wounds. A knockin' was heard uponto the door Where some one a-waitin' was.   "Come in," said the shedder of priestly gore, Arrestin' to once his jaws. The person which entered was curly of hair And smilin' as ever you see; His eyes was blue, and uncommon fair Was his physiognomee. And yet there was some'at remarkable grand—       And the editor says as he looks:   "Your Height" (it was Highness, you understand, That he meant, but he spoke like books)—    "Your Height, I am in. I'm the editor man Of this paper—which is to say, I'm the owner, too, and it's alway ran In the independentest way!    "Not a damgaloot can interfere,       A-shapin' my course for me:   This paper's (and nothing can make it veer)       Pixleian in policee!"    "It's little to me," said the sunny youth,       "If journals is better or worse Where I am to home they won't keep, in truth, The climate is that perverse.    "I've come, howsomever, your mind to light With a more superior fire:   You'll have naught hencefor'ard to do but write, While I sets by and inspire.    "We'll make it hot all round, bedad!"       And his laughture was loud and free.   "The devil!" cried Pixley, surpassin' mad.       "Exactly, my friend—that's me."    So he took a chair and a feather fan, And he sets and sets and sets, Inspirin' that humbled editor man, Which sweats and sweats and sweats! All unavailin' his struggles be, And it's, O, a weepin' sight To see a great editor bold and free Reducted to sech a plight! 

   "BLACK BART, Po8" 

   Welcome, good friend; as you have served your term, And found the joy of crime to be a fiction, I hope you'll hold your present faith, stand firm And not again be open to conviction. Your sins, though scarlet once, are now as wool:     You've made atonement for all past offenses, And conjugated—'twas an awful pull!—     The verb "to pay" in all its moods and tenses. You were a dreadful criminal—by Heaven, I think there never was a man so sinful! We've all a pinch or two of Satan's leaven, But you appeared to have an even skinful. Earth shuddered with aversion at your name; Rivers fled backward, gravitation scorning; The sea and sky, from thinking on your shame, Grew lobster-red at eve and in the morning. But still red-handed at your horrid trade You wrought, to reason deaf, and to compassion. But now with gods and men your peace is made I beg you to be good and in the fashion. What's that?—you "ne'er again will rob a stage"? What! did you do so? Faith, I didn't know it. Was that what threw poor 

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