The passenger gasped twice or thrice, but could not say anything. The ticket-seller went on:

"It's the superintendent's idea. He is fond of fun, enjoys a joke, and it does him good to see a man prance around and hear him jaw when he buys a ticket and then finds his train has been gone two hours. It saves him the expense of going to the circus."

"Which way is that clock wrong," the passenger asked in despairing accents, "fast or slow?"

"Don't know," replied the agent. "That's part of the fun not to let anybody in the building know anything about the right time. All that I know is that it's about ninety minutes wrong one way or the other."

With a hollow groan the passenger dropped his carpet-bag and wallet, and made a rush for the door, upsetting every man who got in his way. In about two minutes he came back, crestfallen and meek, and took his place at the end of the line. When once more he walked up to the window, he said, as he named his station and bought his ticket like a

sane man:

"What made you talk to me like a liar?"

"What made you ask questions like a fool?" answered the ticket man, and they glared at each other for a second, and then the passenger went his way, a madder, but probably not a wiser man. For although the time pieces at a railway station are always as nearly accurate as care and electricity can make them, and all the trains come and go by them, yet there are thousands of men and women in this land of free schools, who, whenever they travel, never fail to ask the ticket-seller, station-master, usher, and gate-man, one after another, if " that clock is right?"

SOMEBODY'S DARLING.

Into a ward of the whitewashed hall,
Where the dead and the dying lay,
Wounded by bayonet, shell, and ball,
Somebody's darling was borne one day,—
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,

Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of the fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate mould--
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow,
Brush all the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now-
Somebody's darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer both soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,
They were somebody's pride, you know;
Somebody's hand hath rested there-
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in their waves of light? God knows best! he was somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above,

Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody's waiting and watching for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, child-like lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve in the wooden slab at his head, "Somebody's darling slumbers here."

THE WIFE.-JOHN G. WHITTIER.

AN IDYL OF BEARCAMP WATER.

From school, and ball, and rout, she came, The city's fair, pale daughter,

To drink the wine of mountain air

Beside the Bearcamp Water.

Her step grew firmer on the hills
That watch our homesteads over;
On cheek and lip, from summer fields,
She caught the bloom of clover.

For health comes sparkling in the streams,
From cool Chocorua stealing,
There's iron in our northern winds,
Our pines are trees of healing.

She sat beneath the broad-armed elms
That skirt the mowing-meadow,
And watched the gentle west-wind weave
The grass with shine and shadow.

Beside her, from the summer heat
To share her grateful screening,
With forehead bared, the farmer stood,
Upon his pitchfork leaning.

Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face
Had nothing mean or common,—
Strong, manly, true, the tenderness
And pride beloved of woman.

She looked up, glowing with the health
The country air had brought her,
And, laughing said: “You lack a wife,
Your mother lacks a daughter.

“To mend your frock and bake your bread You do not need a lady;

Be sure among these brown old homes
Is some one waiting ready,-

"Some fair, sweet girl with skillful hand
And cheerful heart for treasure,
Who never played with ivory keys,
Or danced the polka's measure."

He bent his black brows to a frown,
He set his white teeth tightly.
""Tis well," he said, " for one like you
To choose for me so lightly.

“You think, because my life is rude,
I take no note of sweetness;

I tell you love has naught to do
With meetness or unmeetness.

"Itself its best excuse, it asks
No leave of pride or fashion,

When silken zone or homespun frock
It stirs with throbs of passion.

"You think me deaf and blind; you bring Your winning graces hither,

As free as if from cradle-time,

We two had played together.

"You tempt me with your laughing eyes, Your cheeks of sundown's blushes,

A motion as of waving grain,

A music as of thrushes.

"The plaything of your summer sport, The spells you weave around me,

You cannot at your will undo,

66

Nor leave me as you found me.

You go as lightly as you came,

Your life is well without me;
What care you that these hills will close
Like prison-walls about me?

"No mood is mine to seek a wife,
Or daughter for my mother;
Who loves you loses in that love
All power to love another!

"I dare your pity or your scorn,
With pride your own exceeding;
I fling my heart into your lap
Without a word of pleading."

She looked up from the waving grass
So archly, yet so tender:

"And if I lend you mine," she said,
"Will you forgive the lender?

"Nor frock nor tan can hide the man;
And see you not, my farmer,
How weak and fond a woman waits
Behind this silken armor?

"I love you: on that love alone,
And not my worth, presuming,
Will you not trust for summer fruit
The tree in May-day blooming?"

Alone the hangbird overhead,

His hair-swung cradle straining, Looked down to see love's miracle,The giving that is gaining.

And so the farmer found a wife,

His mother found a daughter;
There looks no happier home than hers
On pleasant Bearcamp Water.

Flowers spring to blossom where she walks
The careful ways of duty;

Our hard, stiff lines of life with her
Are flowing curves of beauty.

Our homes are cheerier for her sake,
Our door-yards brighter blooming,
And all about, the social air

Is sweeter for her coming.

We send the squire to General Court;
He takes his young wife thither;

No prouder man election-day

Rides through the sweet June weather.

So spake our landlord as we drove
Beneath the deep hill-shadows.
Below us wreaths of white fog walked
Like ghosts the haunted meadows.

Until, at last, beneath its bridge,
We heard the Bearcamp flowing,
And saw across the mapled lawn
The welcome home-lights glowing;-
And, musing on the landlord's tale
"Twere well, thought I, if often
To rugged farm-life came the gift
To harmonize and soften;

If more and more we found the troth
Of fact and fancy plighted,

And culture's charm and labor's strength
In rural homes united;

The simple life, the homely hearth,
With beauty's sphere surrounding,
And blessing toil where toil abounds
With graces more abounding.