Of Harrison's barn, with its muster

Of flags festooned over the wall;

Of the candles that shed their soft lustre
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;

Of the steps that we took to one fiddle;
Of the dress of my queer vis-à-vis ;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping

On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that ride, that to me was the rarest; Of the something you said at the gate:

Ah, Joe! then I wasn't an heiress

To "the best-paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny

To think, as I stood in the glare

Of fashion and beauty and money,

That I should be thinking, right there,

Of some one who breasted high water,

And swam the North Fork, and all that,

Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat?

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing! (Mamma says my taste still is low,) Instead of my triumphs reciting,

I'm spooning on Joseph, - heigh-ho!

And I'm to be "finished" by travel,

Whatever's the meaning of that,

Oh! why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good-night, here's the end of my paper;

Good-night, if the longitude please,

For maybe, while wasting my taper,

Your sun's climbing over the trees.

But know, if you haven't got riches,

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,

That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,

And you've struck it, on Poverty Flat.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted

The ruddy tints of health

On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted.

In the fierce race for wealth.

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure

A hoarded volume drew,

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure

To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,

But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar

A silence seemed to fall;

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,

Listened in every spray,