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h such a discouraging club. "And now we come to--to--ah--to--Putnam,--General Putnam: he fought in the war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death! Leastways, the publisher said somehow that way, and I once read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck; but maybe it was a mule, for they're pretty sure-footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain't it? "Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New Orleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then when the Ku-Kluxes got after him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em till they couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad,--hit straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time. Andrew his fust name was; and look how his hair stands up. "And then here's John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures; so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won't you?" HER VALENTINE BY RICHARD HOVEY What, send her a valentine? Never! I see you don't know who "she" is. I should ruin my chances forever; My hopes would collapse with a fizz. I can't see why she scents such disaster When I take heart to venture a word; I've no dream of becoming her master, I've no notion of being her lord. All I want is to just be her lover! She's the most up-to-date of her sex, And there's such a multitude of her, No wonder they call her complex. She's a bachelor, even when married, She's a vagabond, even when housed; And if ever her citadel's carried Her suspicions must not be aroused. She's erratic, impulsive and human, And she blunders,--as goddesses can; But if _she's_ what they call the New Woman, Then _I'd_ like to be the New Man. I'm glad she makes books and paints pictures, And typewrites and hoes her own row, And it's quite beyond reach of conjectures How much further she'
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