"Lie still! lie still! till I lean o'er
And clutch your red blade to the shore.
Ha ha! Take that! and that! and that!
Ha, ha! So, through your coward throat
The full day shines!
And drift and drive

"But what is this?

. . . Two fox-tails float adown the stream.

What snowy crest

Climbs out the willows of the west,
All weary, wounded, bent, and slow,
And dripping from his streaming hair?
It is! it is my Idaho!

His feet are on the land, and fair
His face is lifting to my face,

For who shall now dispute the race?

"The gray hawks pass, O love! and doves
O'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves.
My love shall heal your wounded breast,
And in yon tall lodge two shall rest."

Abridged.

THE DOOR TO MEMORY'S HALL.
MRS. J. M. WINTON.

How I love the hour of twilight-
Twilight dusky, dim and gray-
When the night, with moon and starlight,
Gently clasps the hand of day.

Just enough of sunlight lingers,

Just enough of night-gloom falls;
Fairy forms, with noiseless fingers,
Loose the door to memory's halls.

And, with reverential feeling,

Pass I through the entrance wide,
While a soft light, after stealing,
Lights the faces either side.
Priestless in this temple holy-

Veil that ghostly, solemn place!
Hush! the train of mourners slowly
Moving towards that burial case.
Raise the curtain slightly-slightly
On this one, full-length and fair;

Let a single sunbeam lightly

Rest upon the waving hair.
O my sainted! grand and comely,
Rank grass grows our lips between,
And in these still cloisters only

Can thy countenance be seen.

Earthly hands whose clasp was loved best,
Pressed my own a long, last time,
Earthly eyes, with such a sad quest,
Nevermore will answer mine.

Cruel fate that hushed thy breathing,
When life's dawn was free from cloud,
Unseen hands for thee were weaving
Cypress wreath and funeral shroud.

Oh! in those long days of fever,
Through those dreary nights of pain,
Did you long for my face ever,
Long to hear my voice again?
When they told me how you languished
'Neath that sultry southern sky,
Then my heart was torn and anguished,
And I prayed you would not die.
Little recked we when we parted,
Carelessly and undisturbed,

You seemed joyous, I light hearted,
And our soul's speech died unheard.

True you left a lovely woman
Wearing your betrothal ring,

And I thought--such thoughts are common-
Our love but a by-gone thing.
Bid the phoenix rest in ashes,
Bid the sun forget his sky,
Bind the stream in mountain passes,
Then dream early love can die!

When I cross death's darkling river,
When my Father's voice shall call,
May the golden life-chords sever
When the twilight shadows fall.
Meet me at the pearly portals

With some olden, welcome song,
We'll forget our lives with mortals,
While eternity rolls on.

THE OLD FARM-HOUSE.

The easy chair, all patched with care,
Is placed by the cold hearthstone;
With witching grace, in the old fire-place,
The evergreens are strewn,

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,
The marten builds her nest.

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
In the events of other days;

And the powder-flask, and the hunter's horn,
Have hung beside it for many a morn.

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,
Light, airy footsteps glide,

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."