"Lie still! lie still! till I lean o'er "But what is this? . . . Two fox-tails float adown the stream. What snowy crest Climbs out the willows of the west, His feet are on the land, and fair For who shall now dispute the race? "The gray hawks pass, O love! and doves Abridged. THE DOOR TO MEMORY'S HALL. How I love the hour of twilight- Just enough of sunlight lingers, Just enough of night-gloom falls; And, with reverential feeling, Pass I through the entrance wide, Veil that ghostly, solemn place! Let a single sunbeam lightly Rest upon the waving hair. Can thy countenance be seen. Earthly hands whose clasp was loved best, Cruel fate that hushed thy breathing, Oh! in those long days of fever, You seemed joyous, I light hearted, True you left a lovely woman And I thought--such thoughts are common- When I cross death's darkling river, With some olden, welcome song, THE OLD FARM-HOUSE. The easy chair, all patched with care, And pictures haug on the whitened wall, And the old clock ticks in the cottage hall. More lovely still, on the window-sill, The dew-eyed flowers rest, While 'midst the leaves on the moss-grown eaves, And all day long the summer breeze Is whispering love to the bended trees. Over the door, all covered o'er With a sack of dark-green baize, Lies a musket old, whose worth is told And the powder-flask, and the hunter's horn, For years have fled with a noiseless tread, Like fairy dreams, away, And in their flight, all shorn of his might, A father-old and gray ; And the soft winds play with the snow-white hair, And the old man sleeps in his easy chair. Inside the door, on the sanded floor, And a maiden fair, with flaxen hair, Kneels by the old man's side An old oak wrecked by the angry storm, While the ivy clings to its trembling form. THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH.-R. J. BURDETTE. On the road once more, with Lebanon fading away in the distance, the fat passenger drumming idly on the window pane, the cross passenger sound asleep, and the tall, thin passenger reading "Gen. Grant's Tour Around the World," and wondering why "Green's August Flower" should be printed above the doors of "A Buddhist Temple at Benares." To me comes the brakeman, and seating himself on the arm of the seat, says: "I went to church yesterday." "Yes?" I said, with that interested inflection that asks for more. "And what church did you attend?" "Which do you guess?" he asked. "Some union mission church," I hazarded. "No," he said, "I don't like to run on these branch roads very much. I don't often go to church, and when I do, I want to run on the main line, where your run is regular and you go on schedule time and don't have to wait on con nections. I don't like to run on a branch. Good enough, but I don't like it." "Episcopal?" I guessed. 66 Limited express," he said, "all palace cars and $2 extra for seat, fast time and only stop at big stations. Nice line, but too exhaustive for a brakeman. All train men in uniform, conductor's punch and lantern silver plated, and no train boys allowed. Then the passengers are allowed to talk back at the conductor, and it makes them too free and easy. No, I couldn't stand the palace cars. Rich road, though. Don't often hear of a receiver being appointed for that line. Some mighty nice people travel on it, too." "Universalist ?" I suggested. "Broad gauge," said the brakeman, "does too much complimentary business. Everybody travels on a pass. Conductor doesn't get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at flag stations, and won't run into anything but a union depot. No smoking car on the train. Train orders are rather vague though, and the train men don't get along well with the passengers. No, I don't go to the Universalist, but I know some good men who run on that road." "Narrow gauge, eh?" said the brakeman, "pretty track, straight as a rule; tunnel right through a mountain rather than go around it, spirit-level grade; passengers have to show their tickets before they get on the train. Mighty strict road, but the cars are a little narrow; have to sit one in a seat, and no room in the aisle to dance. Then there is no stop-over tickets allowed; got to go straight through to the station you're ticketed for, or you can't get on at all. When the car is full no extra coaches; cars built at the shop to hold just so many and nobody else allowed on. But you don't often hear of an accident on that road. It's run right up to the rules." "Maybe you joined the Free Thinkers?" I said. "Scrub road," said the brakeman, "dirt road bed and no ballast; no time card and no train dispatcher. All trains run wild, and every engineer makes his own time, just as he pleases. Smoke if you want to; kind of go-as-you-please road. Too many side tracks, and every switch wide open all the time, with the switchman sound asleep and the target lamp dead out. Get on as you please and get off when you want to. Don't have to show your tickets, and the conductor isn't expected to do anything but amuse the passengers. No, sir. I was offered a pass, but I don't like the line. I don't like to travel on a road that has no terminus. Do you know, sir, I asked a division superintendent where that road run to, and he said he hoped to die if he knew. I asked him if the general superintendent could tell me, and he said he didn't believe they had a general superintendent, and if they had he didn't know anything more about the road than the passengers. I asked him who he reported to, and he said 'nobody.' I asked a conductor who he got his orders from, and he said he didn't take orders from any living man or dead ghost. And when I asked the engineer who he got his orders from, he said he'd like to see any body give him orders; he'd run the train to suit himself, or he'd run it into the ditch. Now you see, sir, I'm a railroad man, and I don't care to run on a road that has no time, makes no connections, runs nowhere, and has no superintendent. It may be all right, but I've railroaded too long to understand it." 'Maybe you went to the Congregational Church?” "Popular road," said the brakeman; "an old road, too—one of the very oldest in the country. Good road-bed and comfortable cars. Well-managed road, too; directors don't interfere with division superintendents and train orders. Road's mighty popular, but it's pretty independent, too. Yes, didn't one of the division superintendents down east discontinue one of the oldest stations on this line two or three years ago? But it's a mighty pleasant road to travel on -always has such a pleasant class of passengers." |