I was runnin' the Git-There Express, sir, On the Yankee Creek Jerkwater line.

An' the track along there was as crooked, I swear, As the growth of a field pumpkin vine.

My run was a night one, an' nights on the Yank War as black as the coal piled back there on the tank.

We pulled out of Tenderfoot Station, A day and almost a-half late, An' every durn wheel was a-poundin' the steel At a wildly extravagant rate.

My fireman kept pilin' the coal in The jaws of the ol' 94, Till the sweat from his nose seemed to play through a hose An' splashed 'round his feet on the floor, As we thundered along like a demon in flight, A-rippin' a streak through the breast of the night.

As we rounded the curve on the mountain, Full sixty an hour I will swear, Jest ahead was a sight that with blood-freezin' fright Would have raised a stuffed buffalo's hair.

The bridge over Ute Creek was burnin', The flames shootin' up in their glee; My G.o.d! how they gleamed in the air, till they seemed Like the fiery-tongued imps on a spree-- Jest snickered an' sparkled an' laughed like they knowed I'd make my next trip on a different road.

In frenzy I reached for the throttle, But 'twas stuck an' refused to obey.

I yelled in affright, for our maddenin' flight I felt that I never could stay.

Then wildly I grasped the big lever, Threw her over, then held my hot breath, An' waited for what I a.s.suredly thought Was a sure an' terrible death.

Then came the wild crash, an' with horror-fringed yell Down into that great fiery chasm I fell.

When I came to myself I was lyin'

On the floor of the bedroom; my wife Sat astride of my form, and was making it warm Fur her darlin', you bet your sweet life!

My hair she had clutched in her fingers, An' was jammin' my head on the floor, Yet I yelled with delight when I found that my fright Was a horrible dream, nothin' more.

I had wildly grabb'd one of her ankles, she said, An' reversed her clear over the head of the bed.

_SEEING'S NOT BELIEVING._

I saw her, as I fancied, fair, Yes, fairest of earth's creatures; I saw the purest red and white O'erspread her lovely features; She fainted, and I sprinkled her, Her malady relieving: I washed both rose and lily off!

Oh! seeing's not believing!

I looked again, again I longed To breathe love's fond confession I saw her eyebrows formed to give Her face its arch expression; But gum is very apt to crack, And whilst my breast was heaving, It so fell out that one fell off!

Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the tresses on her brow So beautifully braided; I never saw in all my life Locks look so well as they did, She walked with me one windy day-- Ye zephyrs, why so thieving?

The lady lost her flaxen wig!

Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw her form, by Nature's hand So prodigally finished, She were less perfect if enlarged, Less perfect if diminished; Her toilet I surprised--the worst Of wonders then achieving; None knew the bustle I perceived!

Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw, when costly gems I gave, The smile with which she took them; And if she said no tender things, I've often seen her look them; I saw her my affianced bride, And then, my mansion leaving, She ran away with Colonel Jones!

Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw another maiden soon, And struggled to detain her; I saw her plain enough--in fact, Few women could be plainer; 'Twas said, that at her father's death A plum she'd be receiving: I saw that father's house and grounds!

Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw her mother--she was deck'd With furbelows and feathers; I saw distinctly that she wore Silk stockings in all weathers; I saw, beneath a load of gems.

The matron's bosom heaving; I saw a thousand signs of wealth!

Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw her father, and I spoke Of marriage in his study; But would he let her marry me Alas! alas! how could he?

I saw him smile a glad consent, My anxious heart relieving, And then I saw the settlements Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the daughter, and I named My moderate finances; She spurned me not, she gave me one Of her most tender glances.

I saw her father's bank--thought I, There cash is safe from thieving; I saw my money safely lodged: Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the bank, the shutters up, I could not think what they meant, The old infirmity of firms, The bank had just stopped payment!

I saw my future father then Was ruined past retrieving, Like me, without a single _sou_: Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw the banker's wife had got The fortune settled on her; What cared he, when the creditors Talked loudly of dishonour!

I saw his name in the _Gazette_, But soon I stared, perceiving, He bought another house and grounds: Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw--yes, as plain as could be, I saw the banker's daughter; She saw me, too, and called for sal Volatile and water.

She said that she had just espoused A rich old man, conceiving That I was dead or gone to gaol: Oh! seeing's not believing!

I saw a friend, and freely spoke My mind on the transaction; Her brother heard it, and he called, Demanding satisfaction.

We met--I fell--that brother's ball In my left leg receiving; I have two legs, true--_one is cork_: Oh! seeing's not believing!

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

_CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON._

Now, Mr. Caudle--Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I shall quit the house. No, no! There's an end of the marriage state, I think--and an end of all confidence between man and wife--if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em.

Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case.

Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I daresay; still--not that I care much about it--still, I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr.

Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would.

Well?

And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say--you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a pa.s.sion--not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a b.u.t.ton to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a Mason--when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a Mason--when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage.

Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!--yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a Mason; not at all, Caudle; I daresay it's a very good thing; I daresay it is: it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me--you'll tell your own Margaret?

You won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Caudle.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

_MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE._

There, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows!

Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a b.u.t.ton, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle!

you don't know what you do when you're in a pa.s.sion. You were not in a pa.s.sion, wer'n't you? Well, then I don't know what a pa.s.sion is; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that.

It's a pity you hav'n't something worse to complain of than a b.u.t.ton off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-and-thread in my hand; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a b.u.t.ton's off your shirt--what do you say "ah" at? I say once, Mr.