The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted

The ruddy tints of health

On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted

In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure

A hoarded volume drew,

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure

To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,

And as the fire-light fell,

He read aloud the book wherein the Master

Had writ of "Little Nell."

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy-for the reader
Was youngest of them all—

But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar

A silence seemed to fall;

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,

Listened in every spray,

While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English

meadows

Wandered and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes-o'ertaken

As by some spell divine—

Their cares dropped from them like the needles

shaken

From out the gusty pine.

DICKENS IN CAMP.

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire;

And he who wrought that spell ?—

Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills

With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory

That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak, and holly,
And laurel wreaths entwine,

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly—

This spray of Western pine!

JULY, 1870.

131

WHAT THE ENGINES SAID.

OPENING OF THE PACIFIC RAILROAD.

WHAT was it the Engines said,

Pilots touching,head to head

Facing on the single track,

Half a world behind each back?

This is what the Engines said,

Unreported and unread!

With a prefatory screech,

In a florid Western speech,

Said the Engine from the WEST :

"I am from Sierra's crest;

And, if altitude's a test,

Why, I reckon, it's confessed,

That I've done my level best.”

WHAT THE ENGINES SAID.

133

Said the Engine from the EAST :
"They who work best talk the least.
S'pose you whistle down your brakes;
What you've done is no great shakes,--
Pretty fair, but let our meeting

Be a different kind of greeting.

Let these folks with champagne stuffing,
Not their Engines, do the puffing.

"Listen! Where Atlantic beats

Shores of snow and summer heats;

Where the Indian autumn skies

Paint the woods with wampum dyes,

I have chased the flying sun,

Seeing all he looked upon,

Blessing all that he has blest,

Nursing in my iron breast

All his vivifying heat,

All his clouds about my crest;

And before my flying feet

Every shadow must retreat."