He could not bear to leave me once, Not even for a day; He grieved and pined in loneliness Whene'er I was away. But now he lies untended there, Nor murmurs from his bed; And down in mold and darkness keeps The watches of the dead. We draped him for his final rest, 'Mid sobs, and tears, and sighs; We combed his hair, and tenderly We closed his precious eyes. Do rose and violet keep their place Through all these wasting hours? And does his little moldering hand Still clasp its withered flowers? With such endearing cares we sought The cruel grave to cheat Of half its horrors; even his toys Were buried at his feet. How vain the thought to placate Death With cheerful funeral rite! I have a funeral in my heart; I bury him each night. The grief each idle passer-by Prejudged would soon depart, Is gnawing deep and deeper still Into my withered heart. And in my agony, I turn To that far spot of ground, Where all my earthly hopes lie dead, Within the little mound. A WALK WITH A STRANGER. A WESTERN REMINISCENCE. I WAS waiting at — Landing, on the Mississippi, for friends from the East. The spring floods were subsiding. The low, level land on the other side, with its rich vegetation exposed to the hot sun, sent up sickly vapors, and each day brought some new cases of ague and fever. Lofty bluffs, between which the town extended, shut away every breath of air. At times the heat seemed like a furnace. Nevertheless, the chills often drove me out to the sunny side of the hotel, where I would stand shivering in my overcoat. One morning I stood warming myself as usual. The street had few signs of life, save that scores of hogs ran about grunting their love of liberty, intent on plunder, which consisted mainly in running their sharp noses into bags of flour that stood in tempting array at the doors of the stores. The traders kept a long whip ready for the porkers, but "practice makes perfect," and the hogs would often outwit them. An instance amused me. A shopkeeper, seeing the hogs coming, waited tills they were within reach, then, springing out, he applied the lash, and they ran squealing away. He saw them approach his neighbor's flour. Assured that his own in the mean while was safe, he returned to his counter. Scarcely was he there, however, when a long-legged boar rushed back with the fleetness of a hound, and, by a dextrous blow of his tusk, tore a bag from bottom to top, emptying the contents on the ground. At once his companions rushed to the spot. The flour quickly disappeared, and, as I was laughing at the scene, a deep voice at my side said, "Wouldn't you like to take a walk, stranger?"