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So they've put him outside Of a bottle of Rye, And they've set him to ride A mustang as kin shy, To keep up his poor circulation; and that's the last chance for Bill Nye. But a near thing it is, And the camp's in the dust. He's a pard as we'd miss If poor Bill was to bust If the last of the Nyes were a-sleepin the peaceable sleep of the just. LETTER: From Professor Forth to the Rev. Mr.
Our Mark Twains and Bill Nyes are flat indeed, when compared to that straight-faced clown, the American legislator, who would give an unchangable value to either the shoes we wear or the money we use. This whole question of currency has as little to do with the prevailing misery as the missing button off your vest would have to do with your being frozen to death.
LETTER: From Truthful James to Mr. Bret Harte. WILLIAM NYE'S EXPERIMENT. Angel's. Dear Bret Harte, I'm in tears, And the camp's in the dust, For with anguish it hears As poor William may bust, And the last of the Nyes is in danger of sleeping the sleep of the just. No revolver it was Interfered with his health, The convivial glass Did not harm him by stealth; It was nary!
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