After these preliminary remarks, I shall proceed with the discussion of the subject in my next letter.
R.J. WALKER.
VOICELESS SINGERS.
A bird is singing in the leaves
That quiver on yon linden
tree;
So soft and clear the song he sings,
The roses listen dreamily.
The crimson buds in clusters cling;
The full, sweet roses blush
with bloom;
And, white as ocean’s swaying foam,
The lily trembles from the
gloom.
I know not why that happy strain
That dies so softly on the
air,
That perfect utterance of joy,
Has left a strange, dim sadness
there.
Perchance the song, so silver-sweet,
The roses’ regal blossoms
shrine:
Perchance the bending lily droops,
And trembles, ’neath
its thrill divine.
It may be that all beauteous things,
Though lacking music’s
perfect key,
Have with their inmost being twined
The hidden chords of melody.
So pine they all, to hear again
The song they know, but cannot
sing;
The living utterance, full and clear,
Whose voiceless breathings
round them cling.
Yet still those accents waken not;
The bird has left the linden
tree;
A summer silence falls once more
Upon the listening rose and
me.
A DETECTIVE’S STORY.
The following is a true story, by a late well-known member of the Detective service, and, with, the exception of some names of persons and places, is given precisely as he himself related it.
Late one Friday afternoon, in the latter part of November, 18—, I was sent for by the chief of the New York Police, and was told there was a case for me. It was a counterfeiting affair. Notes had been forged on a Pennsylvania bank; two men had been apprehended, and were in custody. The first, Springer, had turned State’s evidence on his accomplice; who, according to his account, was the prime mover in the business. This man, Daniel Hawes by name, had transferred the notes to a third party, of whom nothing had been ascertained except that he was a young man, wrote a beautiful hand, and had been in town the Monday before. He was the man I was to catch.