day,
    And that is what we said
  Ez we looked upon the piteous face
    Uv Marthy’s younkit dead;
  But for his mother sobbin’
    The house wuz very still,
  And Sorry Tom wuz lookin’ through
    The winder down the hill
  To the patch beneath the hemlocks
    Where his darlin’ used to play,
  And the mountain brook sung lonesomelike
    And loitered on its way.

  A preacher come from Roarin’ Forks
    To comfort ’em ’nd pray,
  And all the camp wuz present
    At the obsequies next day,
  A female teacher staged it twenty miles
    To sing a hymn,
  And we jined her in the chorus—­
    Big, husky men ’nd grim
  Sung “Jesus, Lover uv my Soul,”
    And then the preacher prayed
  And preacht a sermon on the death
    Uv that fair blossom laid
  Among them other flow’rs he loved—­
    Which sermon set sech weight
  On sinners bein’ always heelt
    Against the future state
  That, though it had been fash’nable
    To swear a perfect streak,
  There warnt no swearin’ in the camp
    For pretty nigh a week!

  Last thing uv all, six strappin’ men
    Took up the little load
  And bore it tenderly along
    The windin’ rocky road
  To where the coroner had dug
    A grave beside the brook—­
  In sight uv Marthy’s winder, where
    The same could set and look
  And wonder if his cradle in
    That green patch long ’nd wide
  Wuz ez soothin’ ez the cradle that
    Wuz empty at her side;
  And wonder of the mournful songs
    The pines wuz singin’ then
  Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies
    She’d never sing again;
  And if the bosom uv the earth
    In which he lay at rest
  Wuz half ez lovin’ ’nd ez warm
    Ez wuz his mother’s breast.

  The camp is gone, but Red Hoss mountain
    Rears its kindly head
  And looks down sort uv tenderly,
    Upon its cherished dead;
  And I reckon that, through all the years
    That little boy wich died
  Sleeps sweetly ’nd contentedly
    Upon the mountain-side;
  That the wild flowers of the summer time
    Bend down their heads to hear
  The footfall uv a little friend they
    Know not slumbers near;
  That the magpies on the sollum rocks
    Strange flutterin’ shadders make. 
  And the pines ’nd hemlocks wonder that
    The sleeper doesn’t wake;
  That the mountain brook sings lonesomelike
    And loiters on its way
  Ez if it waited f’r a child
    To jine it in its play.

ABU MIDJAN.

  “When Father Time swings round his scythe,
    Intomb me ’neath the bounteous vine,
  So that its juices, red and blithe,
    May cheer these thirsty bones of mine.

  “Elsewise with tears and bated breath
    Should I survey the life to be. 
  But oh!  How should I hail the death
    That brings that vinous grace to me!”