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3IMIBIbIBbIMPww t w ~ l 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.