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And, stranger, it's now many a day
Since Rufus Bawling was laid away
In the graveyard over yonder.
I was a boy in those gay hours.
As full of" fun as the spring with shower*:
'Twas I and a son of Jacob Powers
That had got up all that wonder.
\Ve took a pumpkin of common size,
And, cutting some holes for the mouth and
We gave it the right expression;
We hollowed it out till its shell was thin,
And, putting a tallow dip within,
It looked as ugly and mean as sin,
Twould have scared a whole procession.
The night was dark as ever was seen,
And nothing was heard in Hufl's Ravine
But the sound of water flowing;
The parson came in a quiet way,
And, smoking his old brown pipe of clay,
Was thinking of what he was going to say,
When he got to where he was going.
The ghost he saw and the rattling bones
Were a pumpkin, a gourd, and some gravel stones,
That gave him all that glory;
But ne'er again up that mountain side,
In the night would Rufus Rawling ride,
And many a time I've laughed till I cried
To hear him tell the story.
A RIDE ON THE BLACK VALLEY RAILROAD. I. N. Tarrox.
You have heard of the ride of John Gilpin,
That captain so jocund and gay,
In a very remarkable way.
You have heard of the ride of Mazeppa,
How he coursed through the fields and the forests,
But I sing of a trip more exciting,
In a song which I cannol restram,
Of a ride on the Black Valley train.
The setting out place for the journey,
Is Sippington station, I think,
And the people take—something to drink.
From collisions you need fear no danger,
No trains are ever run back,
Provided they keep on the track.
By the time we reach Medicine village,
The passengers find themselves sick, Have leg-ache, or back-ache, or head-ache,
Or some ache that strikes to the quick.
We are pious, and hold by the scripture,
With Paul the Apostle agree
For our " often infirmity."
In fact we improve on the reading,
By just a slight change in the text,
And leave " little" for what may come next.
We break up at Tippleton station,
To try and get rid of our pain, At Topersville also we tarry,
And do the same over again.
Our spirits indeed may be willing,
But very weak is the flesh;
We use all the time to refresh.
Now we come to the great central station,
The last stopping place on the line, Drunkard's Curve— where is kept the chief store-hous»
Of rum, whiskey, brandy, and wine.
From this place on to Destruction,
The train makes no break or delay, And those who may wish to stop sooner,
Are kindly thrown out by the way.
A full supply of bad whiskey
For our engine is taken in here,
Steps on for our engineer.
From Drunkard's Curve to Destruction
\nd will not be slowed or halted
Vnd so when all things are ready,
Let me give you some flying glimpses
First Rowdyville claims our attention,
Then Quarreiton comes into view,
And the filthy Beggarstown, too.
As we rush by the village of Woeland,
Three wretches are thrown from the train,
We can see them roll over and over,
Our engineer chuckles and dances
Hotter blaze the red fires of his furnace,
Oh, the sounds that we hear in the darkness,
The ravings of anger and madness,
For now we have entered the regions
Where all things horrible dwell,
With the fiends and the furies of hell.
In this deep and Stygian darkness,
It is plain we are near to Destruction,—
Would you like, my young friend, to take passage
To this region of horror and pain?
And here stands the Black Valley train.
Old Reuben Fisher, who lived in the lane,
Was never in life disposed to complain;
If the weather proved fair, he thanked God for the sun,
And if it were rainy, with him 'twas all one;—
TRUE FAITH—B. P. Shillarer.
* I have just the weather 1 fancy," said he;
If trouble assailed, his brow was ne'er dark,
And his eye never lost its happiest spark.
"Twill not better (ix it to gloom or to sigh;
To make the best of it I always shall try!
So. care, do your worst," said Reuben with glee,
"And which of us conquers, we shall see, we shall see."
Tf his children were wild, as children will prove,
If a name were assailed, he would cheerily say,.
And wh"n in the meshes of sin tightly bound,
The reckless and luckless mortal was found,
Proscribed by every woman and man,
And put under rigid and merciless ban,
Old Reuben would say, with sympathy fraught,
"We none of us do half as well as we ought."
If friends waxed cold, he'd say with a smile—
There were sickness and death at last in his cot,
Then he lav cm his death-bed at last undismayed;
ONLY A WOMAN.—Hester A. Benedict.
Only a .woman, shriveled and old!
The play of the winds and the prey of the cold'
Only a woman forsaken and poor,
Asking an alms at the bronze church door.
Hark to the organ! roll upon roll
The waves of the music go over her soul!
Silks rustle past her
Thicker and faster;
The great bell ceases its toll.
Only a woman—waiting alone,
What do they care for her?
Mumbling a prayer for her,
Giving not bread, but a stone.
Only a woman! In the old days
Somebody missed her,
Somebody kissed her,
Somebody crowned her with praise;
Somebody lies with a tress of her hair
Light on his heart where the death-shadows are;
Somebody waits for her,
Opening the gates for her,
Giving delight for despair.
COURTSHIP UNDEIt DIFFICULTIES.
Snobbliion. Yes, there is that fellow Jones, again. I declare, the man is ubiquitous. Wherever I go with my cousin Prudence we stumble across him, or he follows her