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Honey, you ax me fuh a toas'. Jes wait now, lemme look;
I oughtuh have some receipes fuh toas'es, bein' cook.
Nor'm, not a one. Well, I declar! ef I kin make so free,
Ise gwinetuh give you fuh a toas' De Vuh-gin-yuh Peach Tree I
Uv all de fambly trees on uth dis is de bes' dey plants.
(You sholy sees de c'nection twixt de peach-tree en de pants)
A switch in time saves many a lim' uv Satan 1'om de law.
De combination's knowed tuh all, uv peach-tree switch en Pa.
What would'a come uv Wasn't'n en Thomas JefFson too,
Less dee had been licked intuh shape by pariente good en true!
De slippuh nuh de cowhide aint nuvuh been our boas',
De peach switch is our emblum—dat's why I gives dis toas'—
Tuh de tree dat made de Ole Dominion famous, fyah en free,
De gyardian uv de Commonwealth—De Vuh-gin-yuh Peach Tree.

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To your friends you are as redolent as the perfume of Araby; to your enemies, as noxiously malodorous as the fumes of Tartarus. To those who love you, you are the balsam of life, a universal comforter, an inspiration and a joy forever. To those who hate you, you are a badge of stultitude, a menace to the peace and dignity of the commonwealth, a curse to humanity.

In the kingdom of matrimony, you are a perpetual source of discord, and yet in the glowing calumet of the aborigines you were a symbol of peace, and the incense that rose around your ashes served to stay the hand that raised the tomahawk. Through centuries you have floated down to us, and today you know no flag save that which waves over the common brotherhood of man.

Sir Walter Raleigh sought to prove that your smoke has avoirdupois, but no mortal can weigh the part you have played in the affairs of mankind. You have been the "divine afflatus" of the poet, the good genius of the artisan, the comforter of the sorely distressed—the pet aversion of wives.

When first we meet you, you make us sick, but once we know you, we are sick only when we dislike you. In short, you are a paradox of paradoxes, and, though designated as the "weed," you are the king of plants. He who "hits" his pipe, hits his best friend.



O Virginia, with thy story

Of thy wars and meed of glory—

bhouldst recall that of immortals

Who have passed beyond thy portals, Linger spirits that are nameless in the record of thy fame:

Old black "Mammy"—and the maiden

Fair as any in that Aiden;

There's the horses and the chases

And there's all the kinds of graces [name.

That can charm the mellow fancy of the hosts that love thy

But the knight who sniffed the hint

Of the virtues of the mint, [game,

Which skidoo'd the finest nectar from its prestige in the

Wears a crown that's ever green,

And afresh it blooms serene At each returning springtime, in the season for the same.

Edwin A. Hbrndon. Lynchburg.

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