I was not always Crazy Mag,
The mad witch of the glen;
I did not always haunt the hills,
And roam through lowland fen:
My hair is silver-then 'twas gold-
My skin was white as snow,
My eyes were as the violets blue
That in the meadows blow;
My ripe lips red as rosy dawn
When autumn sunlight smiled;
And he-it drives me crazy, mad,
To think of him—my child.

My child, my child! O God, my child!
I think I see him now,

The streaming, curling, golden hair
That crowned his snowy brow;
His face as pure as ocean pearl,

Tinged with the ruby's glow;

His bright eye sparkled like the wavelets,
Dancing to and fro.

I press him fondly to my breast-
My God! he's gone, he's gone.
I seek him over hill and dale,
From eventide till morn.

I'm mad, I'm mad, I know I'm mad-
Enough to drive one wild,

Stark, raving, howling, crazy mad,
It is to lose one's child.

Ah! now I see him-no! it's gone.
Come back, come back! once more.
I laugh! ha, ha!-hark! there again-
No! 'tis the torrent's roar-

Away, away, away! begone!

Ye idle fancies wild;

Ye mock me, echoes! Shame! begone!
Ha, ha! where is my child?

I rave-ah, yes! I rave-but still
I did not always rave;

I'm Crazy Mag, and will be till

I sleep within the grave.

The grave! ho, ho! Sleep in the grave

Will Mad Mag ever sleep?

No! But until I've found my child

I'll roam this mountain steep!

Ye start and tremble-do not fear

Poor Mag will do no harm,

Although when roused she has the strength

Of many in that arm.

1

Listen! I'll tell it o'er again--
Let poor Mag tell her tale,

And curse the man that spurned a wife
And scorned a mother's wail.
The night was dark as night could be,
A storm rolled in the west,
A mother went all peacefully
With her sweet babe to rest;
But, soon as sleep had settled o'er,
The mother, screaming wild,

Rose from her couch and madly screeched:

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"O God! where is my child?"

My child! my child! great God, my child!
I cannot tell the tale.

Away, away! I'm wild! I'm wild!
Hark! Is that but the gale?

No, no! Ah! yes, my poor, poor brain,
What fancies you do form!

What's that? Ah! yes, 'tis but the thunder
Of the distant storm.

See yonder flashing lightning gleams;
How those dark waters pour!

They mock and jeer me in my dreams,
And murmur, ah, no more!

Good-bye, good-bye! Farewell! I go.
See how yon clouds arise;

The laughing streamlet answers still,
The mocking echo cries:

Ha, ha! ha, ha! Good-bye, good-bye!
Farewell, Mad Mag! farewell!
Ha, ha! ho, ho! Good-bye, I cry,
Ye demons of the dell!

The storm-cloud down the mountain sweeps,

The lightning dances wild;

Ho, ho! ha, ha! again I cry –

My child! my child! my child!

Ha, ha! ye wild fiends of the storm,
Welcome! ha, ha! ho, ho!

Flash on! ye blasting lightning gleams.
Blow on! ye wild winds, blow!

Rush on within your hollow bed,

Dark stream, rush on and roar!

The rolling thunder overhead

Still groans; ye black floods, pour!

How on, ye winds! pour on, ye floods!
Roll on, ye thunders wild!

Mad Mag will cry: "Farewell! Good-bye!
My child! my child! my child!”

THREE LITTLE GRAVES.

'Twas autumn, and the leaves were dry And rustled on the ground,

And chilly winds went whistling by,
With low and passive sound;

As through the graveyard's lone retreat,
By meditation led,

I walked with slow and cautious feet
Above the sleeping dead.

Three little graves, ranged side by side,
My close attention drew;

O'er two the tall grass bending sighed,
And one seemed fresh and new.
As lingering there I mused awhile
On death's long dreamless sleep,
And mourning life's deceitful smile,
A mourner came to weep.

Her form was bowed, but not with years,
Her words were faint and few;
And on those little graves, her tears
Distilled like morning dew.

A prattling boy, some four years old,
Her trembling hand embraced;
And from my heart, the tale he told
Will never be effaced.

"Mamma, now you must love me more; For little sister's dead;

And t'other sister died before,

And brother, too, you said.
Mamma, what made sweet sister die;
She loved me when we played.

You told me if I would not cry,

You'd show me where she's laid.".

"Tis here, my child, that sister lies,
Deep buried in the ground;
No light comes to her little eyes,
And she can hear no sound.”
"Mamma, why can't we take her up,
And put her in my bed?

I'll feed her from my little cup,

And then she won't be dead.

For sister 'll be afraid to lie

In this dark grave to-night;
And she'll be very cold, and cry,
Because there is no light."
"No, sister is not cold, my child,
For God, who saw her die,

As he looked down from heaven and smiled,
Called her above the sky.

"And then her spirit quickly fled

To God, by whom 'twas given;
Her body in the ground is dead,
But sister lives in heaven.”
"Mamma, won't she be hungry there,
And want some bread to eat?
And who will give her clothes to wear,
And keep them clean and neat?
Papa must go and carry some;
I'll send her all I've got:

And he must bring sweet sister home;
Mamma, now must he not?"

"No, my dear child, that cannot be;
But if you're good and true,
You'll one day go to her, but she
Can never come to you.
'Let little children come to me,'
Once the good Saviour said;
And in his arms she'll always be,
And God will give her bread."

THE LAST STATION.

He had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four weeks, and the boys on the road had dropped in daily to see how he got along, and to learn if they could render him any kindness. The brakeman was a good fellow, and one and all encouraged him in the hope that he would pull through. The doctor didn't regard the case as dangerous; but the other day the patient began sinking, and it was seen that he could not live the night out. A dozen of his friends sat in the room when night came, but his mind wandered, and he did not recognize them.

It was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks and noisy drays had ceased rolling by, the bells and the short, sharp whistles of the yard-engines sounded painfully loud. The patient had been very quiet for half an hour, when he suddenly unclosed his eyes and shouted:

"Kal-a-ma-zoo !"

One of the men brushed the hair back from the cold forehead, and the brakeman closed his eyes and was quiet

for a time. Then the wind whirled around the depot and banged the blinds on the window of his room, and he lifted his hand and cried out:

"Jack-son! Passengers going north by the Saginaw Road change cars!"

The men understood. The brakeman thought he was coming east on the Michigan Central. The effort seemed to have greatly exhausted him, for he lay like one dead for the next five minutes, and a watcher felt for his pulse to see if life had not gone out. A tug going down the river sounded her whistle loud and long, and the dying brakeman opened his eyes and called out:

"Ann Arbor!"

He had been over the road a thousand times, but had made his last trip. Death was drawing a spectral train over the old track, and he was brakeman, engineer, and conductor.

One of the yard-engines uttered a shrill whistle of warning, as if the glare of the headlight had shown to the engineer some stranger in peril, and the brakeman called out:

Yp-silanti! Change cars here for the Eel River Road!" "He's coming in fast," whispered one of the men.

And the end of his 'run' will be the end of his life," said a second.

The dampness of death began to collect on the patient's forehead, and there was that ghastly look on the face that death always brings. The slamming of a door down the hall startled him again, and he moved his head and faintly said:

"Grand Trunk Junction! Passengers going east by the Grand Trunk change cars!"

He was so quiet after that that all the men gathered around the bed, believing that he was dead. His eyes closed, and the brakeman lifted his hand, moved his head, and whispered:

"De-"

Not "Detroit," but Death! He died with the half-uttered whisper on his lips. And the headlight on death's engine shone full in his face and covered it with such pallor as naught but death can bring. -Detroit Free Press.