A Dos't O' Blues.

I' got no patience with blues at all! And I ust to kindo talk Aginst 'em, and claim, 'tel along last Fall, They was none in the fambly stock; But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy, That visited us last year, He kindo convinct me differunt While he was a-stayin' here. Frum ever'-which way that blues is from, They'd tackle him ever' ways; They'd come to him in the night, and come On Sundays, and rainy days; They'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time, And in harvest, and airly Fall, But a dose 't of blues in the wintertime, He 'lowed, was the worst of all! Said all diseases that ever he had— The mumps, er the rheumatiz— Er ever'-other-day-aigger's bad Purt' nigh as anything is!— Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck, Er a felon on his thumb,— But you keep the blues away from him, And all o' the rest could come! And he'd moan, "They's nary a leaf below! Ner a spear o' grass in sight! And the whole wood-pile's clean under snow! And the days is dark as night! You can't go out—ner you can't stay in— Lay down—stand up—ner set!" And a tetch o' regular tyfoid-blues Would double him jest clean shet! I writ his parents a postal-kyard, He could stay 'tel Spring-time come; And Aprile first, as I rickollect, Was the day we shipped him home! Most o' his relatives, sence then, Has either give up, er quit, Er jest died off; but I understand He's the same old color yit!