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THE PEDAGOGUE.

nv JOE Jo-r, JR.

 

 

A quiet man, sedate and grave,
A far and keen discerner,

To wisdom’s lore his heart he gave-—
His breech-sprout to the learner.

A man of wise intelligence,
A careful man and prudent,

He knew of cause and consequence,
And how to lick a student.

He put young feet into the way
That led to future dollars;

In training minds he passed the day——
And walloping the scholars.

In sciences‘ new-found he had
N o conscientious scruples,

But kept the good and spurned the bad,
And threshed the screaming pupils.

He wished to see them all become
Physicians, lawyers, merchants;

He loved to make a quiet room
And spank the unwary urchins.

He seldom smiled; he had a voice
Quite firm but very fluent;

In studiousness he id rejoice,
And licked the wily truant.

Knowledge alone, he said, was power,
And led to lofty places,

And to this end gave every hour,
And strapped the boys llke blazes.

He felt it was his lot to teach,
And so he loved it dearly,

He taught along throughout life‘s reach
And switched the lads severely. ,

He said that on the teacher hung
Our country’s whole reliance,

And by the hand he took the young
And flogged the youthful soions.

His soul from school has lon been free,
The fact seems quite bewi dering,
And somehow now it seems to me
That he used to whip the children.

 

Howl Two Women Waited.

BY MARY REED CROWELL.

 

 

HE stood before her, in all the perfection of
his splendid manhood, that had won her so
surely; he laid his hands—warm, pulsing with
vitality, that sent swift, electric currents from
head to foot of her slender form—his white,
strengthful hands on her shoulders; he let the
gaze of his eyes meet her own fully, not
caring, perhaps not knowing how it hurt her.

(f Well ?77

She spoke only the one questioning word,
because it seemed his eyes, his manner called
for the word, and he felt the rigid nerving of
her frame to listen to what he knew would
half kill her, to what she knew, with her wo-
man’s fine perception, sharpened by such
agonies of painful despair as she had passed
through, would stab her heart anew. *

She raised her eyes to his, then, with a little
silent shiver curdling round her heart, then
dropped the white lids over them again, and
waited for what he would say; waited as the
swaying reed by the river bank waits, and
bends before the blast that comes sweeping
shrilly over the waters and marshy wastes.

“It has always been that the dearest friends
must sometimes say good-by. It has come to
us to-day, Miriam.”

Friends! fm’endsl—they two, after all that

' frightfully happy six months—friends!

‘ ‘ But—but—I—”

She wanted so to tell him she could not bear
it; this sudden tearing out of her life the only
light it had ever known, the one great happi-
ness vouchsafed her. Yet .she was woman,
and must keep silent, though her heart-strings
break.

He was watching her closely, this man who
had made her worship him so, with an-adora-
tion that was a religion. He watched the re—
straint she thought she had over herself with
a. keen, pleasurable pride, mingled—only very
slightly—with pity.

He certainly could not help it if Miriam

Clyde loved him. He was not to blame if the
gods had given him so perfect a face that
every woman who saw it thrilled under its
beauty. Certainly he was not obliged to cease
his courtly, caressing ways, when they were
as natural to him as the air he breathed.
And if women would fall in love with him,
would any man refuse the good the gods
gave?

Certainly not Florian Cleveland,» of all men,
in whom, to his rare personal beauty was
added such keen, fine appreciation of all the
good things of this world, such indolent, happy
acceptance of the homage he had learned to
accept as his particular birthright. So now,

he watched Miriam Clyde as her lips quivered’

in spite of her desperate efforts to control her-
self; he saw the ominous brightness in her
eyes that spoke of tears none the less rebellious
that they were crushed ; he felt her form
shiver and tremble under his touch; and then
he stooped and kissed her forehead.

“ I have much to thank you for, dear. You
have been so good to me all this long, lonely
winter, and I never shall forget it. But, you
know, I cannot stay longer.”

His voice was full of a tenderness that fairly
maddened her; his kiss on her forehead would
scorch there forever; and yet, he didn’t care.
To him his coming, his departure, were only
so many pleasant episodes in his life; while
she—oh! how could she bear it? and when
that keen pang shot through her very soul,
telling her it was life or death to her, then she
forgot everything, save that she was a woman
who loved Florian Cleveland; a woman he did
not care about.

She walked up to him, then stopped so near
him that he felt the warm, quick, fragrant
breathings on his face.

“What did you ever come .here for? Why
have I been permitted to know you—with all
your brilliant beauty of face, your god-like
stateliness of form, your voice of perfect
melody, your heart and soul and mind touched
with a power, a subtle fascination that accords
so perfectly with mine?”

She had utterly forgotten herself, this girl
who had been all ice until Florian Cleveland
had transformed her into fire. And he listened
so courteously, so deprecatingly, and so trium-
phantly at this his latest, sweetest trophy.

“If I had never seen you! if I had never
known you! if—”

Then it rushed over her with sickening force
how she was committing herself, unsolicited;
and the hot blood surged over her face in
wave after wave.

“Child! poor child, you love me so?
you, Miriam?”

He led her to the sofa, and leaned against
the window while he looked at her, her face
hidden in her hands. She did not answer,
and he went on, in his low, exquisite voice:

“I am not worthy of you, dear, and, be-
sides, you know I must go, and why. You
know the duty I owe to Hildred Owen, and as
her husband you will forget me and be happy.
Good-by, Miriam, dear child!”

He kissed her hot, tear-bathed fingers; she
never moved a muscle, or made a sound, and
he went cut, away, forever.

Desolate, so desolate! so heartsick and heart—
sore! this one love of her life thrown back in

Do

 

her face by the one who had taught her what
love meant!

She sat there till the night-shadows fell.
She lived a lifetime of agony in those two
hours, and then, wondering vaguely how she
should ever take up the burden of life again—
wondering what that strange, blank sensation
was that was enveloping her like a cold, gray
cloud, she got slowly up from her seat, and
sought the sound of a human voice.

And, as days went on, and weeks, people
would gaze pitying at her, and whisper con-
fidentially to a friend—“ Poor Miriam! she
gets more absent—minded and melancholy ev—
ery day. Do you really think she is dement-
ed?”

Weeks and months later, when she would
inform every one that her wedding—dress was
ready, and she was waiting for her bridegroom
to come—then, it was no longer surmised, but
known, that Miss Clyde was insane; and in
merciful kindness they took her away, from
home and its associations, to strange, new
scenes.

 

Hildred Owen was a royally beautiful wo-
man, with that about her, distinct, yet impal-
pable, that betokened her high-breeding, that
plainly bespoke her one of Nature’s own aris-
tocrate.

Royally beautiful indeed, with a subtle grace
in her face, independent movements that had
been one of the chief charms which had won
Florian Cleveland; with a tender, dainty
sweetness and softness about her that were the
very essence of womanliness.

She was rich—she had never known an un—
gratified wish since she had been old enough
to express one, and yet she was unspoiled, pos-
sessing one of those lovely, amiable dispositions
that are proof against the souring qualities of
either too great prosperity or adversity. And,
added to all the other good things Fate and
Fortune had favored her with, came the crown-
ing joy and glory of her young, fresh life——the
proffered love of Florian Cleveland, the god
among men who had chosen her for his own.

After their engagement, it seemed to Hi1-
dred as if this world contained no purer, high-
er happiness than heaven had given her; and,
in the strength and worship of her love for

him, she lived her life, perfectly content even,

when separated for a time, but united by such
precious letters as only Florian Cleveland could
write.

Now, after a separation of many months,
they were to meet, and Hildred thought, as
she sat with Florian’s telegram in her hand,
announcing that he would be at Lakelet House
within twenty-four hours, that the very cul—
minating point of human bliss was reached.

“ I must look my best, my very best, when
he comes,” she thought, with a tender pride
that he could find any fault Wibh her. “ I will
wear my white dress, and the Roman pearls
he always likes to see—my darling, my own
splendid lover! my-—” A

A low, thrilling cry startled her, and then,
a voice, in tender, coaxing entreaty:

“ You had better come in, dear.
dew is taking all your curls out. ”

“ How can I come in, auntie, when he will
expect to find me waiting for him. I have

See—the

been waiting so long, haven’t I?”

The pitiful pathos in the words smote Hil-
dred to the heart. Who was coming? who
was waiting? Then she heard again:

“But if you will only be down for a while,
dear. He won’t be here just yet, you know.”

“ So you always say. . How can I get any
rest when he doesn’t come? If there was mu-
sic, now, or if somebody would only sing that
song I heard once.”

Almost with hushed breath, Hildred heard
the voice wail a verse of a ballad she had
often sung herself.

“ Oh, God! I cried,
. And none beside
Knew the grief my heart was in.
Oh, give me back my bonny lad,
None else my love can win!

Oh, give me back my bonny lad
When the flowing tide comes in!”

Then, after the low, trembling plaint ceased,
came a long, long silence, and Hildred knew
there was temporary rest for the sweet-voiced
girl in the adjoining room, who, it was plain
ly evident, was not in her right mind.

Later, she learned the piteous story-—-the
girl was insane, hopelessly so, and her one
lament was for the lover who had won her,
and left her.

Hildred’s womanly heart was thrilled with
the sad story; and that night, when she knelt
beside her bed, she thanked God with over-
flowing heart and eyes, that she was so safe, so
secure, so happy in Florian’s dear love, while
this other fair girl was bereft of both happi-
ness and lover!

All that next day Hildred was unusually
quiet, even in anticipation of the great happi-
ness in store for her; even when she had at—
tired herself in her exquisite white dress, and
wound the big pearls on her throat and at her
wrists—waiting for him—her pride, her idol,
her darling; waiting—so hopefully, while, just
in the next room, she could hear the excited,
joyous burden of the girl’s heart, who was also
waiting—ah! for what? -

“I tell you I know he is coming? I can feel
it here! I knew the moment he started to—
ward us, and I know he is nearly here. He
has kept his word after all; I shall never com-
plain because I have waited so long. There—
see! see! didn’t I tell you so!”

And closa following after that shrill cry of
triumph and joy Hildred heard the rush of
flying feet pass her door and descend the

Then, impelled by a strange curiosity she
never had experienced before, she slowly fol-
lowed, fate-driven, to see Florian Cleveland
standing on the veranda, and clinging around
his neck, a pale, wan girl, with eyes of in-
tensest brightness lifted imploringly; and the
same voice she heard in the next room speak-
ing to him.

“Florian, my darling, I knew you would
come! They all said you wouldn’t but I knew
you loved me all the time, and would never
forget me! You did kiss me when you went
away, didn’t you, dear? and now I am all
ready and waiting.”

The gentleman was pale as a ghost and
glanced half—guiltily around as if seeking re-
lief from his unwelcome burden. Then an
elderly lady came hurrying down stairs, past
Hildred, and sternly confronted him.

“You see the work of your hands, Mr.
Cleveland—although I deplore the fate that
has directed you to cross this poor child’s path
again. Come, Miriam, dear.”

But she clung closer to him, kissing his
hands with an adoration unspeakany touch-
mg.

“Not unless Florian goes. Come, dear,
will you?” Then, seeing the sternness on his
face, she gave a cry of fear.

“ Don’t look that way—don’t be— ”

And then, without a second’s warning, she
fell forward, to be caught in Hildred Owen’s
outstretched arms. Then, for the first time,
Cleveland saw her and a deeper shade of hor-
ror darkened his face.

 

“ Hildred, my dearest— ”

With a superb cresting of her head she
silenced him. -

“ Not now. Madame "—to the lady in charge
of Miriam Clyde—“ is there anything I can do
of service to you or—her?”

Miss Amy Clyde took thegirl’s head tender-
ly 01f Hildred’s bosom, laid her hand over the
pulseless heart, then answered with a great,
quiet reverence: .

“Thank you—thank God! no.
passcd beyond the gates.
merciful than man.”

With uncovered heads they carried her to
her chamber and laid her on her couch,
crossed her hands over her heart that, heat—
ing, could only love Florian Cleveland; that,
repulsed by him, had no alternative but to
break. And thus one woman waited for his
coming!

When they had gone Hildred turned to
Cleveland, all her soul shivering in imperious,
lightning glances from her eyes.

“How dare you call me dearest—and she
has died for love of you; and you—less worthy
the sacrifice than of my blind infatuation!
Go your ways, and let the memory of this day
never leave you. Take back your ring, while
I thank God all my life I knew what I now
know before it was too late.”

She threw the heavy golden band off her
finger and on the floor at his feet, then, with the
tread and air of an empress who has dismissed
a disgraced vassal, Hildred Owen withdrew
herself from his presence and.all possibility
of future happiness from his life. And so an-
other woman waited for him—an unconscious-
ly constituted Nemesis of Miriam Clyde’s
wrongs.

She has
God has been more

 

JANE.

BY FRANK DAVES.

 

 

’Twas first beneath yon towering oak
That stands beside the lane,

I felt the glow, and knew that I
Did love the gentle Jane.

I thought she was an angel
Sent to cheer my weary life;
But oh! she died and went away,
And never was my wife.

The summer days were long and bright,
The summer woods were gay,

When she departed from my sight,
And faded quite away.

Oh! she was bright and happy,
And was always at my side;

Yet, we laid her in her narrow grave
Before the flowers died.

And when the summer perished, too,
And autumn winds had blown

The maple leaves she loved so well
About her low headstone,

And while the sod was fresh and dank,
The woodland songsters fair

Did perch upon the swinging boughs

. And sing her favorite air.

0h, may her ashes rest in peace
Beneath the dewy sod;

And may her fair and gentle soul
Be resting now with God.

 

The Phantom Train.

BY HENRI MONTCALM.

 

 

YOU may think What you please in regard
to the event I am about to describe, and I
shall think what I please. Probably we should
never agree. You may not believe in ghosts
and phantoms, but I do. For I know that on
the evening of the 17th of’ March, ten years
ago, I was passenger on a phantom railroad
train, and my fellow-passengers were not hu-
man beings like myself, but ghastly, staring
ghosts.

I am an insurance agent. Besides my com—
mission, I am paid a regular salary by a large
company—the Invincible of New York—for
traveling about the country, taking risks and
establishing agencies. On a certain day, the
17th of March I have just mentioned, I had
found myself in the country town of Rum-
ford, a station on one of the principal rail~
roads running west. About the only business
I accomplished there was to induce a young
man, John Denham by name, to take an
agency for the town. He was an intelligent
young fellow and I was especially anxious he
should do it, because most of the policies in
that section were issued by rival companies
and I wished to run them out, if poMble.

I got ’well acquainted with young Denham
during the day and took tea at his father’s
house that evening. It was only at the table
I learned that the half-past seven accommoda-
tion to S had been recently taken OE and
there was no other train down to the city
that night. I showed so much vexation at
this—for I was really very anxious to get to
S— that night, having an engagement there
early in the morning—that Mr. Denham,
senior, finally offered to let John harness up
and take me over to Burbank, a larger town
four miles down the road, where he said the
11.25 express pulled up a moment. As my
case was an urgent one I accepted, though I
was sorry to put them to so much trouble, es—
pecially on such a dirty kind of night. It had
been raining steadily for the last two days
and had as yet showed no signs of clearing.

 

So, shortly after supper, young Denham.

went out to get the horse ready.

“We had better go at once, ” he said. “ The
roads are bad and I shall not get back much
before eleven. You will have to wait an
hour or so at Burbank, but you won’t mind
that.”

After he had gone out the old man went to
the window and stood looking out. “It’s a
bad night,” he remarked, without turning his
head, “just such a one as I remember it to
have been five years ago this very month——
ay, this very night, I believe. It is the 17th,
is it not?”

He' paused a moment, thoughtfully, and
then went on. “ I shall never forget it, how I
lay awake in the early part of the night and
heard the express go by, the whistle sounding
something like some unearthly shriek of de-
spair amid the wind and rain; and not ten min-
utes after the whole train was lying mangled
and broken at the bottom of Bullock’s Creek.
Hardly a soul of them got out alive. I hope
never again to see such a sight as I saw the
next morning when they took the bodies out.
Luckily, they didn’t have such big trains then
as they do now. And the bridge there won’t
be likely to wash away again. It is built
strong enough this time. ”

The old gentleman ceased speaking and
came and sat down beside me at the fire. I
had traveled a great deal in my life and
knew something of railroad accidents, yet
somehow or other, the wildness of the night
and the fact that I was about to pass over this
same spot gave this one of which the old man
spoke unusual interest, and I asked him more
particularly about the Bullock’s Creek disas-
ter. He told me a great deal, and told it so
graphically that I grew not a little nervous
before he finished, and when the time came for
me to don my rubber coat and take my leave,

 

 

I was more than half inclined to give up go-
ing at all that night. But I quickly shook off
this weakness and followed John out and took
my seat in the buggy. We pulled up the boot
and drove off down the road, not to any great
extent inconvenienced by the rain, which just
now came down steadily but not heavily.

We had accomplished something more than
half the distance, when, all at once, the horse
turned lame and could hardly bobble along.
This was unfortunate enough under the cir-
cumstances but could not be helped. Denham
urged him on another half mile, but at the
end of that distance the poor beast gave out
entirely, and it was with difficulty that we got
him into the barn of a farm—house standing by
the road. This done, however, and it being
but little more than a mile further to Burbank,
I announced my determination of footing it
the rest of the way. John proposed to get a
fresh horse of the farmer and drive on, but I
would not consent to this, and after receiving
full directions as to the way I started off. I
was to go on down the road a piece and turn
off at the first right—hand road, which would
take me straight to the railroad track. Here
I must turn to the left and than a walk of
three—quarters of a mile would bring me to the
Burbank station. “Remember, now,” was
John’s last injunction, “turn to the left when
you get to the track. The right would take
you up the road again to Bullock’s Creek.”

The night was of course very dark and the
road muddy, but I had little trouble in finding
my way. I soon found the corner, and turn-
ing down what was more a cart—path than a
road, I walked on as rapidly as I could, and
about an eighth of a mile from the main road
I came upon the railroad track. I wish to say
here that I distinctly recollect taming oil? to
the left and making my way down the track to
the station. Some persons to whom I have
told his story, thinking they know much‘bet-
ter a ut it than I, and being anxious to ac-
count for what followed, have tried to con-
vince me that I must have turned to the right
and gone straight down to Bullock’s Bridge.
Very likely you will reason in the same Way
yourself when I have finished my story. But
I tell you that I, who am the only one who
can know, and who am no more superstitious
than other men—I know perfectly well that I
did no such thing. I remember positively
turning off to the left, as Denham had direct-
ed. I remember the walk down the track,
how I stumbled over the sleepers and splashed
through the mud, often wondering how much
further it was; and I remember, too, finally,
that the lights at the station came in sight
around a curve, and that I at last stepped up.
on the platform and found my way to the
waiting—room fire.

I glanced up at the clock as I came in, and
found that! it yet wanted nearly an hour of
train time. I was rather surprised, therefore,
to find that, notwithstanding it was thus early,
some one else had been waiting there before
me—-a tall, powerful, illy-dressed man, who
did not seem to notice my entrance at all, but
kept on snoring in the corner. After drying
myself a bit at the fire, I wisely concluded to
imitate the stranger’s example, and went
and settled myself in another corner, and al-
most immediately fell asleep.

I cannot say how long I slept, for when I
suddenly woke again, I did not look at the
clock at all. I saw that my friend in the op-
posite corner had disappeared, taking his bun-
dle with him; I heard the clang of an engine-
bell outside, and I hurriedly snatched up my
own traps and went out the door. Sure
enough, there was the train, with the locomo-
tive, mail-car, and two passenger-coaches,
with their lighted windows. I remember
thinking at the time that the train must be
shorter than usual. I had not much time to
reflect upon anything, however, and had
barely secured a seat in the forward car
when the engine gave a fewunearthly puffs
and groans, and then, with along, horrible
wail of the whistle, we rushed off into the
storm and the night.

The car was well filled, mainly with gentle-
men. I found a seat by the side of a thin-
faced, clerical-looking man, who had an even-
ing paper in his hand, but did not seem to be
reading it. ,His eyes met mine, as I came
down the aisle, with a fixed, unnatural kind
of stare that puzzled me and made me uncom-
fortable in spite of myself. “This seat is not
taken?” I said, interrogatively; and as he
made no audible answer I sat down.

Presently I glanced at him again. He had
not moved at all, but was still gazing dreamily
tOWard the car door.

“A bad night,” Isaid, determined to rouse
him into a recognition of my presence if
nothing more. The only answer was com—
plete silence. Good heavens! was the man a
boor, or was he deaf, and did he not hear me?
I made one more attempt. “ May I look at
your paper?” I asked, speaking as loudly as I
could. Still no answer; still he sat there,
rigid asa frozen corpse would have been, un-
hearing and unnoticing. With an impatient
movement I took the paper from his hand,
even hoping he would resent the liberty; but
he did not. He did not seem toknow it. I
glanced at the heading. Gracious powers!
What was this? I held in my hand a paper
dated the seventeenth of March, eighteen hun-
dred and sixty—just five years ago tic-night—
the night of the accident at Bullock’s Creek.

I turned faint and cold in a moment. I
understood it now—the man at my side was no
living man, but a ghost, the pale, staring,
fleshless, speechless ghost of one who, five
years ago to-night, at this very moment, had
been hurried on down this same iron way
through a storm just like this, to destruction.
I looked fearfully around at the other pas-
sengers.

Ay! It was plain enough now. Phantoms
all—ghastly passengers of a phantom train,
sitting there, motionless and horrible, with
lusterless eyes and gleaming teeth, all gliding
swiftly on in that terrible ride of death, and
I, who alone of them all was flesh and blood,
I was being hurried along with them.

To what? To death-sure, sudden, horrible
death! I knew it well, even before the end
came, and it came at once. I uttered a shriek
of wild, uncontrollable terror. I rose, and
vainly strove to reach the door. Then there was
a great crash, and a falling, and a dizziness, and
a shock, and then——

I awoke to consciousness again to find my-
self lying on my back on what seemed to be
hard, smooth stone, with the rain beating in
my face. It felt bruised and stunned. There
was blood in my hair and on my face, and I
knew that my left arm was broken. Strange
to say, perhaps, though the darkness was very
great, and I had never been at the place before,
I knew, with a certainty amounting to con-
viction, just where I was. I heard the roar
of angry waters below me—in the dim light,
as I came to distinguish better, I could see
that there were broken timbers and bent iron-
work all about me. Oh, yes; I knew well
enough where I was and what had happened.
I was lying at the top of one of the piers of
the Bullock Creek bridge, and the bridge itself

 

 

had been carried away by the swollen stream.
But how had I come there? Had I turned the
wrong way and wandered along the track and
stepped oil? into the chasm? So you will say,
no doubt. And yet I swear it was not so.
Too well I remember the phantom train that
had thus on its anniversary night come up
the road again and hurled itself into the creek
below. I knew in my own mind that I had
actually taken the ghostly train at the station,
had joined in its deathly ride and had just
been saved from destruction by the pier at the
bridge’s end.

Then came a. sudden thought to me. If I
had taken a phantom train where was the real -
one? Not at the bottom of the creek. No,
the waters were rushing by down below, still
rearing and hungry for their prey. Then it
must come along soon. And the bridge was
down! Soon indeed! I drew a flask of brandy
from my pocket and a draught of it revived
me. Then I dragged myself somehow up into
the shelter of the embankment, and lighting a
match under my coat, I looked at my watch.

Ten minutes after eleven, and the train left
Burbank at 11.25. Oh, God! less than twenty
minutes and it would come thundering along,
bringing with it, maybe, hundreds of precious
lives to plunge them into destruction. But,
could I not stop it? Alas! what could I do,
crippled and bruised and exhausted as I was.
But I must not stay here at least. I might be
able to crawl ‘up the bank, and then, maybe,
I could drag some fence rails across the track
or pry up a sleeper and thus throw the train
off—anything to stop it before it came to the
brink of that terrible abyss.

It was a matter of no great difficulty after
all, getting back to the track again. My legs,
by some miracle, had escaped with neither
fracture nor sprain, and I found I could walk
very well. Walk? N o, I never walked a step.
I started off on the run, staggering and stum-
bling and falling now and then, but still speed-
ing on, forgetful of my broken limb and my
bruises, thinking only of the night express.
Thus I had gotten perhaps a fourth of a mile
away from the creek when suddenly, far away
before me, I heard a whistle—the signal of
the train as it approached Burbank. I stopped
short and stood in despair. Oh, for two stout
arms and an iron bar! I ran down the slope
and with my one arm wrenched a'rail from
the fence and went back and tried to pry up
one of the iron rails. Alas! the wood only
broke into splinters and did no good. If I only
had a lantern or could lighta fire! And could
I not? I had plenty of matches, but of fuel
not a bit. Everything around had been thor-
oughly soaked by the two days’ rain.

But the brandy! Eureka! I had it. The
best of French brandy, pure and fiery and in-
flammable, it would have made a piece of ice
capable of ignition. In an instant my rubber
coat was off and spread, inside downward,
on the ground. Then my other coat and my
vest—ay, and my shirt, too, for I knew that
would burn best of all—I stripped them all off
and rolling them into a bundle I put them be-
neath the rubber coat to keep them dry and
then I poured the brandy over them. Heaven
be praised, the flask was nearly full.

Not an instant too soon was my bundle
ready. Another whistle as the train shot
away from Burbank again, then all at once
there it was again—the locomotive with its
great flashing eye of fire, not a mile away and
coming down the track almost at full speed.
Then I held my match-case under the coat and
drew a match across the bottom. It flashed a
moment and’then went out, but a second one
burned steadily and I touched it to the bundle.
Yes, it burned. Feebly at first then brighter
and brighter until I snatched up the mass all
ablaze, careless that it was burning my hand
and arm, and yelling like mad toward the
coming train. It did not really burn long,
only while the shirt lasted, indeed; but it
burned long enough. The engineer, thank
God! was a careful man who always kept a
good look -out ahead on a night like this, and
he saw it. And the whistle screamed and
down went the brakes and then the great train
slowed up and stopped, and the passengers,
hurrying out, found a man senseless and half-
naked, lying just a few feet from the track.

That is the whole of my story. The train

was saved, and you may be sure the passen-
gers were not ungrateful. They made up a
purse for me on the spot, and when I would
not take it they appointed a committee to buy
a gold watch for me. I have it in my pocket
this minute. I was taken back to Burbank
and my arm set, and the next day I was in a
raging fever. When I got back to the home
office a month after that, I found I was quite
a hero. They wanted to hear about it and I
gave them the whole story just as I have told
it here. They laughed at the supernatural
part, and said that I must have been dream-
m .
g‘ But, whether you were or not,” says the
president to me, laughing, “you did a splen-
did thing in saving the train—a mighty good
thing for us, too, as it has turned out, for old
Jackson, one of the directors, was on board,
and we insured him only a week before for
one hundred thousand. I’ll speak to the board
about raising your salary,” and he shock me
heartily by the hand.

And, of course, I was rather pleased than
otherwise with the adventure, considering the
watch and advance in salary and glory. But
I was not exactly satisfied after all, for neith-
er then nor sinCe have I been able to find any
one beside myself who believes in the Phantom
Train.

 

A STARTLING METAMORPHOSIS.—Some one
who has been viewing the Siamese jugglers,
says: “ One trick which Minhman performed
was a very superior version of the mango-tree
feat of the Indian jugglers. He took an
orange, cut it open, and produced a serpent.
This he took down into the audience, and bor-
rowing a robe from one, cut the snake’s head
off and covered it with the robe. When the
robe was lifted again a fox was in place of the
snake. The fox's head was cut off, two robes
borrowed, and when they were raised there
was a wolf, which was killed with a sword.
Three robes and a leopard appeared; it was
slain with a javelin. Four robes covered a
most savage-looking buffalo, that was killed
with an axe. Five robes covered in part but
not altogether a lordly elephant who, when
a sword was pointed at him, seized Minhman
by the neck and tossed him violently up. He
mounted feet foremost, and finally clung by
his toes to the capital of one of the columns.
Tepeda now leaped from the stage and alighted
on the elephant’s shoulders. With a short
sword he goaded the beast on the head until,
shrieking, the unwiedly animal reared upon
his hind feet, twined his trunk about one of
the great columns, and seemed trying to lift
itself from the ground and wrap its body
around the great pillar. The music clashed
out barbarously, Norodom flashed forth a
dazzling firework of some sort, and Tepeda
lay upon the stage writhing in the folds of a
great boa—constrictor, and holding up Minhman
upon his feet.

 

    

 

 

 

   
 

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