Cousin Ben Folsom (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight of his room, Making it rich and like a lily bloom, A fat man writing with a pen of gold: Exceeding luck had made Ben Folsom bold, And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” The fat man raised his head, And in a voice made sweet by its accent, Answered: “The names of those who love the President.” “And is mine one?” asked Benny. “Nay, not so,” Replied the fat man. Benny spoke more low, But cheerily still; and said, “I pray, if not too late, Write me as one who’d love a consulate.” The fat man wrote and vanished. The next night He came again, with a great flickering light, And showed the names. Ben Folsom looked, And lo! for Sheffield, England, he was booked. _Albany Express._ U.S.A. [Mr. Benjamin Folsom is a cousin of Mrs. President Cleveland (United States), and has had the management of her affairs. Soon after her marriage to the President, the newspapers began to mention him as likely to have an appointment under the Government, and in a short time he was named United States Consul for Sheffield, England.] ―――― ADAM MAC ADAM. Adam Mac Adam (may his clan increase) Awoke at midnight with a hearty sneeze, And, as he raised himself in bed, he saw Something that struck Mac Adam’s soul with awe. For, bending in the moon’s uncertain light, An aged man, with locks all silvery white, Sat making entries in a ledger old. The sight uncanny made his blood run cold, And scarce for terror could Mac Adam ask The nature of the scribe’s untimely task. “Behold, I write,” the vision answered then, “The names of those who love their fellow men.” “And pray,” said Adam, with a hopeful grin, “Your Honor’s honor, am I counted in?” “Nay,” spake the presence, with a look of grief, “My task is easy, for the roll is brief; Look through the M’s, but all in vain, I fear, You seek your ancient patronymic here.” Then meekly Adam said, “I am not one Who boasts to others of the good I’ve done; I seldom answer to the public call With wants so pressing and with means so small; I ply a woodsaw for my bread and pork, And half the time, you see, I’m out of work; So, from my purse no stream of largess flows; No loud subscription my sign-manual knows; But this I do,――now lend attentive ear―― Each wintry morning when the dawn grows clear, I take my bucket to the ash-hole dim, And there I fill it to the very brim; Then in the sidewalk take my slippery stand, And scatter ashes with a liberal hand, So at my gate no broken heads I see; No cripple shakes his gory leg at me; In kind regard I’m held by rich and poor, Save by the surgeon who resides next door.” Thus Adam told his tale, the while The great scribe listened with a brightening smile, Then vanished. The next night he came again: