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THE PICNIC.

COOL and delightful the morning, never a cloud in the sky; Romeo, gorgeous with lilacs, pawing impatient near by. Cans and umbrellas and boxes, maidens in dainty array, -

All aboard! - Let go his head, bub! - Romeo, off and away!

Nine of us, three on a seat, but nobody cramped in the least.

Proudly ignoring his spavins, gallops our high-mettled beast.

Handkerchiefs flutter responsive to cheers from a girl on a gate.

As down through the village we clatter, pursued by a poodle irate.

Round by the Winchester Farms, all fresh with the newly mown hay,

Down the long hill to the river, on by the Clapboard-tree way.

Silvery birches bend o'er us, wood-birds are wishing "good speed,"

And a brook chatters on as we journey, - a sociable fellow indeed.

What! Are we there? Goodness gracious! why, what a wee bit of a ride!

This is Miss Phoebe's opinion, - mine, too (I sit by her side).

Her I assist in unpacking, her I enthrone on a shawl,

And she watches me squeezing the lemons; they hardly need sugar at all.

There is a druggist's assistant, spectacled, spying, and spare,

With faintest of straw-colored whisker and smoothest of straw-colored hair.