next Northern mail to carry along, we saw that Kroller would be properly attended to, and then started on.

The rest of the trip we ran in safety, though I could see the passengers were not wholly at ease, and would not be until they were entirely clear of the railway. A heavy purse was made up by them for the German student, and he accepted it with much gratitude, and I was glad of it; for the current of gratitude to him may have prevented a far different current of feeling which might have poured upon my head for having engaged a madman to run a railroad train.

But this is not the end. Martin Kroller remained insensible from the efects of the blow nearly two weeks; and when he recovered from that, he was sound again, his insanity was all gone. I saw him about three weeks afterward, but he had no recollection of me. He remembered nothing of the past year, not even his mad freak on my engine.

But I remembered it, and I remember it still; and the people need never fear that I shall be imposed upon again by a crazy engineer.


It is all very well for the poets to tell,

By way of their songs' adorning,
Of mikiaids who rouse to manipulate cows,

At five o'clock in the morning;
And of moony young mowers who bundle out doors,

The charms of their straw beds scorning,
Before break of day, to make love and hay

At five o'clock in the morning!
But, between me and you, it is all untrue;

Believe not a word that they utier;
To no milkmaid alive does the finger of five

Bring beaux-or even bring butter;
The poor sleepy cows, if told to arouse,

Would do so, perhaps, in a horning,
But the sweet country girls, would they show their curls

At five o'clock in the morning?

It may not be wrong for the man in the song,

Or the moon--if anxious to settle, -
To kneel in wet grass and pop, but alas!

What if he popped down on a nettle?
For how could he see what was under his knee,

If, in spite of friendly warning,
He went out of bed, and his house, and his head,

At five o'clock in the morning ?
It is all very well such stories to tell,

But if I were a maid all forlorning,
And a lover should drop in the clover to pop

At five o'clock in the morning,
If I liked him, you see, I'd say, “ Please call at three;"

If net, I'd turn on him with scorning, “Don't come here, you flat, with conundrums like that,

At five o'clock in the morning.”


The farmer sat in his easy chair,

Smoking his pipe of clay,
While his hale old wife, with busy care,

Was clearing the dinner away;
A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes,
On her grandfather's knee was catching flies.
The old man placed his hand on her head,

With a tear on his wrinkled face;
He thought how often her mother, dead,

Had sat long ago in that place.
As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye,
“Don't smoke," said the child,“ how it makes you cry!"
The house-dog slumbered upon the floor,

Where the sun, after noon, would steal;
The busy old wife, by the open door,

Was turning the spinning-wheel;
And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree
Had plodded along to almost three.
Still the farmer sat in his easy chair,

While close to his heaving breast
The moistened brow and the head so fair

Of his dear grandchild were pressed.
His frosty locks ’mid her soft hair lay-
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day!


Leona, the hour draws nigh,

The hour we've awaited so long,
For the angel to open a door through the sky,
That my spirit may break from its prison, and try

Its voice in an infinite song.

Just now, as the slumbers of night

Came o'er me with peace-giving breath, The curtain half lifted, revealed to my sight Those windows which look on the kingdom of light

That borders the river of death.

And a vision fell, solemn and sweet,

Bringing gleams of a morning-lit land;
I saw the white shore which the pale waters beat,
And I heard the low lull as they broke at their feet

Who walked on the beautiful strand.

And I wondered why spirits should cling

To their clay with a struggle and sigh,
When life's purple autumn is better than spring,
And the soul tlies away like a sparrow, to sing

In a climate where leaves never die.

Leona, come close to my bed,

And lay your dear hand on my brow; The same touch that thrilled me in days that are fled, And raised the lost roses of youth from the dead,

Can krighten the brief moments now.

We have loved from the cold world apart,

And your trust was too generous and true For their hate to o'erthrow; when the slanderer’s dart Was rankling deep in my desolate heart,

I was dearer than ever to you.

I thank the great Father for this,

That our love is not lavished in vain; Each germ in the future will blossom to bliss, And the forms that we love, and the lips that we kiss,

Never shrink at the shadow of pain.

By the light of this faith am I taught

That my labor is only begun;

In the strength of this hope have I struggled and fought
With the legions of wrong, till my armor has caught

The gleam of Eternity's sun.
Leona, look forth, and behold

From headland, from hillside, and deep,
The day-king surrenders his banners of gold,
The twilight advances through woodland and wold,

And the dews are beginning to weep.
The moon's silver hair lies uncurled,

Down the broad-breasted mountains away;
Ere sunset's red glories again shall be furled
On the walls of the west, o'er the plains of the world,

I shall rise in a limitless day.

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Oh! come not in tears to my tomb,

Nor plant with frail flowers the sod;
There is rest among roses too sweet for its gloom,
And life where the lilies eternally bloom

In the balm-breathing gardens of God.
Yet deeply those memories burn

Which bind me to you and to earth,
And I sometimes have thought that my being would yearn
In the bowers of its beautiful home to return,

And visit the home of its birth. 'Twould even be pleasant to stay,

And walk by your side to the last;
But the land-breeze of Heaven is beginning to play,–
Life's shadows are meeting Eternity's day,

And its tumult is hushed in the past.
Leona, good bye; should the grief

That is gathering now, ever be
Too dark for your faith, you will long for relief,
And remember, the journey, though lonesome, is brief,

Over lowland and river to me.

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My darling, I'm close to your bed,

My hand is still laid on your brow,
And I feel that love's magic forever has fled,
That I must resign you, my beautiful dead,

And my life seems all desolate now.

Oh, speak to me, arling, once more!

Once more lift your eyes to my face, With the same trusting glance that so blessed me of yore, And the same tender smile that to greet me you wore,

When I thrilled at your loving embrace.

Let me feel the caress of your hand,

Hear your voice in its sweet melody, Teach me more of that home in the “ morning-llt land,” Before you cross o'er to the beautiful strand,"

Leaving time and its trials to me.

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All alone in the darkness I weep,

But you heed not my tears as they fall;
Tis Leona who calls, but you slumber so deep,
That only the angels can waken your sleep,

And cannot hear their soft call.

“Leona,"—the whisper comes low,

Like the soft summer wind through the trees, And I listen to catch the faint murmurous flow Of the musical words that are rippling so low,

While my spirit is fanned by the breeze

That is wafted on angels' white wings

From the “balm-breathing gardens” above;
And sweet melody floats o'er my broken heart-strings
As some magical power back the dim curtain flings,

And shows me the form that I love.

Oh, friend of my youth's happy hours!

Oh, love of my life's later years! As I gaze on you now, in those heavenly bowers, Where angels have welcomedandcrowned you with flowery

Enchanted I smile thronik my tears.

But the mist from life's river will rise

And hide the dear vision from view;
I shall call in the night, when no echo replies,
And pray for the dawn to transfigure the skies,

And light me o'er lowland to you.

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