They came, of course, at their master’s call,
   The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all;
   He led the hags to a railway train
   The horses were trying to drag in vain. 
   “Now, then,” says he, “you’ve had your fun,
   And here are the cars you’ve got to run.

   “The driver may just unhitch his team,
   We don’t want horses, we don’t want steam;
   You may keep your old black cats to hug,
   But the loaded train you’ve got to lug.”

   Since then on many a car you’ll see
   A broomstick plain as plain can be;
   On every stick there’s a witch astride,
   The string you see to her leg is tied. 
   She will do a mischief if she can,
   But the string is held by a careful man,
   And whenever the evil-minded witch
   Would cut come caper, he gives a twitch. 
   As for the hag, you can’t see her,
   But hark! you can hear her black cat’s purr,
   And now and then, as a car goes by,
   You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye.

   Often you’ve looked on a rushing train,
   But just what moved it was not so plain. 
   It couldn’t be those wires above,
   For they could neither pull nor shove;
   Where was the motor that made it go
   You couldn’t guess, but now you know.

   Remember my rhymes when you ride again
   On the rattling rail by the broomstick train!

X

In my last report of our talks over the teacups I had something to say of the fondness of our people for titles.  Where did the anti-republican, anti-democratic passion for swelling names come from, and how long has it been naturalized among us?

A striking instance of it occurred at about the end of the last century.  It was at that time there appeared among us one of the most original and singular personages to whom America has given birth.  Many of our company,—­many of my readers,—­all well acquainted with his name, and not wholly ignorant of his history.  They will not object to my giving some particulars relating to him, which, if not new to them, will be new to others into whose hands these pages may fall.

Timothy Dexter, the first claimant of a title of nobility among the people of the United States of America, was born in the town of Malden, near Boston.  He served an apprenticeship as a leather-dresser, saved some money, got some more with his wife, began trading and speculating, and became at last rich, for those days.  His most famous business enterprise was that of sending an invoice of warming-pans to the West Indies.  A few tons of ice would have seemed to promise a better return; but in point of fact, he tells us, the warming-pans were found useful in the manufacture of sugar, and brought him in a handsome profit.  His ambition rose with his fortune.  He purchased a large and stately house in Newburyport, and proceeded to embellish and furnish it according