The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, 1898-01-13

ogy for once in rhyme. Probably it is
ample for a generation to come The two
characters were depicted faithfully in
their strkingly marked contrast. A few
couplets will make that apparent 70 those
unacquainted. Of one:
Again the SIX foot man see
Pacing full stately on the lee,
Broad shouldered with a carriage grand,
Proud ulptured face, voice to command,
With knitting brows. blood, mounting fires,
A heritage from lofty sires."
OF the other:
SIN STOPPING statue five feet nine,
With sloping shoulders out of line
OF base and perpendicular.
A visage grim with bronze and scar
Blue drilling trousers, patched at knee,
And patched behind, roomy and free,
Barn-c oored in from, grit up in back,
a strange mixup of neat and slack"
OF third character:
"a noon of haying saw him rest
Beneath a pendant hornets nest.
The hornets loved him aud gave chase,
And he the meadow strobe apace,
His large boots humping through the bog,
Like mudscows humping in fog.
Of still another, a mechanical genius:
ga little man,
Grotesque and weird, like as a clan
Gould rear in a Caucasian wild.
Clad in a habit quantity styled.
Loaded in every pocket deep
With tools his craft compelled TO keep,
And red bandana held still more,
Stuck IN the gingham shirt he wore,'
Domestic felicity:
80, light Of the domestic hearth
Housed from the winters whte-winged
wrath,
The pipe to smoke, the board to cheer,
And chase away the seasons drear,
Till shrill the woodbird piped the spring.
And tllage called for hustLing'
Domestic rusticity:
81 see the old man yet again,
Before the great fire meath the crane,
Fringed with the hooks whence pots We're
hung,
When winter drifts around We're flung.
Above, the beams and chamber floor
Were grimed with smoke and SCOT of yore.
The wooden clock licked out the hour;
The barreled krout was stout and sour,
The corn traced up, yellow and red,
Hung from the oak pins overhead.
The bowl of cider, beaded thick
Carried, forsooth, It's wonted stick.
That winter night before the fire
He sat clad in grotesque attire,
His bronzed cheek sending back the light
In cobpipe, of the largest size,
Fumed hom3 raised weed before his eyes
His voice was croaky, like frog,
His words came erky a log
That thumps and bumps the mountain side,
Going to leap INTO the tide.
But when to tune he set his words,
They flowed like notes of singing BIRDS
After the reading of the cants-which
was listened to-the President read, on
leave, what purports to be an official letter
from Pontius PLATE to lis Emperor on the
crucifixion of Jesus, the manuscript of
which was discovered last summer in one
of the vaults OF the Vatican library at
Rome by an English divine. 1t is most
wonderful document, and, if true, sheds
new and fairer light ON the attitude and
relation of Plate to that event.
Boguesdale was and is, but it is not
what it was, nor ever can De again, to one
whose youth is thirty years in the past.
The hills with graceful contour, the wood
ed background, the vale and winding
river, the white spire, the schoolhouse,
most of the dwellings, are substantially
the same. The silent village on the plain
has grown; most of the old faces are gone
a few remain and are true to the old hos
pitality; but to one who knows the care
and wear of the busy world that surges be-
You'd the encrcling hills, the vision of the
old time and place is most enhancing.
HAIRBRAIN.
Hub. Dec. IS. '97.