The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1876-03-10
From the Burlington Hawk Eye.
Sal Ncw Years Rcnections-Sngular Effects
Of Burlington Whiskcy.

Sal NeY Years Rcllecti0ns-Singular Effects
of Burlington Whiskcy
Hush
Hark
List, oh, list
1t is time for dreams and reverie. The
dying year is passing away. Fit bad any
kind of hand it would take it up; but no it
passes passes; slowly passes; railroad passes;
minstrel passes; compasscs; pass us the
mustard almost any kind of passes.
And yet,mcthinks it were not always thus.
The midnight hour is sounding from the
belfry tower, as in heavenly tones the old
town clock tolls the knell of the dying year.
We bad to borrow town clock from town
over in Illinois in order to work this stanza
through, For the Burlington town clocks
are not on the knell, very strong. If the
dying year waited for our town clocks to
ring them out the Centennial wouldn't
come around for a thousand years. But no
the subject is too painful; let it pass.
1t were betterso. Better that the unburied
thoughts that rise like restless ghosts and.
haunting, hover around memorys gate,
should folds their puleless hands on the still
drapery and sleep.
oh, the long and cruel dingbats that flute
maglder the tawdry thngumbobs of flap
.doodes in their ghasty gonderness. And
where Oh, suubrowned srocco, who ate
the CASTLE soap '--sh Memory, memory
bar thy iron gates.
What vast? Hist All, be STILL sad heart.
Only the rising wind rustles the uncertain
drapery. Judge Drapery; may be. And
yet-but still-and then-or no-ha, yes :
why, not is-'tis MOTT was-'tis two
tbs fifty, tits fifty-two. All, well long, and
starless has been the night, butesomething
cometh with the morning. Ay, Dunbars
gong.
st. Julien mend this pensive mood Where
are the friends of my youth? Never had any.
Out of the swinging portals of the past,
whose feet are the restless moaning sea,
and whose lofty head is swqthed in the inky
pail of the drifting clouds that frown away
the summer light, a fair sweet figure rises,
like dream of hope. Out of the gates of
the impossible, adown those mystic vistas
whose enchanted shores and magic isles
have echoed to the siren songs of boyhood's
sunny hours, their beckoning figures rise
and glide across the threshold of the all-per-
vading present and their siurian cinthes
mock the encurtained future. Break, break
break, on the cold, gray rocks, oh, mens sent
up for ten days and no money to pay your
fine.
Change, change change. 1t is world of
mutations. To-day we look out upon the
street; it is crowded with loved and familiar
faces, the constant cheerful faces OF men we
owe. Tomorrow we look out, and 10,
change. A COW stands in the middle of the
street. which was not there before. Thus
cities grow, and change comes with the
growth. Small change. Give me two
threes and two for an overcoat button.
| No? Then fade every sordid joy.
Slowly the old year moves away; slowly
but surely it moves. Wherefore? Perhaps
it doesn't like the neighborhood. Maybe
somebody steals its wood. 1t goes away from
| us into the irretrievable the old year, mot
| the wood, and we know not who has taken
| it, the wood, not the old year, and we en-
balm it. in bitter tears, the old year-and
we lock up the next cord we get, the wood
| for the mines of Golconda cannot count its
value, whose every moment sparklts with
diamonds of thought and golden instants of
opportunity, the old year, that is and we
load one or two of the hollow sticks with
| dynamite, the wood that is, and lay its
precious lessons away in memory's casket
the old year, you know, and leave them ly-
| ing carelessly around for a trap, the wood,
we do that with-and hide them deep in the
inmost chambers of the heart, the old year
we're talking about-and it picks up a stray
neighbor or two, maybe, the wood does
and it perfumes life with the subtle essence
of halfforgotten pleasures and sacred sor-
rows, the old year does. Away These
iancies burn into the wearied brain. Lead
me to Lethes tabled stream wherein 1T
dark and turbid waves the soul may hide
from every carking care and be at rest
What no! without there Wine; bring
hither sparkling wine; with its eyes anc
tongue of flame. Wine, wine; the ole
Crow kind.
Hush, the last stroke of the midnight hou
trembles on the starlit air. 1t is the dawn
ing of the Centennial year. This year is
hundred years long. Oh, blessed thought
delightful vision for the man who pays hi
rent by the year, Oh, lingering horror 70
the man whose salary runs the same way
Oh, rare Centennial morn. Oh, natal birth
day. Oh, longing eyes of a yearning world
Oh, spotless record of unrecorded time. oh
several other things. Oh, pshaw,