186 THE FOGY DAYS AND NOW. 



Right here will tell of another friend, 

 A friend of all, would do to trust: 



L. E. Bleckley, who'd settled here ; 

 Anchored here, for better or for worst. 



Fiiend Bleckley bought a box of books 

 At auction, said he'd no time for fun ; 



To read and learn, he'd started out 

 For to climb the ladder, he'd begun. 



Then, too, we had a debating club, 

 And he was the longest winded, 



On questions for to argufy, 



AVith fellers that was so minded. 



Bleckley kept a mighty digging, 

 Digging for lore, law and fame ; 



I didn't take to that kind of digging. 

 But he dug, dug himself a name. 



Now I'll speak about a little boy, 



Tjittle black-eyed kid, name of Evan — 



Evan Howell, my dispatch boy, 

 And this kid is still a liven. 



He's a big horse now, a rouser. 

 Is printen of a great big paper ; 



He don't seem like that small kid now, 

 Case he's a real gol-golly whopper. 



Recall to mind many others 

 We left here forty years ago ; 



Most of them have gathered moss, 

 As their Atlanta dirt will show. 



Had we stuck to the little city, 

 And, like them, had saved our pewter, 



Might have become a plowshare too, 

 Instead of a little scooter. 



