And did the sad hearts thicken,    And did the mourners cry? No; such was not the fate of    Young Stephen Dowling Bots; Though sad hearts round him thickened,   'Twas not from sickness' shots. No whooping-cough did rack his frame,    Nor measles drear with spots; Not these impaired the sacred name    Of Stephen Dowling Bots. Despised love struck not with woe    That head of curly knots, Nor stomach troubles laid him low,    Young Stephen Dowling Bots. O no. Then list with tearful eye,    Whilst I his fate do tell. His soul did from this cold world fly    By falling down a well. They got him out and emptied him;    Alas it was too late; His spirit was gone for to sport aloft    In the realms of the good and great. If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she was fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could a done by and by.  Buck said she could rattle off poetry like nothing.  She didn't ever have to stop to think.  He said she would slap down a line, and if she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. She warn't particular; she could write about anything you choose to give her to write about just so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she would be on hand with her “tribute” before he was cold.  She called them tributes. The neighbors said it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then the undertaker--the undertaker never got in ahead of Emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was Whistler.  She warn't ever the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined away and did not live long.  Poor thing, many's the time I made myself go up to the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had soured on her a little.  I liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let anything come be