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 EAR * * * *, I am writing not to you, but at you,
 * For the feet of you tourists have no resting-place;

But wherever with this the mail-pigeon may catch you,
 * May she find you with gayety’s smile on your face;

Whether chasing a snipe at the Falls of Cohoes, Or chased by the snakes upon Anthony’s Nose; Whether wandering, at Catskill, from Hotel to Clove, Making sketches, or speeches, puns, poems, or love Or in old Saratoga’s unknown fountain-land, Threading groves of enchantment, half bushes, half sand; Whether dancing on Sundays at Lebanon Springs,
 * With those Madame Hutins of Religion, the Shakers;

Or, on Tuesdays, with maidens who seek wedding-rings
 * At Ballston, as taught by mammas and matchmakers;

Whether sailing St. Lawrence, with unbroken neck, From her thousand green isles to her castled Quebec; Or sketching Niagara, pencil on knee
 * (The giant of waters, our country’s pet lion),

Or dipped at Long Branch, in the real salt sea,