funny, do you? It's touching and tragic in a woman who'd like to marry
and who isn't asked!"
"But Eleanor must have had heaps of offers," I said, "surely--"
"Just one."
"Well, one's something," I remarked cheerfully. "Why didn't she take
him then?"
"She told me only last night that she was sorry she hadn't!"
Here, at any rate, was something to chew on. I saw a gleam of hope.
Why shouldn't Eleanor marry the only one--and make us all happy!
"That was three years ago," said Freddy.
"I have loved you for four," I retorted. I was cross with disappointment.

To be dashed to the ground, you know, just as I was beginning--"Tell
me some more about him," I went on. I'm a plain business man and
hang on to an idea like a bulldog; once I get my teeth in they stay in,
for all you may drag at me and wallop me with an
umbrella--metaphorically speaking, of course.
"Tell me his name, where he lives, and all."
"We were coming back from Colorado, and