"Buffalo Bill" to Uncle Sam.
[Colonel the Hon. W. F. Cody has written to a friend in America, stating that our atmosphere is too limited for him to breathe in freely, and our island too small to permit of his taking equestrian exercise in it conveniently.]
DEAR SAM.—I want to get back home, I do: I'm stifled here. I darn't breathe. I tell you, For fear of robbing some one else of air. Of which they haven't half a sniff to spare. Their atmosphere's made up of fog and soot; The people tread each other under foot; They swarm as thick as Californian fleas,— At every throw I'd lasso ten with ease. Their biggest county would not make a farm Out West,—you, Sam, could hold it in your palm! In fact, their island's so tarnation small, I dar'n't ride far, lest in the sea I'd fall— On their "d—d railways" I've scarce left one station Before I'm told I'm at my destination. In short, I haven't room to freely stand, Much less to move on this mere scrap of land. P.S.—I must not fail to let you know We've done a wondrous business with the show: The British shekels have pour'd in like rain, And if I thought 'twould pay, I'd come again; But as I fancy no more's to be got, I'll tell you what I think of England—rot!
