Ay, this is the language of one and all:
"I am so strong that I never shall fall,
I am so firm that I need no prop,
I can go as far as I will, and stop."
Here is a warning--oh heed it well!
What has rum done? I cannot tell.
Only for him, it has blighted his youth,
Blasted his manhood, honor and truth.
Only a past, that once was bright;
Only a future, as dark as night;

Only a wreck of mind within;

Only one heart that was broken for him,-
Broken for "Somebody's darling."

THE OLD SOLDIER TRAMP.-JOAQUIN MILLER.

Yes, bread! I want bread! You heard what I said;
Yet you stand and you stare,

As if never before came a tramp to your door
With such insolent air.

Would I work? Never learned.-My home it was burned;
And I haven't yet found

Any heart to plough lands and build homes for red hands
That burned mine to the ground.

No bread! you have said?-Then my curse on your head!
And what shall sting worse,

On that wife at your side, on those babes in their pride,
Fall my seven-fold curse!

Good-bye! I must l'arn to creep into your barn;

Suck your eggs; hide away;

Sneak around like a hound, light a match in your hay,

Limp away through the gray!

Yes, I limp-curse these stones! And then my old bones,
They were riddled with ball

Down at Shiloh. What you? You war wounded thar too?
Wall, you beat us-that's all.

Yet even my heart with its stout pride will start

As I tramp. For you see,

No matter which won, it was gallantly done,

And a glorious American victory.

What, kind words and bread? God's smiles on your head?
On your wife, on your babes!—and please, sir, I pray
You'll pardon me, sir; but that fight trenched me here,
Deep-deeper than sword-cut, that day.

Nay, I'll go. Sir, adieu! Tu Tityre
Have Augustus for friend,

* * *

You

While I-yes, read and speak both Latin and Greek;
And talk slang without end.

Hey? Oxford. But, then, when the wild cry for men
Rang out through the gathering night,

As a mother that cries for her children, and dies,

We two hurried home for the fight.

How noble, my brother! how brave-and- but there-
This tramping about somehow weakens my eyes.
At Shiloh! We stood 'neath that hill by the wood-
It's a graveyard to-day, I surmise.

Yes, we stood to the last! And when the strife passed
I sank down in blood at his side,

On his brow, on his breast-what need tell the rest?
I but knew that my brother had died.

What! wounds on your breast? Your brow tell the rest?
You fought at my side and you fell?

You the brave boy that stood at my side in that wood,

On that blazing red border of hell?

My brother! My own! Never king on his throne
Knew a joy like this brought to me,

God bless you, my life; bless your brave Northern wife
And your beautiful babes, two and three.

AS THE PIGEON FLIES.-C. B. LEWIS.

Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z! A monster of iron, steel and brass, standing on the slim iron rails which shoot away from the station for half a mile and then lose themselves in a green forest.

Puff-puff! The driving wheels slowly turn, the monster breathes great clouds of steam and seems anxious for the race.

A grizzly-haired engineer looks down from the cab.

window, while his fireman pulls back the iron door and heaves in more wood,-more breath and muscle for the grim giant of the track.

The fire roars and crackles-the steam hisses and growls; every breath is drawn as fiercely as if the giant was burning to revenge an insult.

Up-up-up! The pointer on the steam-gauge moves faster than the minute-hand on a clock. The breathing becomes louder-the hiss rises to a scream-the iron rails tremble and quiver.

"Climb up!"

It is going to be a race against time and the telegraph. S-s-s-sh!

The engineer rose up, looked ahead, glanced at the dial, and as his fingers clasped the throttle he asked the station-agent:

"Are you sure that the track is clear?"

"All clear!" was the answer.

The throttle feels the pull, the giant utters a fierce scream, and we are off, I on the fireman's seat, the fireman on the wood. The rails slide under us slowly---faster, and the giant screams again and dashes into the forest.

This isn't fast. The telegraph poles dance past as if not over thirty feet apart, and the board fence seems to rise from the ground, but it's only thirty-five miles an hour.

"Wood!"

The engineer takes his eyes off the track and turns just long enough to speak the word to his fireman. The iron door swings back, and there is an awful rush and roar of flame. The fire-box appears full, but stick after stick is dropped into the roaring pit until a quarter of a cord has disappeared.

"This is forty miles an hour!" shouts the fireman in my ear as he rubs the moisture from his heated face.

Yes, this is faster. The fence posts seem to leap from the ground as we dash along, and the telegraph poles bend and nod to us. A house-a field-a farm-we

get but one glance. A dozen houses-a hundred faces— that was a station. We heard a yell from the crowd, but it had scarcely reached us before it was drowned in the great roar.

Nine miles in fourteen minutes, we've lost time! The engineer takes his eyes from the rail, makes a motion to his fireman, and the sticks drop into the roaring flames again, to make new flames.

Seven miles of clear track now, and the engineer smiles a grim smile as he lets more steam into the giant's lungs.

Ah! Not a mile a minute yet, but how we shake from side to side, how the tender leaps and bounds! Is there a fence skirting the track? There is a dark line keeping pace with us, it may be a fence. Where are the telegraph poles? Were all those trees falling toward the track as we dashed through the bit of forest?

A yell-houses-faces-that was another station. Word has gone down the line that a "wild" locomotive is rushing a journalist across the country to catch the lightning express on another road, and the people gather to see us dash past. Seven miles in eight and a half minutes, that's better, but we must run faster!

The finger on the dial creeps slowly up-we want a reserve of steam for the last twelve of road,-the best track of all.

The noise is deafening, the swaying and bumping is terrible. I hang fast to the seat-clutch, cling, and yet it seems as if I must be shaken to the floor.

Every moment there is a scream from the whistle; every two or three minutes the engineer makes a gesture which calls for the iron door to be opened and the roaring, leaping flames to be fed anew.

Houses-faces-a yell! That was another station. We made the last five miles in six minutes. Did you ever ride a mile in one minute and twelve seconds? But we were to beat it,

Like a bird-like an arrow-like a bullet almost, we speed forward. Half a dozen men beside the track,section men with their hand-car. They lift their hats and yell, but their voices do not reach us. We pass them as lightning flashes through the heavens. That was a farm-house. We saw nothing but a white object— a green spot-two or three apple trees where there was a large orchard.

Scream!
Hiss!

Roar!

Shake-quiver-bound!

We are going to stop,-going to halt for an instant at a station to see if the track is clear for the rush, for a mile a minute, and faster!

Scream! Scream!

The station is a mile ahead-it is beside us! The fireman leaps down with his oil-can, the engineer enters the telegraph office. Both are back in fifteen seconds. Twelve and a half miles to go, twelve minutes in which to make it.

"We can do it!" said the engineer. "Hold fast now! We have been running-we are going to fly!"

Scream!

66

Good-bye!"

As a mad horse runs, as an arrow is sent, as a carrier-pigeon flies! Yes, this is a mile a minute! Fences? No-only a black line, hardly larger than my pencil! Trees? No-only one tree, ail merged into one single tree, which was out of sight in a flash. Fields? Yes-one broad field, broken for an instant by a highway, a gray thread lying on the ground! It is terrible! If we should leave the rails! don't think of it! Hold fast!

If but

Eight miles in eight minutes, not a second more or less! The lightning travels faster-so does a locomotive! Four and a half miles to go, four minutes to make it! We must run a mile every fifty-three seconds.