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XXIX. VISIT TO THE COTTON FACTORIES.

[Manufacturers' and Farmers' Journal.

Providence.]

DID you ever go down to Pawtucket?
Good Lord! what a buzzing it makes!
Like fifty live crabs ir a bucket!
What a darned sight of cotton it takes!

What a whirling and splashing! I never
Did see such a racket afore!

And then that 'ere up and down river,
My stars! how the water does roar!

By George! what a nation of spindles !
And mill-wheels all whirling around,
Some of them in garrets or houses,
And some of them down under ground!

Our factory! I vow, 'tis a smasher!
'Tis pretty near flat on the top.

You might put our house here right up on it
And Uncle Sam's saw-mill and shop!

I walked round a while, and went in it,
Then, whew! what a terrible buz!
1 swagger! 'twas more than a minute,
Before I could tell where I was!

Confound it. You never could hear there.
A body might stand still and bawl!
I believe you might stay a full year there,
And find something new, after all!

1 snore! why it does beat all nature !
Such oceans of pickers and reels!
My conscience! how can they contrive it
To tend all them spindles and wheels?

And then, such great piles of spun cotton!
As big as a common sized mow!

By jings! if my eyes had not seen it,

I would not believe it, I swow!

XXX. VISIT TO UNCLE SAM'S THANKSGIVING..

[Observer. Brooklyn.]

DID you ever go up to thanksgiving?
I swaggers! what oceans of cakes!
Confounded fine lots of good living,

What a darn'd sight of 'lasses it takes.

By jolly! what desput great chickens!
As big as old roosters, I van!
And turkeys as fat as the dickens,
I never did see such, I swan !
And then there's the gravy and tatur,

Gaul darn it! how mealy and fat!
And puddings! it does beat all nater!

I could not get one in my hat.

My stars! what a thundering great pie!
Made right out of pumpkins, I guess;
I wonder 'f the crust's made of rye!

I snuggers! I'll eat a whole mess.
By thunder! only just look o' here,

And see what a big gob of plums!
And cake full o' lasses, oh dear!

'Od rot it! how it sticks to my gums!
And then there's the fiddling and dancing
And gals! all as cute as a whistle!
The fellows are kicking and prancing,
Their legs are as limber as gristle.
By mighty! if there a'n't our Sal,

Jumps up and down like a grasshopper!
Gosh zucks! what's got into the gal!

I don't 'spose the divil can stop her.

By the powers of mud! how they blow it,
What darn'd curious capers! I swow!
Oh I wish I knew how to go it,

I'd kick up a bobbery, I vow.

XXXI. EZEKIEL AND THE DEACON.
[Farmers' and Manufacturers' Journal. Providence.]
THERE'S Something very curious in the manner
In which you can twist words into rhymes,
Single and double ;

To see how one thing with another chimes;
That is, if you have not wit enough to plan a
Story, or something ele to write about,
Without

Much trouble.

Suppose we try it now. One ASA STOKES,
One of those men whom every thing provokes,
A surly-tempered, evil-minded, bearish,
Ill-natured kind of being;

He was the deacon of the parish,

And had the overseeing

Of some small matters, such as the ringing
Of the church-bell, and took the lead in singing.
Well; deacon Stokes had gone to bed, one night,
About eleven;

>Twas in December, if my memory's right,
In-'87.

'Twas cold enough to make a Russian shiver. I think, I never

Knew one

Colder than this : in faith, it was a blue one !
As by the Almanack, foretold 'twas,

A real Lapland night. Good Lord! how cold 'twas,
There was a chap about there, named EZEKIEL,
A clever, good for nothing fellow,

Who, very often, used to get quite mellow;

Of whom, the deacon always used to speak ill;
For he was fond of cracking jokes

On deacon Stokes:

To show on

What terms he stood, among the women folks,
And so on.

It came to pass, that on the night I spake of,
Ezekiel left the tavern bar-room, where
He'd spent the evening, for the sake of
Drowning his care,

By partaking

Of the merry-making

And enjoyment

Of some good fellows there, whose sole employment Was, in all kinds of weather,

On every night,

"By early candle light,” To get together.

Reading the papers, smoking pipes, and chewing; Telling “ long yarns,” and pouring down the ruin.

"Pretty well corned," and "up to any thing,"
Drunk as a lord, and happy as a king,
"Blue as a razor" from his midnight revel,
Not fearing muskets, women, or the devil;
With a light heart,

Much lighter than a feather;

With a light soul

That spurned the freezing weather;

And with a head

Ten times as light as either;

And a purse, perhaps as light as all together

On went Ezekiel, with a great expansion
Of thought,

Until he brought

Up, at a post before the deacon's mansion.

With one arm round the post, awhile he stood,

In thoughtful mood;

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Rap, rap, rap, rap, went deacon Stokes's knocker,
But no one stirred. Rap, rap, it went again.
66 By George!-it must be after ten o'clock, or
They take an early hour for turning in !"

Rap, rap, rap, rap,-my conscience! how they keep
A fellow waiting! Lord, how sound they sleep!

The deacon, then, began to be alarmed;

And, in amazement,

Threw up the casement,

And, with cap on head,

Offiery red,

Demanded what the cause was of this riot,
That thus disturbed his quiet.

"Quite cool, this evening, deacon Stokes," replied The voice below. "Well, well sir, what's the matter? "Quite chilly, deacon, how your teeth do chatter !" "You vagabond, a pretty time you've chosen To show your wit; for I am almost frozen.

Be off; or I'll come down and put the lash on❞— "Why, bless you, deacon; don't be in a passion." "Twas all in vain

To speak again;

For, with the deacon's threat about the lash,
Down went the sash.

Rap, rap, rap, rap, the knocker went again;

And neither of them was a very light rap-
Thump, thump, against the door went 'Zekiel's cane,
And that, once more, brought deacon Stokes's night cap.

"Very cold weather, deacon Stokes, to night."
46 Begone, you vile,
Insolent dog; or I'll

Give you a warming; and should serve you right;
You villain, it is time to end your hoax."
"Why, bless your soul and body, deacon Stokes,
Don't be so cross;

When I've come here

In this severe

Night, which is cold enough to kill a horse,
For your advice

Upon a very difficult and nice

Question :-now, Lord bless you,
Deacon, do make haste and dress you."

"Well, well, out with it-if it must be so. Be quick about it.

I'm very cold.”

"Well, deacon, I don't doubt it.

In a few words the matter can be told.
Deacon, the case is this:—I want to know,
If this cold weather holds all summer here,
What time GREEN PEAS will be along next year ?}"

XXXII. POWERS OF RHYME.

[Inquirer. Nantucket.]

PEOPLE don't commonly discern

The difference 'twixt POETRY and RHYME:
The former can be made to thrill, and burn,
By master geniuses-and yet

No two words shall together chime.
E'en prose, so called, may be po-et-
Ical, and ring upon the ear
Harmoniously, without a grain of jingle;
While rhyme, all sound, with oftentimes
No symptom of idea,

Clinking, like handsful of new dimes,
Causes one's very brain to tingle.

Some folks, new words will manufacture,
That have no sense or meaning
They would denominate a crack a cracture,
Or, to make rhyme, call obloquy obscening!

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The name of my French friend, Piemont,
(A name that's smooth enough in song)
Has often been distorted into Pie-mcnt-
A hill of pies!--just to make rhyme on't!

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