Autumn Leaves | Page 9

brink of sleep
Fall into chaos and be lost. I dream.
Now
comes mine enemy, not silently,
But with insulting and defiant
warning;
Come, banquet, if thou wilt; I offer thee
My cheek, my

arm. Tease me not, hovering high
With that continuous hum; I fain
would rest.
Come, do thy worst at once. Bite, scoundrel, bite!
Thou
insect vulture, seize thy helpless prey!
No ceremony! (I'd have none
with thee,
Could I but find thee.) Fainter now and farther
The tiny
war-whoop; now I hear it not.
A cowardly assassin he; he waits,

Full well aware that I am on the alert,
With murderous intent.
Perchance he's gone,
Hawk-eye and nose of hound not serving him

To find me in the dark. With a long sigh,
I beat my pillow, close my
useless eyes,
And soon again my thoughts whirl giddily,
Verging
towards dreams. Starting, I shake my bed;--
Loud thumps my
heart,--rises on end my hair!
A murder-screech, and yells of frantic
fury,
Under my very window,--a duet
Of fiendish hatred, battle to
the death,--
'T is enough to enrage a man! Missile I seize,
Not
caring what, and with a savage "Scat!"
That scrapes my throat, let
drive. I would it were
A millstone! Swiftly through the garden beds

And o'er the fence on either side they fly;
I to my couch return, but
not to sleep.
Weary I toss, and think 't is almost dawn,
So still the
streets; but now the latest train,
Whistling melodiously, comes in; the
tramp
Of feet, and hum of voices, echo far
In the still night air.
Now with joy I feel
My eyelids droop once more. To sleep and dream

Is bliss unspeakable;--I'm going off;--
What was I thinking
last?--slowly I rise
On downy pinions; dreaming, I fly, I soar;--

Through the clouds my way I'm winging,
Angels to their harps are
singing,
Strains of unearthly sweetness lull me,
And thrilling
harmonies----"Yelp! Bow-wow-wow!"
"Get out!"--"The dog has got
me by the leg!"
"Stave him off! Will you? See, he's rent my pants,

My newest plaid!--Kick him!"--"Yow, yow!"--"This house
I'll never
serenade again!--A dog
Should know musicians from suspicious
chaps,
And gentlemen from rowdies, even at night!"
"Beat him
again!" "No, no! Perhaps 't is HERS!
A lady's pet! Methinks the
curtain moves!
She's looking out! Let's sing once more! Just once!"

"Not I.--I'll sing no more to-night!" and steps
Limping unequally, and
grumbling voice,
Pass round the corner, and are heard no more.

TO THE NEAR-SIGHTED.
Purblind and short-sighted friends! You will listen to me,--you will
sympathize with me; for you know by painful experience what I mean
when I say that we near-sighted people do not receive from our
hawk-eyed neighbors that sympathy and consideration to which we are
justly entitled. If we were blind, we should be abundantly pitied, but as
we are only half-blind, such comments as these are all the consolation
we get. "Oh! near-sighted, is she? Yes, it is very fashionable
now-a-days for young ladies to carry eye-glasses, and call themselves
near-sighted!" Or, "Pooh! It's all affectation. She can see as well as any
body, if she chooses. She thinks it is pretty to half shut her eyes, and
cut her acquaintances." I meet my friend A----, some morning, who
returns my salutation with cold politeness, and says, "How cleverly you
managed to cut me at the concert last night!" "At the concert! I did not
see you." "O no! You could see well enough to bow to pretty Miss
B----, and her handsome cousin; but as for seeing your old schoolmate,
two seats behind her,--of course you are too near-sighted!" In vain I
protest that I could not see her,--that three yards is a great distance to
my eyes. She leaves me with an incredulous smile, and that most
provoking phrase, "O yes! I suppose so!" and distrusts me ever
afterwards. Alas! we see just enough to seal our own condemnation.
Who is free from this malady? As I look around in society, I see staring
glassy ellipses on every side "in the place where eyes ought to
grow,"--and perhaps most of the unfortunate owls get along very
comfortably with their artificial eyes. But imagine a bashful youth,
awkward and near-sighted, whose friends dissuade him from wearing
glasses. Is there in the universe an individual more unlucky, more
blundering, more sincerely to be pitied?
See that little boy, who, having put on his father's spectacles, is
enjoying for the first time a clear and distinct view of the evening sky.
"Oh! is that pretty little yellow dot a star?" exclaims the delighted child.
Poor innocent! a star had always been to him a dim, cloudy spot, a little
nebula, which the magic glass has now resolved; and he can hardly
believe that this brilliant point is not an optical illusion. But when his

mother assures him that the stars always appear so to her, and he turns
to look in her face, he says, "Why, mother! how beautiful you look!
Please to give me some little spectacles, all my own!" She could not
resist this entreaty,--(who could?)--and little "Squire Specs"