The fast ones doing "all they know."
Look! twice they follow at his heels,
As round the circling course he wheels,
And whirls with him that clinging boy
Like Hector round the walls of Troy.
Still on, and on, the third time round!
They're tailing off! they're losing ground!
Budd Doble's nag begins to fail!

Dan Pfeiffer's sorrel whisks his tail!
And see in spite of whip and shout,
Old Hiram's mare is giving out!
Now for the finish! At the turn,
The old horse all the rest astern
Comes swinging in, with easy trot;
By Jove! he's distanced all the lot!
That trot no mortal could explain;

Some said, "Old Dutchman come again!

Some took his time, at least, they tried,

But what it was could none decide;
One said he couldn't understand
What happen'd to his second-hand;
One said 2:10; that couldn't be,
More like two twenty-two or three;
Old Hiram settled it at last :

"The time was two,

too mighty fast!"

The parson's horse had won the bet;
It cost him something of a sweat;
Back in the one-horse shay he went.
The parson wonder'd what it meant,
And murmur'd, with a mild surprise
And pleasant twinkle of the eyes,
"That funeral must have been a trick,
Or corpses drive at double quick;
I shouldn't wonder, I declare,

If Brother Murray made the prayer!

99

And this is all I have to say

About the parson's poor old bay,

The same that drew the one-horse shay.

Moral for which this tale is told:

A horse can trot, for all he's old.

TOM'S LITTLE STAR.

FANNY FOSTER.

SWEET Mary, pledged to Tom, was fair
And graceful, young and slim:
Tom loved her truly, and one dare
Be sworn that she loved him;
For, twisting bashfully the ring
That seal'd the happy fiat,

She coo'd," When married in the Spring
Dear Tom, let's live so quiet!

Let's have our pleasant little place,
Our books, a friend or two;

No noise, no crowd, but just your face

For me, and mine for you.

Won't that be nice!"

66

It is my own

Idea," said Tom, "so chary,

So deep and true, my love has grown,
I worship you, my Mary."

She was a tender, nestling thing,
A girl that loved her home,
A sort of dove with folded wing,
A bird not made to roam,
But gently rest her little claw

(The simile to carry)

Within a husband's stronger paw,

The very girl to marry.

Their courtship was a summer sea,
So smooth, so bright, so calm,
Till one day Mary restlessly
Endured Tom's circling arm,
And look'd as if she thought or plann❜d,
Her satin forehead wrinkled,

She beat a tattoo on his hand,

Her eyes were strange and twinkled.

She never heard Tom's fond remarks,
His "sweety-tweety dear,"

Or noticed once the little larks

He play'd to make her hear.

"What ails," he begg'd, "my petsy pet?

What ails my love, I wonder?"

"Do not be trifling, Tom.

I've met

Professor Shakespeare Thunder."

"Thunder! said Tom; "and who is he?" "You goose! why, don't you know?"

"I don't.

She never frown'd at me,

Or call'd me goose. And though,"

66

Thought Tom, it may be playfulness,
It racks my constitution."

66

Why, Thunder teaches with success
Dramatic elocution."

"O! Ah!

Indeed! and what is that?

My notion is but faint."

"It's art," said Mary, brisk and pat.
Tom thought that "art" meant paint.
"You blundering boy! why, art is just
What makes one stare and wonder.

To understand high art you must
Hear Shakespeare read by Thunder.”

Tom started at the turn of phrase;

It sounded like a swear.

Then Mary said, to his amaze,
With nasal groan and glare,

To be or-r

- not to be?'" And fain

To act discreet yet gallant,

He ask'd, "Dear, have you any-pain?"

66

"O, no, Tom; I have talent.

Professor Thunder told me so;

He sees it in my eye;

He says my tones and gestures show
My destiny is high."

Said Tom, for Mary's health afraid,

His ignorance revealing,

“Is talent, dear, that noise you made?' "Why, no; that's Hamlet's feeling."

92

"He must have felt most dreadful bad."
"The character is mystic,"
Mary explain'd, "and very sad,
And very high artistic.

And you are not; you're commonplace;
These things are far above you."
"I'm only," spoke Tom's honest face,
"Artist enough—to love you."

From that time forth was Mary changed;
Her eyes stretch'd open wide;

Her smooth fair hair in friz arranged,

And parted on the side.

More and more strange she grew,

Incapable of taking

and quite

The slightest notice how each night
She set Tom's poor heart aching.

As once he left her at the door,

"A thousand times good-night," Sigh'd Mary, sweet as ne'er before.

Poor Tom revived, look'd bright.

66

Mary," ," he said, "you love me so? We have not grown asunder?" "Do not be silly, Tom; you know I'm studying with Thunder.

That's from the famous Juliet scene.

I'll do another bit."

Quoth Tom, " I don't know what you mean."

"Then listen; this is it:

Anon, good nurse. Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.'

Now, Tom, say 'blesséd, blesséd night!'
Said Tom, with hesitation,

"B-blesséd night."

99

"Pshaw! that's not right;

You've no appreciation."

At Tom's next call he heard up-stairs
A laugh most loud and coarse;
Then Mary, knocking down the chairs,
Came prancing like a horse.

"Ha ha! ha! Well, Governor, how are ye? I've been down five times, climbing up

your stairs in my long clothes.'

That's comedy," she said.

Said Tom.

"You're mad,"

"Mad!' Ha! Ophelia !

'They bore him barefaced on his bier,

And on his grave rain'd many a tear,''
She chanted, very wild and sad;

Then whisk'd off on Emilia :
"You told a lie, an odious, fearful lie;
Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.'"

She glared and howl'd two murder-scenes,
And mouth'd a new French rôle,

Where luckily the graceful miens

Hid the disgraceful soul.

She wept, she danced, she

sang,

she

swore,