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Updated: June 27, 2025
Sometimes I run over a string of rhymes, but generally speaking it is strange what a short list it is of those that are good for anything. That is the pitiful side of all rhymed verse. Take two such words as home and world. What can you do with chrome or loam or gnome or tome? You have dome, foam, and roam, and not much more to use in your pome, as some of our fellow-countrymen call it.
Take them letters and your pome, and we wouldn't need to be spendin' money and foolin' it away on the other kind of a programmy we've got up! Them Merino rams from Vienny, Canaan, and surroundin' towns that 'll come in here full of hell and hard cider will jest love to set down with you and study autographs all day!" Mr.
He arrived on the evening of the day before his leave expired, put up at the auberge of the Pome d'Or, and early the next morning took his way to The Scottish Soldier. "Well, MacIntosh," Hector said as he entered the cabaret, "have you made up your mind? The castle is a strong one, and I mean to make it stronger.
The widow backed her son and told all the neighbors that "Peggy never hed the brains to write thet pome, an' the chances air he stole it from the 'Malvern Weekly Journal. Them gal edyturs wouldn't know," she added scornfully; "they's as ignerunt as Peggy is, mostly." A few days later McNutt entered the printing office with an air of great importance. "Goodness me!
He would do the honors in a courteous and dignified manner and seem to think he was at home entertaining some distinguished guests in a royal manner, to a regal feast. He would eat his pome with all the apparent relish, with which he would have partaken of a dinner such as he seemed to imagine he was indulging in.
Old Tim Hubbard, the meanest man in the State, borrered a paper to read the pome, and he wuz so 'fected by it that he never borrered anuther paper as long as he lived. I don't more'n half reckon, though, that the Higginses appreciated what Bill had done for 'em. I never heerd uv their givin' him anythink more'n a basket uv greenin' apples, and Bill wrote a piece 'bout the apples nex' day.
"I'm two fingers short," he concluded, "an' she's lackin' an eye. That, gen'lemen, makes it a stand-off. Say, shall I send her this yere pome?" "Most certainly not," said Ajax. "Then for the Lord's sake, post me." I touched Ajax with my foot, and coughed discreetly; for I knew my brother's weakness. He is a spendthrift in the matter of giving advice.
Skim says my pome's no good; but I sort o' like it, myself." "Let me see it," said Patsy, ignoring this time the literary editor, who was glad to be relieved of the responsibility of disappointing another budding author. Peggy handed over the foolscap, and Patsy eagerly read the "pome." "Listen, Louise! Listen, Beth!" she called, delightedly.
The girl ceased and the room was silent. Through the walls came the sound of the sea in the fire was the crackling of the coals, and down the great chimney came a little whistle of the wind. "A mighty fine pome 'tis fur sure," said the white-bearded sailor solemnly, "and mostly wonderful true." He sighed. "They'm changed times," he said.
It was from her own pen this time, one verse of a long poem she had written in secret evenings, after Mary had gone to sleep: "Oh beautiful summer thou art so fare, With thy flours and thy trees that grow everywhere, The birds on the bows are singing so gay, Oh how I love them on a bright summer's day! "P.S. This pome is original that is, made up by the author. "Lizzie Gordon."
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