OLD GRANDPA'S SOLILOQUY.

OLD GRANDPA'S SOLILOQUY.

It wasn't so when I was young-
We used plain language then;
We didn't speak of "them galoots,"
Meanin' boys or men.

When speaking of the nice hand-write
Of Joe, or Tom, or Bill,
We did it plain-we didn't say,
"He slings a nasty quill."

An' when we saw a girl we liked,
Who never failed to please,
We called her pretty, neat, and good,
But not "about the cheese."

Well, when we met a good old friend
We hadn't lately seen,

We greeted him, but didn't say,
"Hello, you old sardine!"

The boys sometimes got mad an' fit;
We spoke of kicks and blows;
But now they "whack him on the snoot,"
Or "paste him on the nose."

Once when a youth was turned away
By her he held most dear,

He walked upon his feet-but now
He "walks off on his ear."

We used to dance when I was young,
And used to call it so;

But now they don't-they only "sling

The light fantastic toe."

Of death we spoke in language plain
That no one did perplex;

But in these days one doesn't die—
He "passes in his checks."

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We praised the man of common sense; "His judgment's good," we said

But now they say: "Well, that old plum Has got a level head."

It's rather sad the children now

Are learnin' all such talk;

They've learned to "chin" instead of chat,

An' "waltz" instead of walk.

To little Harry yesterday

My grandchild, aged two

I said, "You love grandpa?" said he, "You bet your boots I do."

The children bowed to a stranger once;

It is no longer so—

The little girl, as well as boys,

Now greets you with "Helloa!"

Oh, give me back the good old days, When both the old and young Conversed in plain, old-fashioned words, And slang was never "slung."

THE GALLANT BRAKEMAN.

DUST-GRIMED features, weather-beaten,
Hands that show the scars of toil,
Do you envy him his station,

Patient tiller of the soil?

In the storms or in the sunshine

He must mount the speeding train, Ride outside at post of duty,

Heeding not the drenching rain.

In the pleasant summer weather,
Standing on the car-top high,
He can view the changing landscapes
As he rushes swiftly by;

THE GALLANT BRAKEMAN.

While notes this beauteous picture
Which the lonely landscape makes;
Suddenly across his dreaming

Comes the quick shrill cry for brakes.

But when winter's icy fingers

Cover earth with snowy shroud,
And the north wind, like a mad-man,
Pushing on with shrieking loud;
Then behold the gallant brakeman
Spring to heed the engine's call,
Running over the icy car-top-
God protect him if he fall.

Do not scorn to greet him kindly,
He will give you smile for smile,
Tho' he's nothing but a brakeman,
Do not deem him surely vile;
Speak to him in kindly language,

Tho' his clothes are coarse and plain,

In his fearless bosom, beats a

Heart that feels both joy and pain.

He may have a widowed mother,
He may be her only joy,
Mayhap in her home she's praying
For the safety of her boy;
How he loves that dear old mother,
Toiling for her day by day,
Always bringing her some present
Every time he draws his pay.

Daily facing death and danger,
One misstep or slip of hand
Sends the poor unlucky brakeman
To the dreaded unknown land;
When we scan our ev'ning paper,
Note what its filled columns say,
One brief line attracts our notice,
One more brakeman killed to-day.

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In her little lonely cottage,
Waiting in the waning light,
Sits the luckless brakeman's mother,
She expects her boy to-night;
Some one brings the fatal message,
God have mercy! hear her pray,
As she reads the fearful story-
Killed while coupling cars to-day.

RETROSPECT.

IT has been said, and sadly oft repeated,

That pleasure's parting draught is always pain;
Yet, who has drunk, and finding he was cheated,
Has never once returned to drink again?

Who has not, looking backward, broken-hearted,
When all life's joys have bitter grown as gall,
Sighed for blissful dreams long since departed,
Or wept because he'd ever dreamed at all?

And who, when dim years, like towering mountains,
Have hidden quite forever from his view
The effervescent gleams of pleasure's fountains,
Would not their fleeting shadows still pursue?

PLANTATION PROVERBS.

SPEC' dars poor-off colored darkies up in heben white as snow, Spec' dars lots of likely niggas buckin' cordwood down below.

Nebber steer a midnight journey by de screamin' ob de loonNeber spec' ter prove yer beauty by a tussel wid de moon.

Ef yo' coat is las' year's pattern, plod erlong an' nebber min', Dar's a pile ob healthy growin' in de humbly punkin vine.

A VOICE FROM THE POORHOUSE.

Allus sabe de dryes' field corn fur de grindin' at de mill;
Allus sabe yo' stronges' breathin' fur de journey up de hill.

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Nebber harness up de sto' clerk ter pull frough de fiel' han's part; When yo' spec' ter tote de firewood use de common punkin cart.

A VOICE FROM THE POORHOUSE.

"My dear friends," the doctor said, "I favor license for selling

rum,

These fanatics tell us with horror of the mischief liquor has done. I say, as a man an' physician, the system's requirements is such, That unless we at times assist nature the body and mind suffer much.

'Tis a blessing when worn out and weary, a moderate drink now and then."

From the minister in the pulpit came an audible murmur "Amen." ""Tis true that many have fallen, became filthy drunkards and

worse,

Harmed others? No, I don't uphold them. They made their blessing a curse.

Must I be denied for their sinning? Must the weak ones govern the race?

Why, every good thing God has given is only a curse out of place. It's only excess that destroys us. A little is good now and then." From the white-haired, pious old deacon came a fervent loud spoken "Amen!

Then a murmur arose up from the people from amidst that listening throng,

They had come from their homes with a purpose to crush out and trample out wrong.

But their time-honored, worthy physician, grown portly in person

and purse,

Had shown in the demon of darkness a blessing instead of a curse; And now they were eager, impatient, to vote when the moment

should come;

They felt it their right and their duty to license the selling of rum.