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He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. She marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. M.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 10-09-2024 02:09:10
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