One night, the tenth of October,-I woke with a chill and fright,

For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn't

in sight;

But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it said. that she "couldn't stay,"

But had gone to visit her neighbour,-seventeen miles

away!

When and how she stampeded, I didn't wait for to see, For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as

she;

Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is off the scent,

For there warn't no track in the darkness to tell me the way she went.

I've had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to

this spot,

Lost on the Plains in '50, drownded almost, and

shot;

But out on this alkali desert, a hunting a crazy wife,

Was ra'ly as on-satis-factory as any thing in my

life.

Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!" I called, and I held my

breath;

And "Cicely!" came from the canyon,-and all was as still as death.

And "Cicely! Cicely! Cicely!" came from the rocks

below;

And jest but a whisper of "Cicely!" down from them peaks of snow.

I ain't what you call religious; but I jest looked up to the sky,

And-this 'yer's to what I'm coming, and maybe ye think I lie.

But up away to the cast'ard, yaller and big and

far,

I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of

star.

Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to

me;

Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never

see:

Big and yaller and dancing,-I never saw such a

star;

And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went for it then and thar.

Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead:

Keeping the star afore me, I went wharever it led. It might hev been for an hour, when, suddent and peart and nigh,

Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby's

cry.

Listen! thar's the same music; but her lungs they are

stronger now

Than the day I packed her and her mother, I'm derned if I jest know how.

But the doctor kem the next minit; and the joke o' the whole thing is,

That Cis never knew what happened from that very night to this!

But Cicely says you're a poet; and maybe you might,

some day,

Jest sling her a rhyme 'bout a baby that was born in a curious way.

And see what she says; and, old fellow, when you

speak of the star, don't tell

As how 'twas the doctor's lantern,-for maybe 'twon't sound so well.

PENELOPE.

SIMPSON'S BAR 1858.

So you've kem 'yer agen,

And one answer won't do?

Well, of all the derned men

That I've struck, it is you.

O Sal! 'yer's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavort

in' round 'yer in the dew.

Kem in, ef you will.

Thar, quit! Take a cheer.

Not that; you can't fill

Them theer cushings this year,-

For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and

they don't make such men about 'yer.

He was tall, was my Jack,

And as strong as a tree.