They came again one Christmas-tide,-- That angel host, so fair and white! And singing all that glorious night, They lured my darling from my side. A little sock, a little toy, A little lock of golden hair, The Christmas music on the air, A watching for my baby boy! But if again that angel train And golden head come back to me, To bear me to Eternity, My watching will not be in vain! "I went next to the Kansas City 'Times' as managing editor. I wrote there that 'Little Peach,' which still chases me round the country." THE LITTLE PEACH. A little peach in the orchard grew, A little peach of emerald hue; Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, It grew. One day, passing that orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue, Them two. Up at that peach a club they threw, Down from the stem on which it grew, Fell that peach of emerald hue. Mon Dieu! John took a bite and Sue a chew, And then the trouble began to brew, Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue. Too true! Under the turf where the daisies grew, They planted John and his sister Sue, And their little souls to the angels flew, Boo hoo! What of that peach of the emerald hue, Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. Adieu! [Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM.] "I went to the 'Denver Tribune' next, and stayed there till 1883. The most conspicuous thing I did there, was the burlesque primer series. 'See the po-lice-man. Has he a club? Yes he has a club,' etc. These were so widely copied and pirated that I put them into a little book which is very rare, thank heaven. I hope I have the only copy of it. The other thing which rose above the level of my ordinary work was a bit of verse, 'The Wanderer,' which I credited to Modjeska, and which has given her no little annoyance." THE WANDERER. Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, I found a shell, And to my listening ear the lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell. How came the shell upon that mountain height? Ah, who can say Whether there dropped by some too careless hand, Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land, Ere the Eternal had ordained the day? Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep, One song it sang, Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide, Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide, Ever with echoes of the ocean rang. And as the shell upon the mountain height Sings of the sea, So do I ever, leagues and leagues away, So do I ever, wandering where I may, Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee. "That brings you up to Chicago, doesn't it?" "In 1883 Melville Stone asked me to join him on the 'News,' and I did. Since then my life has been uneventful."