Look how the upland plunges into cover,
Green where the pines fade sullenly away.

Wonderful those olive depths! and wonderful, more

Over

Second Tourist.

The red dust that rises in a suffocating way.

First Tourist.

Small is the soul that cannot soar above it,

Cannot but cling to its ever-kindred clay:

Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love

it

Second Tourist.

Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of

Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner

prey.

That on our stomachs would coinfortably stay;

Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner,

That must confront us at closing of the day: Then might you sing like Theocritus or Virgil,

Then might we each make a metrical essay; But verse just now-I must protest and urge-ill Fits a digestion by travel led astray.

Chorus of Passengers.

Speed, Yuba Bill! oh, speed us to our dinner!
Speed to the sunset that beckons far away.

Second Tourist.

William of Yuba, O Son of Nimshi, hearken!
Check thy profanity, but not thy chariot's play.
Tell us, O William, before the shadows darken,
Where, and, oh! how we shall dine? O William,
say!

Yuba Bill.

It ain't my fault, nor the Kumpeney's, I reckon,
Ye can't get ez square meal ez any on the Bay,
Up at yon place, whar the senset 'pears to beckon-
Ez thet sharp allows in his airy sort o' way.

Thar woz a place wor yer hash ye might hev wrestled,
Kept by a woman ez chipper ez a jay—

Warm in her breast all the morning sunshine nestled; Red on her cheeks all the evening's sunshine lay.

Second Tourist.

Praise is but breath, O chariot compeller!

Yet of that hash we would bid you farther say.

Yuba Bill.

Thar woz a snipe-like you, a fancy tourist—
Kem to that ranch ez if to make a stay,
Ran off the gal, and ruined jist the purist
Critter that lived-

Inside there's a lady! Remember! No affray !

Yuba Bill.

Ef that man lives, the fault ain't mine or his'n.

Stranger.

Wait for the sunset that beckons far away,

Then as you will! But, meantime, friends, believe me, Nowhere on earth lives a purer woman; nay,

If my perceptions do surely not deceive me,

She is the lady we have inside to-day.

As for the man-you see that blackened pine tree,

Up which the green vine creeps heavenward away!

He was that scarred trunk, and she the vine that sweetly Clothed him with life again, and lifted

Thompson of Angels.

IT is the story of Thompson-of Thompson, the hero of Angels.

Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the stranger;

Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his revolver;

Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom.

Yet not happy or gay was Thompson, the hero of Angels; Often spoke to himself in accents of anguish and sorrow, "Why do I make the graves of the frivolous youth who in folly

Thoughtlessly pass my revolver, forgetting its lightness and freedom?

"Why in my daily walks does the surgeon drop his left eyelid,

The undertaker smile, and the sculptor of gravestone marbles

Lean on his chisel and gaze? I care not o'er much for attention;

Simple am I in my ways, save but for this lightness and freedom."