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He all the country could outrun,
Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Few months of life has he in store,
old ancles swell.
O reader ! had
mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle reader ! you would find A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, I hope you'll kindly take it; It is no tale ; but should you
think, Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to see
“ You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
The tears into his eyes were brought,
Written in early Spring.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
To her fair works did nature link