"He started south with me. He was going to show me all the battle-fields, and introduce me into society. I bought some strychnine in Washington, and put it in his buckwheat cakes; but they got cold, and he sent them back. I did not know what to do, and was almost wild, for I was traveling entirely for pleasure, and not especially for his pleasure either.
"At Petersburg I was told that the train going the other way would meet us. As we started out, I dropped my hat from the window while looking at something. It was a desperate move, but I did it. Then I jumped off the train, and went back after it. As soon as I got around the curve I ran for Petersburg, where I took the other train. I presume you all felt sorry for me, but if you'd seen me fold myself in a long, passionate embrace after I had climbed on the other train, you would have changed your minds."
I have fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam That trembled to earth in the patriarch's dream, Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest, From the pillow of stone to the blue of the Blest, And the angels descended to dwell with us here, "Old Hundred," and "Corinth," and "China," and "Mear." All the hearts are not dead, not under the sod, That those breaths can blow open to Heaven and God! Ah! "Silver Street" leads by a bright, golden road-- O! not to the hymns that in harmony flowed-- But to those sweet human psalms in the old-fashioned choir, To the girls that sang alto, the girls that sang air!
"Let us sing to God's praise," the minister said, All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at "York," Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read, While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, And politely picked out the key note with a fork, And the vicious old viol went growling along At the heels of the girls in the rear of the song.
I need not a wing--bid no genii come, With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, To bear me again up the River of Time, When the world was in rhythm, and life was its rhyme; Where the streams of the year flowed so noiseless and narrow, That across them there floated the song of a sparrow; For a sprig of green caraway carries me there, To the old village church and the old village choir, When clear of the floor my feet slowly swung, And timed the sweet praise of the songs as they sung, Till the glory aslant of the afternoon sun Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun!