Ashtabula telegraph. (Ashtabula, Ohio) 1874-1880, 1877-08-17
4 Professional Visit TO an Obituary
Poet.

He was a country-looking chap,
with an odd mixture of sorrow and
resignation on his lean countenance,
and he dropped upon the startled ad-
vertising clerk of the-well, to save
trouble we won't locate the paper,
but call it the Sunday UniOn-with
the mysterious whisper Of
"She's gone"
"Who's gomez" asked the clerk.
"Marier."
"Who in thunder's Marier?''
"My wife; she's gone"
"Gone where?"
"Up above-died last night; want
you to put it in your next issue"
"What allied her?"
"LockjaW-she Law tor three
weeks aud couldn't speak. Never
had such a quiet time in the house
before. Just do the notice up fine,
will you, and I'll see that everything
is fixed up all right"
Accordingly the clerk scribbled
away for a moment, handed out
what he had written for inspection,
and curtly remarked:
"Dollar thirty-fve."
The bereaved husband read it
over carefully, and finally gave a
sigh of satisfaction.
"That's all right, said he, hand
ing over the required specie, "But l
s'pose you could put a verse on the
end, couldn't you?"
"Well, yes" ruminated the clerk,
81 guess so. What kind of q verse
do you want?"
"Sumthin tender-like and sorrow
full"
GLOW would this do?" asked the
clerk, scratching his head with the
end of his penholder.
A perfect female, folks did consider her,
She's gone and left weepin' widower!"
"That's kinder melancholy" re-
fected the stranger, "but reckon
it's a leetle-just leetle-too per-
sonal. Jest you try again. don't
mind putting up handsome for sum-
thin that'll rake folks heart-strings.,
The clerk gazed at tie ceiling for
a moment and then suggested:
The husbands lost a wife,
The children ma;
Died on Friday night
From the lock-jaw.
eyes" broke out the mourner,
wiping his eyes on a black bordered |
handkerchief, "but l don't own any
younguns!"
"What do you think of this,
then?"
She always was contented,
At life she'd never carp,
Gone to be an angel,
And play on a golden harp.
"Don't believe that'Il suit. You
see, Marier couldn't even play on a
pianer, and l know a harp would |
stun her, sure. Poor woman, she
had a tender heart, though, and |
made the most elegant biscuit you
ever saw"
"Hanged if wont have to charge |
you extra! l amt LongfelIow nor
Tennyson," growled the clerk.
81 know; jes try once more, won't |
your" meekIy replied the weeping
widower
So the clerk did try, and at last
ground out the following:
On earth could not stay Marier,
So she died and went up higher.
"Sorter irreverent, amt it?" anx-
iously asked Marier's relict. 81
reckon I wouldn't Crude a couple of
dollars for bang-up verse;"
Thus stimulated, the machine poet
became suddenly inspired, and ex-
ultantly produced:
Cry for Marier,
Alas! she's no more
Joined the singing seraphs
Upon the other shore.
The afflicted one uneasily took a
chew of tobacco and whispered:
beautiful! But there's one thing
that spiles it. Marier hadn't any
more melody in her than an old
plow,and it's deliberit lying to speak
of her as vocalist. None of them
other sirups (seraphs) you alluded to
could keep time with her."
'Well," thoughtfully remarked
the discOmftted Wood, 'If this amt
all o. K. you'll have to hire a spe-
cial poet-I'm played out"
Affections sore
Long time she bore,
Physicians were in vain!
Lockjaw ketched her.
Death it fetched her,
Gone-to rise again.
"Tell you what" enthusiastically