Look how the upland plunges into cover,

Green where the pines fade sullenly away.

Wonderful those olive depths! and wonderful, moreover—

SECOND TOURIST.

The red dust that rises in a suffocating way.

FIRST TOURIST.

Small is the soul that cannot soar above it,

Cannot but cling to its ever-kindred clay:
Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love it-

SECOND TOURIST.

Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of prey.

Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner

That on our stomachs would comfortably stay; Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner, That must confront us at closing of the day:

Then might you sing like Theocritus or Virgil,
Then might we each make a metrical essay;
But verse just now-I must protest and urge-ill
Fits a digestion by travel led astray.

CHORUS OF PASSENGERS.

Speed, Yuba Bill! oh, speed us to our dinner!
Speed to the sunset that beckons far away.

SECOND TOURIST.

William of Yuba, O son of Nimshi, hearken!

Check thy profanity, but not thy chariot's play.

Tell us, O William, before the shadows darken,
Where, and, oh! how shall we dine? O William, say!

YUBA BILL.

It ain't my fault, nor the Kumpeney's I reckon,
Ye can't get ez square meal ez any on the Bay,
Up at yon place, whar the senset 'pears to beckon—
Ez thet sharp allows in his airy sort o' way.
Thar woz a place wor yer hash ye might hev wrestled,
Kept by a woman ez chipper ez a jay—

Warm in her breast all the morning sunshine nestled ;
Red on her cheeks all the evening's sunshine lay.

SECOND TOURIST.

Praise is but breath, O chariot-compeller!

Yet of that hash we would bid you farther say.

YUBA BILL.

Thar woz a snipe-like you, a fancy tourist-
Kem to that ranch ez if to make a stay,
Ran off the gal, and ruined jist the purist
Critter that lived—

Inside there's a lady! Remember! No affray !

YUBA BILL.

Ef that man lives, the fault ain't mine or his'n.

STRANGER.

Wait for the sunset that beckons far away,

Then as you will! But, meantime, friends, believe me, Nowhere on earth lives a purer woman; nay,

If my perceptions do surely not deceive me,

She is the lady we have inside to-day.

As for the man-you see that blackened pine tree,

Up which the green vine creeps heavenward away!

He was that scarred trunk, and she the vine that sweetly Clothed him with life again, and lifted—

SECOND TOURIST.

Yes; but pray

How know you this?

STRANGER.

She's my wife.

YUBA BILL.

The h-ll you say!

WHAT THE CHIMNEY SANG.

Over the chimney the night-wind sang

And chanted a melody no one knew ;

And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed,
And thought of the one she had long since lost,
And said, as her tear-drops back she forced,
"I hate the wind in the chimney."

Over the chimney the night-wind sang

And chanted a melody no one knew;

And the Children said, as they closer drew,

“'Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night through,—

'Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew,

And we fear the wind in the chimney."

Over the chimney the night-wind sang

And chanted a melody no one knew ;
And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below,
Said to himself, "It will surely snow,

And fuel is dear and wages low,

And I'll stop the leak in the chimney."

Over the chimney the night-wind sang

And chanted a melody no one knew;
But the Poet listened and smiled, for he
Was Man, and Woman, and Child, all three,
And said, "It is God's own harmony,

This wind we hear in the chimney."

J. W. Higginson

DECORATION.

"MANIBUS DATE LILIA PLENIS."

Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand
Bearing lilies in my hand.

Comrades! in what soldier-grave

Sleeps the bravest of the brave?

Is it he who sank to rest

With his colors round his breast?
Friendship makes his tomb a shrine;
Garlands veil it; ask not mine.

One low grave, yon trees beneath,
Bears no roses, wears no wreath :
Yet no heart more high and warm

Ever dared the battle-storm;

Never gleamed a prouder eye

In the front of victory,

Never foot had firmer tread

On the field where hope lay dead,

Than are hid within this tomb,

Where the untended grasses bloom;

And no stone, with feign'd distress,
Mocks the sacred loneliness.