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K.A/- <r~\j>V 1E W of KENESAW V—
Vol. V.
I’ll Hang* My Harp on a Willow
Tree.
I’ll hang my harp on a willow tree,
I’ll off to the wars again;
My peaceful home has no charms for me,
The battlefield no pain;
The lady 1 love will soon be a bride,
With a diadem on her brow;
Oh! why did she flatter my boyish pride,
She’s going to leave me now.
She took me away from my war-like lord,
And gave me a silken suit,
J thought no more of my master’s sword,
When I play’d on my master’s lute;
She seem’d to think me a boy above
Her pages of low degree;
Oh ! had 1 but lov’d with a boyish love,
It would have been better for me.
Then I’ll hide in my breast every selfish care,
I’ll flush my pale cheek with wine,
When smiles awake the bridal pair,
I’ll hasten to give them mine;
I’ll laugh and I’ll sing, though my heart
may bleed,
And I’ll walk in the festive train,
And if I survive it, I’ll mount my steed,
And I’ll off’to the wars again.
But one golden tress of her hair I’ll twine
In my helmet’s sable plume,
And then on the field of Palestine,
I’ll seek an early doom;
And if by the Saracen’s hand J fall,
’Mid the noble and the brave,
A tear from my lady-love is all
I ask for the warrior’s grave.
Poetical Dialogue.
Des Moines has quite an acquisition
in Mr. Anderson < he modest day clerk
at the Savery, wnLwame here recently
from the Murray hotel at Omaha. His
genius runs to rhymes, and he thinks
nothing of carrying on a familiar con
versation in rhymes in a very poetic
style. A recent issue of the Omaha
Republican just before he left that city
called attention to the fact and said :
“Upon every favorable occasion, and
frequently when it is least expected,
he puts the commonest forms of conver
sation into a sort of jingling speech and
often says some clever things. Yes
terday he tried this upon a guest named
Charles McGrew, from St. Louis.
McGrew, who has known Anderson
for several years, travels for a coffee
and tea house in St. Louis, and he was
on the lookout for Andean to make
some crack at him in rhyme.
Soon after hJPukfast Mr. McGrew
appeared at the desk and asked for the
key to his room, which was No. 42,
and it was then that Anderson met his
match for rhyme-making.
“A man by the name of
ran off with the key to number forty
two,” said Anderson as he threw the
desired piece of brass upon the table.
“When Anderson used to live in
Des Moines he paid his debts with
spurious coins,”chimed in Mr. McGrew.
“In’ k a search for liars you’ll find but
few that.can hold a candle to Charles
A. humorous dare-devil—the very man to au.it my purpose. Bulweb.
-t ■GN-.- ■
KENNESAW MOUNTAIN, ON THE WESTERN & ATLANTIC RAILROAD.
McGrew,” Anderson retorted without
a moment’s pause.
“Satan had a son that would not
work, so he hired him out as a hotel
clerk,” came the second installment
from Mr, McGrew.
“The devil himself threw down his
fan and went on the the road as a
traveling man,” shot off the hotel
rhy raster.
“Ah! the W. & A.’s the best railroad
I vow” —piped out McGrew, but And
erson cut him off with
“That’s a chestnut for everybody’s
said it ere now.”
“The devil’s son was a little raw,
but a better hotel clerk I never saw,”
continued the traveling man.
“And the devil said: Now let nje
see, I believe I’ll peddle some coffee
and tea,” suggested Anderson.
“When Anderson takes a real bad
spell, he makes one think of a breeze
from well,” said Mr. McGrew, as he
walked over to the cigar stand.
‘ ‘There was a time when Carl —”
But the porter put a stop to the
poetic dialogue by yelling in sub bass:
“Passengers going east over the Bur
lington, Rock Island, Chicago, Min
neapolis and St. Paul, all aboard!” —
Des Moines Register.
In the old mining days a child was
so rare in San Francisco that once in
a theater, where a woman had taken
her infant, when it began to cry, a
man in the pit cried out, “Stop those
fiddles and let the baby cry. I haven’t
heard such a sound in years.” The
audience applauded this sentiment,
the orchestra stopped and the baby
continued its performance amid un
bounded enthusiasm.
The Western & Atlantic is the only
line in the South running four through
passenger trains per day each way, from
one terminal to the other. It, there
fore, offers advantages over jail other
lines for tourists going from Atlanta
to the north and northeast.
OUR “FIRST SPRING'’ NUMBER.
ATLANTA, CA., MARCH I, 1890.
Alleged Wit.
“Mother, may I go speculate ? ”
“My son, you hadn’t oughter;
But it you must, please do it straight,
And don’t go near the water.”
“Oh, what is that belt for?” the maiden
inquired
Os her lover, who sat by her side.
“Why that is a life-buoy, in danger re
quired.”
The happy young fellow replied.
“I think I’m in danger,” the maiden went on,
“And I need a life-buoy very badly;
I guess 1 must have one ere the year’s gone.”
Said her lover: “I’ll be that boy gladly.”
Henry —“So you asked old Growler
for his daughter last night, did you,
Fred? And how did you come out!”
Fred —“It was a window, I believe,
Harry. That was the best I could do,
though.”
A Georgia girl won SSO the other
day by husking and cribbing sixty
bushels of corn in five hours. There’s
no use talking, a girl who can husk
corn that fast has no business to be
single, with so many men waiting to
be supported.
First Baseballist —“Did you propose
to Miss Diamond last night, Batters
by?”
Second Baseballist —“I did, Pitcher,
my boy.”
F. B. “Score?”
S. B. —“Whitewashed.”
Bad boy (getting in a body blow).
“There, take that!”
Good boy (folding his arms with a
saintly expression). “No, Tommy,
I will not hit you back, because I
promised mother that I would never
strike a playmate, but (kicking him in
the stomach) how do you like tljat?”
Drummer (showing her necklace) —
“How do you like this?”
Miss Lovelorn —“Oh, how lovely!
You are altogether too kind to make
me such a beautiful present.”
Drummer (grabbing it) —“This is a
new sample J’nj to take out on the road
next week.”
My Life Is Like the
Summer Rose.
BY RICHARD awIRY WILDE.
My life is like the summer rose,
That opens to the morning skv,
But ere the shades of evening close
Is scattered on the ground to die;
Yet on the rose’s humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see,
But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf,
That trembles in the moon’s pale ray;
Its hold is frail—its date is brief,
Restless—and soon to pass away !
Yet ere that leaf shall fall and lade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me J
My life is like the prints which feet
Have left on Tampa’s desert strand—
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
His track will vanish from the sand;
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea,
But none shall e’er lament for me.'
To Measure Speed on a Train.
Several veteran railroad men were
seated in the smoking compartment of
a Pullman car on the W. & A. R. R.
the other day. The train was due
in Atlanta about two hours later. A
discussion arose as to the rate of speed
that they were traveling at. One of
the party guessed that the train was
going over forty-eighty miles an hour.
Another estimated the speed at forty
five miles, another at fifty, and so on.
Finally one of the men took out his
watch, held it in his hand less than
half a minute, looking at it steadily all
the while.
“We are going forty-six and one
half miles an hour,” he said, looking
up from his watch.
One of the other men thereupon
took out his watch, held it in the palm
of his hand, and keep his eyes riveted
upon the dial, never once looking out
ofthe window. After the lapse of
half a minute be looked up and said
that they werelraveiing at the rate of
forty-seven miles an hour.
“How can you tell the rate of speed
by simply looking at your watch?” in
quired an interested witness of these
proceedings.
“Why, easy enough,” replied the
railroad man. “You know, every
time the car passes over a rail-joint
there is a distinct click. Just count
the number of these clicks in twenty
seconds, and you have the number of
miles the train is going per hour.
This is a simple matter of arithmetic,
as the length of the rail is uniform.”
The Western & Atlantic Railroad is
known as the “old reliable,”
NO. 5.