_Annie C. Ketchum._
* * * * *
SLANDER.
'Twas but a breath--
And yet a woman's fair fame wilted,
And friends once fond, grew cold and stilted;
And life was worse than death.
One venomed word,
That struck its coward, poisoned blow,
In craven whispers, hushed and low,--
And yet the wide world heard.
Twas but one whisper--one--
That muttered low, for very shame,
That thing the slanderer dare not name,--
And yet its work was done.
A hint so slight,
And yet so mighty in its power,--
A human soul in one short hour,
Lies crushed beneath its blight.
* * * * *
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
Good morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I have been;
but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think that last medicine
you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache last
night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap into it, and that
relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight.
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