406 BUFFALO LAND. 



In Memoriam. 



Lot's wife, you remember, looked back, 

 (What woman could ever refrain?) 



And instantly stood in her track 

 A pillar of salt on the plain. 



If all were thus cursed for the fault, 

 Who peep when forbidden to look, 



The feminine pillars of salt 



Could never be written in book. 



Hewgaw was an Indian belle 



Which no one could ring — she was fickle; 

 Some scores of her lovers there fell 



(Where she did at last) in a pickle. 



Thus salt is the only thing known 



Entirely certain of keeping 

 Flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone, 



Out of the habit of jiceping. 



Unless the tradition has lied, 



Our maiden may claim, with good reason, 

 That she is a well-j) reserved bride, 



And certainly bride of a season. 



Wa-bog-aha big was a brave — 

 The Great Spirit salted him down : 



Braves seldom get corned in the grave, 

 They 're oftener corned in the town. 



My rhyming, you find, is saline. 

 Quite brackish its toning and end ; 



The moral — far better to pine 



Than wed and get " salted," my friend. 



