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think of, had it not been for the old woman's signal. They did not stop to thank her first for the deliverance. The conductor knelt down by the side of the engine; the enginedriver and the brakemen came and knelt down by him; all the passengers came and kneit down by them; and there, in the expiring light of the burnt-out pile, in the rain and the wind, they thanked God for the salvation of their lives. All in a line, the kneelers and prayers sent up into the dark heavens such a midnight prayer and voice of thanksgiving as seldom, if ever, ascended from the earth to Him who seeth in darkness as well as in secret.
Kindness is the music of good-will to men ; and on this harp the smallest fingers in the world may play heaven's sweetest tunes on earth.
A VEGETABLE CONVENTION'.—George W. Bungay.
Once where our city farmers sat,
And listened to a long debate,
Discussion kept them up so late,
In heaps upon the dusty floor,
In bundles down behind the door.
The vegetables, still till then,
Began to feel the pulsing flow,
When feeling kindles thought aglow.
Made a sensation in the heat,
And color to the crimson beet.
First a potato rubbed its eyes,
It must have been an "early rose,"
And said: "Permit me to propose
We can be social until morn."
But spoke not, for 'twas full of corn.
"I second that," a parsnip said,
The timid thing turned deadly pale. A jealous carrot, round and red,
Objected, lor his friend so frail, Though classical, could not endure
An argument that reached the root; And should they quarrel, he was sure,
They had things all prepared to shoot.
But he was overruled, and they
Put the potato in the chair, And then debated until day
Dawned in its glory on them there. A ripe tomato, bright and red,
Wondered what city farmers knew Of country crops, that nature fed
With sunshine, and with rain and dew.
They only plow with wheels the street,
And greenbacks are the only greens That grow where corporations meet
In rings to raise the ways and means. Oh! how the last remark did please,
Some noisy beans who made uproar, While in wild ecstasy the peas
In raptures rolled upon the floor.
"This is no place for mirth—instead
Of jollity, we should be wise," Cried out m wrath a cabbage-head;
And the potato wirtked his eyes. "That is a truthful word indeed
We must be sober and sedate," Exclaimed a turnip run to seed,
"Have dignity or stop debate."
A squash now thought that she should speak,
And soften with her language soft,
Were lost in crashes from aloft.
From shelves no hand was there to touch, With noise enough to wake the town,
Because they had a drop too much.
The grapes rolled out in merry glee,
And reeled in fun across the floor,
Just as the last man left the door.
Hear something about "plowing deep. — A work that speakers seldom do,
When their dull words put us to sleep.
THE PHANTOMS OF ST. SEPULCHRE*
"Didst ever see a hanging?" "No, not one;
Nor ever wish to see such scandal done.
But once I saw a wretch condemned to die:
A lean-faced, bright-eyed youth; who made me sigh
At the recital of a dream he had.
He was not sane—and yet he was not mad;
Fit subject for a mesmerist he seemed;
For when he slept, he saw; and when he dreamed,
His visions were as palpable to him
As facts to us. My memory is dim
TJpon his story, but I'll ne'er forget
The dream he told me, for it haunts me yet,
Impressed upon me by his earnest faith
That 'twas no vision, but a sight which death
Opened his eyes to see,—an actual glimpse
Into the world of spectres and of imps,
Vouchsafed to him on threshold of the grave;
List! and I'll give it, in the words he gave:—
'Ay, you may think that I am crazed,
But what I saw, that did I see.
These walls are thick, my brain was sick,
And yet mine eyes saw lucidly.
Through the joists and through the stones
I could look as through a glass;
And from this dungeon, damp and cold,
I watched the motley people pass.
All day long, rapid and strong,
Rolled to and fro the living stream;
But in the night, I saw a sight—
I cannot think it was a dream.
'Old St. Sepulchre's bell will toll
* It may be necessary to inform the reader, unacquainted with London, th.it the church of St. Sepulchre is cloae to the jail of Newgate; and that ita bell is tolled when a criminal is executed. Few will need to be reminded tii.it the three atoriee related are not fabuloui.
But my soul feels strong, and my sight grows clear,
'The snow lies on the house-tops cold,
Shrill, and keen the March winds blow;
The rank grass of the churchyard mold
Is covered o'er with drifted snow;
The graves in old St. Sepulchre's yard
Were white last night, when I looked forth,
And the sharp clear stars seemed to dance in the sky,
Rocked by the fierce winds of the north.
The houses dull seemed numb with frost,
The streets seemed wider than of yore,
And the straggling passengers trod, like ghosts,
Silently on the pathway frore,
When I looked through that churchyard rail,
And thought of the bell that should ring my door*,
And saw three women, sad and pale,
Sitting together on a tomb.
'A fearful sight it was to see,
As up they rose and looked at me:
Sunken were their cheeks and eyes,
Blue-cold were their feet, and bare;
Lean and yellow were their hands,
Long and scanty was their hair;
And round their necks I saw the ropes
Deftly knotted, tightly drawn:
And knew they were not things of earth,
Or creatures that could face the dawn.
'Seen dimly in th' uncertain light,
'The stiff policeman passing along,
Saw them not, nor made delay;
A reeling bacchanal, shouting a song,
Looked at the clock, and went his way;
A troop of girls, with painted cheeks,
Laughing and yelling m drunken glee,
Passed like a gust, and never looked
At the sight so palpable to me.
I saw them—heard them—felt their breath
Musty and raw and damp as death.
'These women three, these fearful shapes,
Looked at me through Newgate stone,
And raised their lingers, skinny and lank,
Whispering low in under tone:—
"His hour draws near,—he's one of us,—
His gibbet is built,—his noose is tied;
They have put his name on his coffin lid:
The law of blood shall be satisfied.
He shall rest with us, and his name shall be
A by-word and a mockery."
'I whispered to one, " What hadst thou done?"
She answered, whispering, and I heard—
Although a chime rang at the time—
Every sentence, every word,
Clear, above the pealmg bells:—
"I was mad, and slew my child;
Better than life God knows, I loved it;
But pain and hunger drove me wild,—
Scorn and hunger, and grief and care,
And I slew it in my despair.
And for this deed they raised the gibbet;
For this deed the noose they tied;
And 1 hung and swung in the sight of men,
And the law of blood was satisfied."
'I said to the second, " What didst thou?"
Her keen eyes flashed unearthly shine.
"I married a youth when I was young,
And thought all happiness was mine;
But they stole him from me to fight the French;
And I was left in the world alone,
To beg or steal—to live or die,
Robbed of my stay, my all, my own.
England stole my lord from me,—
I stole a ribbon, was caught and tried;
And 1 hung and swung in the sight of men,
And the law of blood wai satisfied."
'I said to the third, " What crime was thine?"