In course of time he reached the town, To stop a week or more; And in a large hotel was lodged, Upon the second floor; If you should doubt my word in this, Step over to the “Grand;” You’ll find his name recorded there, And in a scrawling hand. It chanced—but hold! ere more I say, Or sentence more you read, Are you prepared with me to stray Wherever he may lead? You are! all right, then “on’s” the word, Again my pen I hold, And blame me not, if I should jot Down facts he’d wish untold. It chanced while Dave was strolling down A certain crowded street,— (Its name at present slips my mind, Or you’d have all complete)— He met a stranger in the way, Who brought him to a stand; He smiled upon him as in joy And reached a friendly hand. [Illustration: THE NEW ACQUAINTANCE.] He hailed the stranger, no, I think, The stranger him addressed; I would not do the fellow wrong, He’s bad enough at best. The stranger spoke him very free; He came from Jersey, too; For he was sharp as one can be; He thought his folks he knew. “There was a Goyle;—yes, yes, I’m sure; How strange that we should meet! I’ve passed his house a thousand times, And met him on the street.” The miller scarce could credit this; But frank he seemed and fair, So he resolved to step inside, And talk the matter there. There is a drug that bunco men Do mingle with the wine They give to country friends like Dave, For what, I can’t divine. Perhaps those thoughtful rascals deem The noisiness of town Might not allow refreshing sleep To weigh their eyelids down. But whether this the cause, or not, Enough for you and me To know, the wine that David got Was not from mixtures free! Oh! for a club to brain the knave Who could not see the snare; Oh! for a spade to dig his grave, And dump him headlong there. The night has passed away at last; Now hand in hand we’ll scout, Now here, now there, with greatest care, To search that miller out. Thus, side and side, we first will glide O’er letter, word, and line; Until we stand that house beside, Where Dave was drinking wine. Oh, sight! so painful to the eyes, It dims them like a fog! Within the house the miller lies, As still as any log! And not until the sun was high, And bells in towers spoke, From out that deep lethargic sleep He wonderingly awoke. He gazed upon the papered wall; The ceiling overhead; But strange was paper, pictures all, The foot-board of the bed. Swift as the lightning’s flash destroys The spider’s flimsy toil, Suspicion traveled through the head Of the awakening Goyle.