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Volume 3 (1858-1859) (592 pages)
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Page: of 592
OUR SOCIAL CHAIR. on
Our friend Sproat, to whom our readers are indebted for many pleasant offerings, sends us the following. The piche draws is to the very life, and will revive a host of heart-gladdening recollections :
THE MINER’S DREAM OF HOME.
He sits where the evening fire
Flickers with fitful blaze ;
And near him his comrades tell their tales,
With mirthful jests and lays;
He hears them not—away,
His thoughts, like wild birds, roam;
Away, o’er mountains and stormy seas,
To the blessed ones at home.
There’s an old house by the brook,
With woodbine covered o’er;
With its towering elms, and garden walks,
And mossy seats at the door.
There are voices in the porch—
Ringlets and golden hair ;
And light feet tripping, and faces bright
With gleams of sunshine there.
There’s an aged form, all bowed
With the weight of sorrowing years;
And a meck, mild eye, and a placid brow,
Seen through a mist of tears.
There’s another—looking out
Through the still, solemn night—
What seeks it there, through the deepening
gloom,
That face—so thin and white?
He wakes—it is a dream—
A dream of the shadowy Past!
Would that it had never come,
Or could forever last!Calling the dead Past up—
Where thoughts, like spectres, roam;
Filling the heart’s deep chambers with
The memories of home.
A rrrenp and well-wisher up in Shasta
sends us an ingeniously constructed poem,
entitled “’49 Miners.” It runs through
some ten or twelve verses, but the tollowing, according to our way of thinking,
contains the concentrated “sweet” of
the whole effort. We present it with
the most grateful remembrance of the
author :
‘© We have roamed o’er valley and mountain,
And the wonders of California we have seen,
And we have been cheered on by the pure flowing
fountain .
Of Hutchings’ California Magazine.”
Pure flowing fountain of Hutchings’
California Magazine <s good.
We are willing to suffer any penalty—
no matter how severe—that may follow
the telling of this story :—
A weak, emanciated specimen of humanity was accosted by a friend on Montgomery street, the other night, with:
“Hello, Sam! still sick, eh? I’m sorry to see you looking so bad.”
“Yes, murmured Sam, in a voice that
could scarcely be heard. “I’m nearly
gone in.”
Here the sick man threw himself on a
door step, and groaned. His friend, becoming alarmed, took him by the arm
and endeavored to raise him to his feet.
“See here, old fellow; this wont do!
you don’t intend to die here in the street?”
Sam mustered energy enough to speak,
but it was with quite an effort.
“J feel like I was ready to go, said he,
and I wish it was over.”
“But to die here in the street is awful
to think of,”’ answered Sam’sfriend. Tomorrow I could put you in a way to die
easily, and comfortably, and by degrees,
that is, if you are determined to die.”
A smile of satisfaction lit up Sam’s
features.
“T want to die easy,” said he, “but
sure. What is your plan.”
“Why,” replied his friend, with an air
of seriousness, there are two modes, both
slow and pleasant deaths, but very sure.
I never knew them to fail.”
“What is it ?” asked the sick rm .
whose suspense was painful.
“Well,” continued the other, “you can
either start a newspaper or turn actor !’?
This produced a re-action, and springing to his feet, Sam walked off a well man.