rack; china tea-pot with a crack,--
An' they sort o' boasted of it; set it out t' common view;
Talked about the'r "Fambly Tree"--good land! why, they know'd that we
Had ninety acres of 'em--scrub-oak bluff--an' poplars too!

Then Miss Mary Ellen Jones (her that come from Pile-o'-Bones)
Lived in nothin' but a mud-shack all her life,
She got puttin' on some airs, an' her nose jes' said, "Who cares?"
And th' District Member picked HER f'r a wife.

She did cut a silly caper: had her envelopes an' paper
Painted with a little brand in blue sot up on top;
When th' Flat laugh'd, I'll be blest! she said, "It's Poppa's crest"!
Well! Providence, that year, hailed out their crop.

But Mary Ellen's fall come when they gave th' weddin'-ball;
Invited all th' stylish folks--gave us th' glassy eye;
But says Pa, "Th' next election we'll bust th' damn connection,
F'r th' District Member goes out on th' fly!"

He he'er'd that. He wanted votes. So them stylish printed notes
Come trailin' in t' us who'd been rejected;
But Mary Ellen said (underlined in ink bright red),
"PLEASE UNDERSTAND NO CHILDREN IS EXPECTED"!

That joke went far an' wide, us folks laugh'd ontil we cried;
But Retribution it was on th' District Member's shins,
F'r that sassy little bride who behaved so very snide,
Inside a year perduced a pair of TWINS!

Since that time we get on better. Mary Ellen wrote a letter
T' th' weekly paper, statin' "District Member liked our ways";
Yes, Lower Flat's grow'd quite a place, runnin' other towns a race;
But ther' ain't th' fun we had them good old days!

THE TRAIL

It measures the boundless distance,
Led by wild ways that run
Hither and thither in chase of the Winds
That worship the Northern Sun:
The Trail! which, never ending, was never yet begun.

In the dip of the far horizon
Trembles the Morning Star;
To the heights of the fathomless ether
Nor lock, nor bolt, nor bar;
The Trail! God's finger beckoning to the new Home afar.

No sound in that void of Silence
Save call of bird to its mate,
Or cry of the lone coyote
At the bars of hunger's gate;
And the heart is drawn by the wond'rous dawn, or some mysterious Fate.

The Trail hath a storied splendor:
Tepe