"Oh, a little horse!" said he. "If that's what you come about you'll be
welcome here. The General isn't here yet, but till he comes the rooms is
yours."
And they were!
If any one feels inclined to follow Mr. P.'s example, he begs to
recommend the President's "Old Yarns,"--the hind box on the top shelf of
the library closet.
The next morning, Mr. P. wandered on the sands. Fond memories flocked
around him, as he stood gazing on the corruscating waves.
But they were mostly memories of sheepsheads and flanneled bathers and
'tis not for these that the poet gazes into the emerald depths whence
the pearly scum, like tears of mermaids--Ah! Mermaids! Mr. P. had never
seen a mermaid. These were not among his memories He deeply woulded that
he could--and lo! he did! The creature came gliding to his very feet,
and he had barely time to bound back before she reached the shore.
Shaking the water from her spectacles, she came up, and stood before
him.
Twas SUSAN B. ANTHONY.
"How do, PUNCHY?" said she; "I've left the _Revolution_. Yes, left it
now, and we've got a new editor, and she's beautiful and don't charge a
cent."
"Why, that's like me!" said Mr. P.
"Oh, PUNCHY!" said the gentle SUSAN, wringing the water out of her
flannel skirts, "none of your joking here.
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