"Why! What d'ye mean?" said I, without lettin' on that I felt uneasy myself.

"Do' know," answered Jimmy; "can't tell how I do feel, on'y as if suthin' was goin' to happen."

That was jest it! I felt the same thing, an' I told him so, an' we talked about it till we both got real fidgety.

There's a purty sharp curve about twenty miles from Holbrook. The road makes a turn round a mountain, an' the river runs below ye, about forty feet, or sech a matter. It is a pokerish lookin' place when you happen to be goin' over it an' think what 'ud be if the train should pitch over the bluff inter the river.

Wall, we got to the foot o' the mountain just where the curve begins. The light from the head-lamp lit up the track and made it bright as day, about as fur as from me to the fence yonder, ahead o' the engine. Outside o' that spot, all was dark as you ever see it, I'll bet.

All to once I see suthin' right ahead, in the bright light. We allers run slow round this curve, so I could se distinct. My hair riz right up, I tell ye, fer what I see was a man a-standin' right in the middle o' the track, a-wavin' his hands; an' I grabbed hold o' the lever an' whistled down brakes, an' stopped the train as fast as ever I could, fer ye see I thought 'twas a live man. An' Jimmy he see it too, an' turned round to me with an awful scart face, fer he thought sure he'd be run over.

But I began to see 'twan't any flesh-and-blood man afore the train come to a stop, fer it seemed to glide right along over the track, keepin' jest about so fer ahead of us all the time.

"It's a ghost," cried Jimmy, a grabbin' me by the arm. "You can see right through him."

An' we could!

Yes, sir, we could. When I come to notice it, the figger ahead of us was a kind of foggy-lookin' thing, and only half hid anything that was behind it. But it was jest as much like a man as you be, an' you'd a said the same thing if you'd a seen it.

The train stopped. An' then, sir, what d'ye think happened?

Well sir, that thing just grew thinner an' thinner, till it seemed to blend right in with the fog that was all around it, and the fust we knew 'twas gone!

"It was a ghost!" said Jimmy, in a whisper. "I knew somethin' was a-goin' to happen, 'cause I felt so queer like."

They come a crowdin' up to find why I'd stopped the train, an' I swear I never felt so kind o' queer an' foolish as I did when I told 'em what I'd seen 'cause I knew they didn't b'leeve in ghosts, most likely, an' they'd think I was drunk or crazy.

66

He see it, too," sez I, a pointin' to Jimmy.

"Yes, 'fore God, I did," sez Jimmy, solemn as if he was a witness on the stand.

"This is a pretty how-d'ye-do," sez the conductor, who didn't b'leeve we'd seen anything. "I'm surprised at you, Connell; I thought you was a man o' sense."

see.

"I thought so, too," sez I, "but I can't help what I If I was a dyin' this minnit I'd swear I see a man on the track, or leastwise the ghost of one. I thought 'twas a real man when I whistled."

"An' so would I," sez Jimmy.

The conductor couldn't help scein' that we was in earnest, an' b'leeved what we said.

"Take a lantern an' go along the track," sez he, to some o' the men.

An' they did. An' what d'ye s'pose they found?

Well, sir, they found the rails all tore up jest at the spot where the train would a shot over the bluff into the river if it had gone on!

Yes, sir; they found that, an' I tell you there was some pretty solemn lookin' faces when it got among the passengers how near we'd been to death.

"I never b'leeved in ghosts," sez the conductor, "but I b'leeve you see somethin', Connell, an' you've saved a precious lot o' lives. That's a sure thing."

Well, sir, they went to huntin' round, an' they found a lot o' tools an' things that the men who'd tore up the rails had left in a hurry, when they found the train wasn't goin' over the bluff as they'd expected. An' they found, too, when it come light, the body o' the man whose business it was to see to the curve, where it had been hid away after bein' murdered. An' that man was the man whose ghost we had seen.

Yes, sir. He'd come to warn us o' the danger ahead after the men had killed him an' was a-waitin' for us to go over the rocks to destruction. An' he'd saved us.

I found out afterward that there was a lot o' money on board, an' I s'pose the men who tore up the track knew it. So that's my ghost story, an' it's a true one, sir.

KENTUCKY PHILOSOPHY.-HARRISON ROBERTSON. You Wi'yam, cum 'ere, suh, dis instunce. Wu' dat you got under dat box?

I do' want no foolin'-you hear me? Wut you say? Ain't nu'b'n but rocks?

'Pealis ter me you's owdashus p'ticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine.

I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline?

I calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed:

It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road.

You stole it, you rascal-you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot.

En time I gets th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease spot!

I'll fix you. Mirandy! Mirandy! go cut me a hick'ry-make 'ase!

En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place.

I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yam Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie,

you young sinner,

Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner!

Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'f sur? I is. I's 'shamed

you's my son!

En de holy accorjan angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done;

En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red let

ters

"One water-million stoled by Wi'yam Josephus Vetters."

En wut you s'posen Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school,

'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule?

Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun?

I's s'prised dat a chile er yo' mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million.

En I's now gwiner cut it right open, en you shain have nary bite,

Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions-en dat in de day's broad light

Ain't-Lawdy! it's green! Mirandy! Mi-ran-dy! comen wi' dat switch!

Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever yoered tell er des sich?

Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y, you thump 'um, en we'n dey go pank dey is green;

But wen dey go punk, now you mine me, dey's ripe-en dat's des wut I mean.

En nex' time you hook water-millions-you heered me, you ign'ant, you hunk,

Ef you do' want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk!"

-Ha.per's Magazine.

AT FREDERICKSBURG.-DEC. 13, 1862.
JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

God send us peace, and keep red strife away;
But should it come, God send us men and steel!
The land is dead that dare not face the day

When foreign danger threats the common weal.
Defenders strong are they that homes defend;

From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar.
Well blest the country that has sons to lend
From trades of peace to learn the trade of war.
Co*

Thrice blest the nation that has every son

A soldier, ready for the warning sound;
Who marches homeward when the fight is done,
To swing the hammer and to till the ground.
Call back that morning, with its lurid light,

When through our land the awful war-bell tolled;
When lips were mute, and women's faces white

As the pale cloud that out from Sumter rolled.
Call back that morn: an instant all were dumb,
As if the shot had struck the Nation's life;
Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the calling drum,
And men streamed in to meet the coming strife.
They closed the ledger and they stilled the loom,
The plough left rusting in the prairie farm;
They saw but "Union" in the gathering gloom;
The tearless women helped the men to arm;
Brigades from towns,-each village sent its band:
German and Irish, every race and faith;
There was no question then of native land,

But-love the Flag and follow it to death.
No need to tell their tale: through every age
The splendid story shall be sung and said;
But let me draw one picture from the page,

For words of song embalm the hero dead.

The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are planted,
Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow;
The word has been passed that the stormers are wanted,
And Burnside's battalions are mustering now.

The armies stand by to behold the dread meeting;
The work must be done by a desperate few;

The black mouthed guns on the height give them greeting,
From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade in view.

Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles behind them Are Georgia militia,-an Irish brigade;

Their caps have green badges, as if to remind them

Of all the brave record their country has made.

The stormers go forward,-the Federals cheer them;

They breast the smooth hillside,-the black mouths are dumb;