CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN.

61

CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN.

MAX ADELER.

FIND that one of the most serious objections to living out of town lies in the difficulty experienced in catching the early morning train by which I must reach the city and my business. It is by no means a pleasant matter, under any circumstances, to have one's movements regulated by a time-table, and to be obliged to rise to breakfast and to leave home at a certain hour, no matter how strong the temptation to delay may be. But sometimes the horrible punctuality of the train is productive of absolute suffering. For instance: I look at my watch when I get out of bed and find that I have apparently plenty of time, so I dress leisurely, and sit down to the morning meal in a frame of mind which is calm and serene. Just as I crack my first egg I hear the down train from Wilmington. I start in alarm; and taking out my watch I compare it with the clock and find that it is eleven minutes slow, and that I have only five minutes left in which to get to the depot.

I endeavor to scoop the egg from the shell, but it burns my fingers, the skin is tough, and after struggling with it for a moment, it mashes into a hopeless mass. I drop it in disgust and seize a roll; while I scald my tongue with a quick mouthful of coffee. Then I place the roll in my mouth while my wife hands me my satchel and tells me she thinks she hears the whistle. I plunge madly around looking for my umbrella, then I kiss the family good-by as well as I can with a mouth full of roll, and dash toward the door.

Just as I get to the gate I find that I have forgotten my duster and the bundle my wife wanted me to take up to the city to her aunt. Charging back, I snatch them up and tear down the gravel-walk in a frenzy. I do not like to run through the village: it is undignified and it attracts attention; but I walk furiously. I go faster and faster as I get away from the main street. When half the distance is accomplished, I actually do hear the whistle; there can be no doubt about it this time. I long to run, but I know that if I do I will excite that abominable speckled dog sitting by the sidewalk a little distance ahead of me. Then I really see the train coming around the curve close by the depot, and I feel that I must make better time; and I do. The dog immediately manifests an interest in my movements. He tears down the street after me, and is speedily joined by five or six other dogs, which frolic about my legs and bark furiously. Sundry small boys as I go plunging past, contribute to the excitement by whistling

62

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

with their fingers, and the men who are at work upon the new meetinghouse stop to look at me and exchange jocular remarks with each other. I do feel ridiculous; but I must catch that train at all hazards.

I become desperate when I have to slacken my pace until two or three women who are standing upon the sidewalk, discussing the infamous price of butter, scatter to let me pass. I arrive within a few yards of the station with my duster flying in the wind, with my coat tails in a horizontal position, and with the speckled dog nipping my heels, just as the train begins to move. I put on extra pressure, resolving to get the train or perish, and I reach it just as the last car is going by. I seize the handrail; I am jerked violently around, but finally, after a desperate effort, I get upon the step with my knees, and am hauled in by the brakeman, hot, dusty and mad, with my trousers torn across the knees, my legs bruised and three ribs of my umbrella broken.

Just as I reach a comfortable seat in the car, the train stops, and then backs up on the siding, where it remains for half an hour while the engineer repairs a dislocated valve. The anger which burns in my bosom as I reflect upon what now is proved to have been the folly of that race is increased as I look out of the window and observe the speckled dog engaged with his companions in an altercation over a bone. A man who permits his dog to roam about the streets nipping the legs of every one who happens to go at a more rapid gait than a walk, is unfit for association with civilized beings. He ought to be placed on a desert island in midocean, and be compelled to stay there.

THE SNOW-STORM.

63

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest-
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But, Oh! they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary-
My blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow

I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Tho' you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break-
When the hunger pain was gnawing there,
And you did it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore-
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you darling,

In the land I'm going to;

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there-
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side,

And the springing corn, and the bright May

morn

When first you were my bride.

THE SNOW-STORM.

EMERSON.

NNOUNCED by all the trumpets of
the sky,

Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er
the fields,

Come see the north-wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof

Seems nowhere to alight; the whited Round every windward stake or tree or door;
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work,

air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the So fanciful, so savage; naught cares he

heaven,

And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet

For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall

Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate

sit

Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the

world