'em all, til
finally Marks ses, "Now, sur, spell 'Ompompynusuk.'" Fretman drawd a
long breth and sed it warn't in the book. Marks proved it was by a old
preecher who was a settin' by, and old Phil spoke up with power, ses he,
"Mr. Fretman, you must spell it, sur." Fretman was a swettin' like a run
down filly. He took one pass at it, and _missd_.

"You can cum down, sur," ses Marks, "you've lost your case;" and shore
enuf, old Phil giv a verdik agin him like a darn.

Marks was a whale in his way. At the same court he was about to nonsoot
a Doktor bekaus he didn't hav his diplomy, and the Doktor begged the
court for time to go home after it. He rode seven miles and back as hard
as he could lick it, and when he handed it over, Marks, ses he, "Now,
sur, you will just take the stand and translate this lattin' into
English, so that the court may onderstand it." Well, he jest caved, for
he couldn't do it.

He lost his case in two minits, for the old squire sed that a dokter who
couldn't read his diplomy had no more right to praktise than a
magistrate what couldn't read the license had to jine two cuple
together.

DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE

If ever there lived a Yankee lad,
Wise or otherwise, good or bad,
Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump
With flapping arms from stake or stump,
Or, spreading the tail
Of his coat for a sail,
Take a soaring leap from post or rail,
And wonder why
_He_ couldn't fly,
And flap, and flutter, and wish, and try,--
If ever you knew a country dunce
Who didn't try that as often as once,
All I can say is, that's a sign
He never would do for a hero of mine.

An aspiring genius was D. Green:
The son of a farmer, age fourteen;
His body was long and lank and lean,--
Just right for flying, as will be seen;
He had two eyes as bright as a bean,
And a freckled nose that grew between,
A little awry,--for I must mention
That he had riveted his attention
Upon his wonderful invention,
Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings,
And working his face as he worked the wings,
And with every turn of gimlet and screw
Turning and screwing his mouth round, too,
Till his nose seemed bent
To catch the scent,
Around some corner, of new-baked pies,
And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes
Grew puckered into a queer grimace,
That made him look very droll in the face,
And also v