Well, then I got kind of discouraged, but I thought that I'd better try again, and not get up so far, But ask for what he'd give beyond doubt, So I asked for a position as night watchman at the Navy Yard, and thought I'd get it, and he'd answer my request, for I'd noticed that his Havana was gradually growing smaller, and he did answer me, just as he'd thrown away the end of his cigar, He simply said, "Get out!" Says General GRANT, says he.
So I got out, as fast as a pair of legs, with a number twelve boot kicking at the place where they're joined, would permit, And wandered off, just about as far As I conveniently could, and then I sat down on a milestone and raised my voice to Heaven, and cried aloud, that, weather permitting, General GRANT should never, _never_, NEVER, go back to the White House, not if I could help it, To puff on his cigar, Said ICHABOD BOGGS, said I.
[Footnote 4: We hope none of our readers will labor under the impression that we look upon the above effusion as a poetical one, but, in this day of many isms, it may happen that the above style may become prevalent, and we think it our duty to present everything that is new. EDS.]
History relates that the era of Horse-racing commenced about the year 680 B. C., but it was some time after that when Mr. PUNCHINELLO made his _debut_ as a candidate for the honors of the turf. To put the matter more concisely, it is just six days since he drove his horse "Creeping Peter" on the track at Monmouth Park, Long Branch. The only object which Mr. P. had in view, when he purchased his celebrated trotter and put him into training, was the improvement of the breed of American horses. While our BONNERS, VANDERBILTS and GRANTS are devoting all their surplus time and means to this great end, Mr. P., in placing the name of his yellow horse in the hands of the poolseller, would scorn to have a less noble aim.
But this great object need not interfere with others of less importance, and therefore Mr. P. will not deny that, after having exhibited to his friends and the sporting fraternity in general, his little investment in fancy horseflesh, he made up a very satisfactory betting-book.
Now Mr. P. believed,--and events proved him to be correct,--that when his friends and the sporting fraternity saw his horse, they would bet heavily against him. Mr. P., however, in all the pride of amateur ownership, bet quite as heavily _upon_ his noble steed. His friends and the above-mentioned fraternity chuckled and winked behind his back, but although Mr. P. heard them chuckle and knew that they were winking, his belief in his final success never wavered. Any ordinary observer might be expected to remark that Creeping Peter was not entirely without blemish. Besides being spavined and having three of his hoofs injured by sand-crack, he had poll-evil, fistulas, malanders, ring-bone, capped hock, curb, splint, and several other maladies which made him a very suitable horse for the general public to bet against.