She has left us, our own darling —

      And we never more shall see

      Here on earth our dearly loved one —

      God has taken Minnie Lee.

      Her heart was full of goodness

      And her face was fair to see

      And her life was full of beauty —

      How we miss our Minnie Lee!

      But her work on earth is over

      And her spirit now is free

      She has gone to live in heaven —

      Shall we weep for Minnie Lee?

      Would we call our angel darling

      Back again across the sea?

      No! but sometime up in heaven

      We will meet loved Minnie Lee.

      Sweet poetess, your poetry

      Is bad as bad can be,

      And yet we heartily deplore

      The death of Minnie Lee.

      It would have pleased us better

      If, in His wisdom, He

      Had taken you, sweet poetess,

      Instead of Minnie Lee.

      Your turn will come, however,

      And swift and sure 'twill be

      If you continue sending

      Your rhymes on Minnie Lee.

      From this we hope you will gather

      A dim surmise that we

      Don't take much stock in poems

      Concerning Minnie Lee.

      I wonder ef all wimmin air

      Like Lizzie is when we go out

      To theaters an' concerts where

      Is things the papers talk about.

      Do other wimmin fret and stew

      Like they wuz bein' crucified —

      Frettin' a show or a concert through,

      With wonderin' ef the baby cried?

      Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there

      To see that everything is right,

      Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care

      Ain't good enuf f'r baby, quite;

      Yet what am I to answer when

      She kind uv fidgets at my side,

      An' every now and then;

      "I wonder ef the baby cried?"

      Seems like she seen two little eyes

      A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile —

      Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries

      Uv one she thinks uv all the while;

      An' she's sorry that she come,

      'An' though she allus tries to hide

      The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum

      Than wonder ef the baby cried.

      Yes, wimmin folks is all alike —

      By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest.

      There never was a little tyke,

      But that his mother loved him best,

      And nex' to bein' what I be —

      The husband of my gentle bride —

      I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee,

      With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried.

      The Blue Horizon wuz a mine us fellers all thought well uv,

      And there befell the episode I now perpose to tell uv;

      'Twuz in the year of sixty-nine – somewhere along in summer —

      There hove in sight one afternoon a new and curious comer;

      His name wuz Silas Pettibone – an artist by perfession,

      With a kit of tools and a big mustache and a pipe in his possession;

      He told us, by our leave, he'd kind uv like to make some sketches

      Uv the snowy peaks, 'nd the foamin' crick, 'nd the distant mountain stretches;

      "You're welkim, sir," sez we, although this scenery dodge seemed to us

      A waste uv time where scenery wuz already sooper-floo-us.

      All through the summer Pettibone kep' busy at his sketchin' —

      At daybreak, off for Eagle Pass, and home at nightfall, fetchin'

      That everlastin' book uv his with spider lines all through it —

      Three-Fingered Hoover used to say there warn't no meanin' to it —

      "God durn a man," sez he to him, "whose shif'less hand is sot at

      A-drawin' hills that's full of quartz that's pinin' to be got at!"

      "Go on," sez Pettibone, "go on, if joshin' gratifies ye,

      But