And, stranger, it's now many a day As full of fun as the spring with showers: We took a pumpkin of common size, We hollowed it out till its shell was thin, The night was dark as ever was seen, The parson came in a quiet way, And, smoking his old brown pipe of clay, Was thinking of what he was going to say, 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 A RIDE ON THE BLACK VALLEY RAILROAD. I. N. TARBOX. You have heard of the ride of John Gilpin, How he rode down to Edmonton village, 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 cannot restrain, Of a ride down the Black Valley Railroad, Of a ride on the Black Valley train. The setting out place for the journey, Is Sippington station, I think, Where the engines for water take whiskey, From collisions you need fear no danger, They all go one way-to perdition,-- By the time we reach Medicine village, We are pious, and hold by the scripture, To take "wine" instead of much "water," In fact we improve on the reading, By just a slight change in the text, Say" often" where the scripture says "little," We break up at Tippleton station, To try and get rid of our pain, At Topersville also we tarry, Our spirits indeed may be willing, So oft as we stop for "five minutes," Now we come to the great central station, The last stopping place on the line, Drunkard's Curve-where is kept the chief store-house From this place on to Destruction, And those who may wish to stop sooner, A full supply of bad whiskey For our engine is taken in here, From Drunkard's Curve to Destruction And will not be slowed or halted And so when all things are ready, First Rowdyville claims our attention, As we rush by the village of Woeland, Three wretches are thrown from the train, Through the darkness the mud and the rain. Our engineer chuckles and dances In the wild lurid flashes he throws, Hotter blaze the red fires of his furnace, Oh, the sounds that we hear in the darkness, The ravings of anger and madness, The sobbings and pitiful moans! For now we have entered the regions Where all things horrible dwell, Where the shadows are peopled with goblins, In this deep and Stygian darkness, Would you like, my young friend, to take passage Here stretches the Black Valley Railroad, TRUE FAITH.-B. P. SHILLABER, Old Reuben Fisher, who lived in the lane, If the weather proved fair, he thanked God for the sun, " I have just the weather 1 fancy," said he; For what pleases God always satisfies me." If trouble assailed, his brow was ne'er dark, And his eye never lost its happiest spark. Twill not better fix 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." If his children were wild, as children will prove, His temper ne'er lost its warm aspect of love; My dear wife," he'd say, "don't worry nor fret; Twill all be right with the wayward ones yet; Tis the folly of youth, that must have its way; They'll penitent turn from their evil some day." 46 If a name were assailed, he would cheerily say,. And when in the meshes of sin tightly bound, Old Reuben would say, with sympathy fraught, If friends waxed cold, he'd say with a smile 66 Well, if they must go, Heaven bless them the while; There were sickness and death at last in his cot, And through faith in the future find present content." Then he lay on his death-bed at last undismayed; For God's will is my will," submissive said he. ONLY A WOMAN.-HESTER A. BENEDICT. Only a woman, shriveled and old! The play of the winds and the prey of the cold? Eyes that are sunken, Lips that were never o'er bold. 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! Thicker and faster; The great bell ceases its toll. Fain would she enter, but not for the poor Only a woman-waiting alone, What do they care for her? Giving not bread, but a stone. Under old laces their haughty hearts beat, Only a woman! In the old days Somebody kissed her, Somebody crowned her with praise; Somebody faced up the battles of life Somebody lies with a tress of her hair Opening the gates for her, Only a woman-nevermore poor→ Dead in the snow at the bronze church door. COURTSHIP UNDER DIFFICULTIES. Snobbleton. Yes, there is that fellow Jones, again. I de clare, the man is ubiquitous. Wherever I go with my cousin Prudence we stumble across him, or he follows her |