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Then over the winding tr.ick he sped,

Where the pathway with chasms and crags was lined The glare of his great light gleamed ahead,

And the snow like a bride's veil streamed behind, And soon the sound of the clanking steel

Was drowned in the echoes from hill to hill; He felt the engine sway and reel,

But the throttle went one notch further still.

And down the grade like a courser fleet,

Plunging through mountains of drifted snow,
The engine plows through the crusts of sleet,

And hurls a thousand feet below
The ponderous masses that block its way;

Throws them far to the left and right,

Into the black, oblivious night,
To reach the canyons by break of day.

And now old Binley feels the thrill

That the soldier feels when he meets his foe; He opens the throttle-valve wider still,

And his furnace burns with a fiercer glow, As the piston flashes in faster stroke;

But linn as a rock stands the engineer, And in his honest old heart of oak

There beats not the slightest pulse of fear.

But soon the engine is running slower,

Though its pathway lies on a level grade; And then a tremor comes stealing o'er Binley's hand on the throttle laid.

While the engine struggles with human will; then slowly ceases the clank of steel, And the panting monster is standing still.

Thicker and faster the drifting snow

Throws round its victim its winding sheet,

And quenches the glare of the head-light's glow,
As Binley mutters, "I give up beat."
• • * • »

Next morning a snow-plow forced its way
To the spot where the buried engine lay;

They hewed a path through the frozen crust,
And then was the ghastly story told;

There sat Binley beside his trust,
With his hand on the throttle-valve, stiff and cold.



Over the hills through the valley away,
Spreading confusion and dreadful dismay,
Spurring his horse to his uttermost speed,

Crying aloud in a voice of command:
"Run! run! for your lives, high up on the land I
Away, men and children! up, quick, and be gone!
The water's broke loose; it is chasing me on!"

Away down the river like a spirit he runs
While the roar of the torrent, like the roaring of guns,
Wakes the air with the echo of trembling might,
Till the flood from the reservoir rushes in sight.

Bear away! bear away in confusion and haste—
What of value remains will be swallowed in waste,—
The torrent rolls onward in terrible force,
Dealing death and destruction to all in its course!

But bold Collins Graves has reached Williamsburg hills,
Spreading terror and fright throughout all the mills;—
While the flood follows faster, increasing its speed,
Sew horsemen set forth on lightning-limbed steed.

In the valley of death swept away like a flower,
Six scores of brave workmen destroyed in an hour!
With the rough rugged rubbish that swept down the river,
Mid groauings for help they have perished forever!

Oh! God, what a sight for mortals to see!

Whole households engulfed in the stream like a tree!

The day breaks in terror—in sorrow it ends,

For hundreds bewail the sad loss of their friends.

All night through the darkness, loud groans may be heard,
Yet hundreds are dumb, who can utter no word!
The flood has gone down, and the ruins along
The course of the rapids have passed into song.

Of all that gave aid, or that battled those waves,

No name will shine brighter than bold Collins Grave*.

Twa8 he that first rose at the sound of alarm,

And rode through the valley foretelling of harm;—

Forgetting his danger in haste to do right—

Let us honor the gateman and keep his name bright.

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"I think this is the result of a burn," said Mrs. Wilson, pointing to an injury lately discovered in a new carpet. "It appears to me as if some careless servant had let fall a redhot poker upon it."

"Oh, dear, no; it is not a bit like a burn; it is a cut, most assuredly," said Mr. Wilson, stooping to examine it.

"A cut!" repeated the lady, with some energy and surprise.

"A cut, my dear!" reiterated the husband; "it has been done with a knife, and most likely, while splitting wood, or perhaps cutting sand-paper for polishing the bars of the grate."

Mrs. W.—" Why, my dear, the edges of the hole do not meet, as they would do if it were a cut; there is a space where the piece has been burnt out. Look again, and you will see what I mean."

Mr. W.—u So far from it, the edges have been ravelled out by the action of the broom in sweeping, and they positively wrap over. If you will give yourself the trouble to look carefully, you will find what I say is true."

Mrs. II'.—" As to trouble, Mr. Wilson, I am not generally very sparing of my trouble; and as to carefulness, I only wish everybody in this house were equally careful. But you are always saying these unkind things. Umph! a cut indeed J why, I can almost smell the singeing now."

Mr. IF.—" That is quite impossible."

Mrs. W.—" I suppose you will charge me with falsehood next. Do you mean to say that I tell you an untruth?"

Mr. W.—" I mean to say that it is a cut, and nothing but a cut. It is utterly impossible that that kind of a hole should result from a burn. Ah! you may look as angry as you please: but I say again, it—is—a—cut."

Mrs. W.—"Angry! did you say angry, Mr. Wilson? I really wish we could see ourselves. You are extremely ready to charge me with being angry. Now the truth is, I do not rare that (furiously dashing a plate of nut shells, which she had just been cracking, behind the fire,) whether it is a cut or a burn; but I do care to be spoken to in this shameful maneer. Angry, indeed! it was not always so—you never used to bring such charges against me."

Mr. W.—" Well, you are not angry now, I suppose? Why, your very eyes flash fire, and your face is red with rage."

Mrs. W.—" Not quite so red as yours, sir, nor from the same cause. I think ymi have no stones to throw about red faces. A man that can drink a bottle of port at a sitting—at least with very little help—may well have a red face, and a hot temper too, for that matter, as 1 pretty well know to my cost."

Mr. W.—" You know to your cost I What do you mean, madam?"

Mrs. W.—" Oh! nothing, sir—nothing at all; I mean nothing and I care for nothing." Mr. W.—" Then be silent."

Mrs. W.—" I shall not; I shall say just what I please, and talk as long as I please."

. Mr. W.—" Then quit my presence, madam, and talk to yourself, for I will not put up with your insolence; and I wonder how you dare act as you do."

Mrs. W—" Dare! Mr. Wilson; did you say dare? I say, then, in answer, that I wonder, when you take certain circumstances into consideration, I do really, I say, wonder at you. Recollect, sir, my position; you forget yourself."

Mr. W.—" I do not know what you mean."

Mrs. W.—" Ay, ay, it is all very well to pretend you do not know what I mean. Whose money was it that enabled you, when you were?"

Mr. W.(interrupting)—" And who was it that raised you from a tradesman's back parlor to the rank of a lady? I am a gentleman, madam—was born such, you will please to remember. Position, indeed! as if money gave position."

Mrs. W.—" A gentleman born! ha! ha! And pray who would be clear-sighted enough to select the gentleman born from the beggar, if money were out of the question? A fine sort of figure your gentlemanly birth would have made with«ut wealth, sir—my wealth—my wealth, bestowed upon you."

Mr. W.—" Silence, madam; (much e.rciled) hold your venomous, rattling tongue. You are a disgrace to y»ur sex and to the name of wife."

Mrs. W.~"Thank you, Mr. Elisha "Wilson, I thank you; and am glad you have at last given me to understand exactly /he esteem in which you hold me. This is your gratitude to my father for the thousands he threw away upon a poof gentleman, and this comes of all your flue promises. I tell you what, sir, I will not put up with it. I will have a separation, if it takes every farthing of my fortune; I will have a separation, I say."

Mr. W.—" Do so; do, do, I advise you; better set about it now directly."

Mrs. W.—" You think I dare not; but I will show you that I have a spirit. I will go where you shall never discover my abode, and then perhaps you may wish that you had behaved differently; or perhaps you will be ten thousand times happier without me."

Mr. W.—"You choose to say so, you know, not I."

Mrs. W.—" Yes, and I repeat it—I dare affirm that you would rejoice to be rid of me; and if once I did separate from you, I would never return to you again; I would die alone (sobbing hysterically,) and never plague you with my hateful presence—no, not if you were to go on your knees and beg of me to do so; I would spurn you" (suiting lur action to the word).

Mr. W:—" You would have no occasion to apprehend my going on my knees, I assure you; 1 should view your conduct then, as I view it now, with calm contempt."

Mrs. W.—" A very calm state, indeed, you are in just now."

The father of Mrs. Wilson, a wise and venerable man, had recently entered the garden near the open window of the room where this dispute took place; and, having caught some of the speeches of both wife and husband, the reasonable conclusion he instantly formed was that some dire catastrophe had happened— that one or the other hud committed some disgraceful fault, or, at least, had given some serious grounds of suspicion. The worthy man's courage began to give way, when he considered how thankless an office it generally is to interfere between man and wife; but they were his children, and he ventured in, pale with apprehension.

Mrs. Wilson was sitting at the extreme end of the room.

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