Before the open hearth we sat, the
warm coals softly glowing; her hand in mine, this rustic maid, each moment
dearer growing. Her red lips parted, “will she say a word quite sweet and
pretty?” But ah! Imagine: “Let’s hitch back, my feet are growin’ sweaty.”
c.
Oct. 27, 1894
Pub. in
B. Courier,
De, 9, ‘94
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