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 effects 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. ANSWER TO “FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING." It is all very well for the poets to tell, By way of their songs' adorning, Of milkmaids who rouse to manipulate cows, At five o'clock in the morning; And of moony young mowers who bundle out doors, 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; To no milkmaid alive does the finger of five The poor sleepy cows, if told to arouse, But the sweet country girls, would they show their curls It may not be wrong for the man in the song, What if he popped down on a nettle? He went out of bed, and his house, and his head, 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 not, I'd turn on him with scorning, "Don't come here, you flat, with conundrums like that, At five o'clock in the morning." A MIDSUMMER DAY SCENE. The farmer sat in his easy chair, While his hale old wife, with busy care, 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, 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, And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree Still the farmer sat in his easy chair, The moistened brow and the head so fair His frosty locks 'mid her soft hair lay Fast asleep were they both, that summer day! LEONA.-JAS, G. CLARKE. Leona, the hour draws nigh, The hour we've awaited so long, For the angel to open a door through the sky, 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 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 brighten 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, By the light of this faith am I taught In the strength of this hope have I struggled and fought Leona, look forth, and behold From headland, from hillside, and deep, The moon's silver hair lies uncurled, Down the broad-breasted mountains away; 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, 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,— 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, ANSWER TO “LEONA." My darling, I'm close to your bed, Oh, speak to me, darling, once more! With the same trusting glance that so blessed me 49 of yore, And the same tender smile that to greet me you wore, 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,” All alone in the darkness I weep, But you heed not my tears as they fall; 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; Oh, friend of my youth's happy hours! As I gaze on you now, in those heavenly bowers, 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, ཊྛ་ |