Upon my dear good brothers, I invoked God’s choicest blessing!” * * * * * I went and told the brothers, “No; I cannot bear to grieve him; He’s so happy in his exile, it’s the proper place to leave him. I took that journey to him, and right bitterly I rue it; But I cannot take it from him; if _you_ want to, go and do it.” Now a new restraint entirely seemed next Sunday to enfold him, * * * * * And he looked so hurt and humbled, that I knew that they had told him. Subdued-like was his manner, and some tones were hardly vocal; But every word and sentence was pre-eminently local! Still, the sermon sounded awkward, and we awkward felt who heard it; ’Twas a grief to see him steer it—’twas a pain to hear him word it. “When I was abroad”—was maybe half-a-dozen times repeated; But that sentence seemed to choke him, and was always uncompleted. As weeks went on, his old smile would occasionally brighten, But the voice was growing feeble, and the face began to whiten; He would look off to the eastward, with a wistful, weary sighing, And ’twas whispered that our pastor in a foreign land was dying. * * * * * The coffin lay ’mid garlands, smiling sad as if they knew us; The patient face within it preached a final sermon to us; Our parson _had_ gone touring—on a trip he’d long been earning— In that wonderland, whence tickets are not issued for returning! O tender, good heart-shepherd! your sweet smiling lips, half-parted, Told of scenery that burst on you, just the minute that you started! Could you preach once more among us, you might wander, without fearing; You could give us tales of glory that we’d never tire of hearing! _Will Carleton._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _A RAILROAD “RECUSSANT.”_