The brooks, they flow into the rivers, And the rivers flow into the sea; I hope, for my part, they enjoy it, But what does it matter to me? Of late, even more I've disliked it, And more disagreeable it seems, Ever since the sad evening last winter, When I had that most frightful of dreams. I thought that a great horrid monster Stood suddenly there in my room-- A frightful Geography Demon, Enveloped in darkness and gloom; His body and head like a mountain, A volcano on top for a hat; His arms and his legs were like rivers, With a brook round his neck for cravat. He laid on my poor trembling shoulder His fingers, cold, clammy and long; And fixing his red eyes upon me, He roared forth this horrible song: "Come! come! rise and come Away to the banks of the Muskingum! It flows o'er the plains of Timbuctoo, With the peak of Teneriffe just in view. And the cataracts leap in the pale moonshine, As they dance o'er the cliffs of Brandywine. "Flee! flee! rise and flee Away to the banks of the Tombigbee! We'll pass by Alaska's flowery strand, Where the emerald towers of Pekin stand; We'll pass them by, and will rest awhile On Michillimackinac's tropic isle; While the apes of Barbary frisk around, And the parrots crow with a lovely sound. "Hie! hie! rise and hie Away to the banks of the Yang-tze-ki! There the giant mountains of Oshkosh stand, And the icebergs gleam through the falling sand; While the elephant sits on the palm-tree high, And the cannibals feast on bad-boy pie. "Go! go! rise and go Away to the banks of the Hoang-ho There the Chickasaw sachem makes his tea, And the kettle boils and waits for thee. We'll smite thee, ho! and we'll lay thee low, On the beautiful banks of the Hoang-ho!" These terrible words were still sounding Like trumpets and drums through my head, When the monster clutched tighter my shoulder, And dragged me half out of the bed. In terror, I clung to the bed-post; But the faithless bed-post, it broke. I screamed out aloud in my anguish, And suddenly--well, I awoke. He was gone. But I cannot forget him, The fearful Geography Sprite. He has my first thought in the morning, He has my last shudder at night. Do you blame me for hating my lesson? Is it strange that it frightful should seem? Or that I more and more should abhor it Since I had that most horrible dream? THE TOWER MOUNTAIN BY GUSTAVUS FRANKENSTEIN. II.