The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI | Page 7

he always (spoke of as the Misus) taken a small
but quaint cotage, so as to make quiet and please Rose whose guardien
he was.
In the distanse was seen an advancing teem, and mounted on its box
driving was W. Alexander, distinguished as to aperence, tallent, and
that charm, money. He was of the most patricien aristocrats of the place.
Placed on the summit of one of those hils that spring up in the most
unexpected ways and degrees was the quaint old Tudor mansion of the
Alexanders called Waterloo, in rememberence of the home of his
ancestors which now rests on the banks of the Potomack; a legend as to
war and romance. Though bearing with him all the honners that
Cambridg could confere, W. Alexander was a faverite in the vilage,
being ever ready with a kind enquiry as to Parent, or peny for marbles,
not forgetting his boyhoods days. Though the beau par excelant of the
vilage, and posessing vast landed estate and a kind retinu, he was not
haughty.
Every one was eger to see Rose perform. She in her pasage too and
frow had won by her sweet manners (many likings) ere she exhibited
her skill.
The eventful hour of promis came and what a crowd was there. Rose
came fourth, asisted by Paul Paulo. His form was molded even as an
Apolo, and his eger eye was fixed on the bony girl. She ballanced her
pole, saught her equiliberum, and every heart was at her desposal, not
accepting W. Alexander. Seeing this, the dark pashonate eye of the
Italian scowled.
So droped the curtain of the first performance. And W. Alexander
stroled on towards his home, heart and head full of the beautiful circus
girl, thoughts were very conflicting, love at first sight.
(We will skip, for want of space, the exquisite passages descriptive of
the mutual love of Rose and W. Alexander, and pass on to the finale.)
There was a paus, a sencation, and Rose came fourth to meander in

mid-air. Admeration was at its hight, as she swayed too and frow as it
were a winged egle from some etherial climb.
Low! a paus--the rope snaps--and Rose falls to erth a helpless mass of
youth and beauty. The venerable man of medicin closed her star-lit
eyes now forever dimed to this world. And all knew she had walked the
last rope that bound her to this erth.
What, who, was her murderer?
The rope seemed to be cut with some jaged instrument so that when her
tiny feat pressed its coils it became her destroyer.
Suspician pointed at the Italian.
W. Alexander's old Father of sympathy now the strongest, entreted our
Hero to sale for distent shores, there asisted by that balm time and
change, there assuage his grefe.
Well, came the last evening, and with the sadest of hearts and a bunch
of sweet violets W. Alexander went to bid a long fare well.
But as he neared the sacred spot his heart seemed deadened. Prone on
her grave changing the snowy whiteness of the flowers with its crimson
die was the body of Paul Paulo. Who by his own hand caused his life
blood to floe as an attonement.

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
Up and down old Brandywine, In the days 'at's past and gone-- With a
dad-burn hook-and-line And a saplin'-pole--i swawn! I've had more fun,
to the square Inch, than ever anywhere! Heaven to come can't discount
mine Up and down old Brandywine!
Haint no sense in wishin'--yit Wisht to goodness I could jes "Gee" the

blame world round and git Back to that old happiness!-- Kindo' drive
back in the shade "The old Covered Bridge" there laid Crosst the crick,
and sorto' soak My soul over, hub and spoke!
Honest, now!--it haint no dream 'At I'm wantin',--but the fac's As they
wuz; the same old stream, And the same old times, i jacks!-- Gim me
back my bare feet--and Stonebruise too!--And scratched and tanned!
And let hottest dog-days shine Up and down old Brandywine!
In and on betwixt the trees 'Long the banks, pour down yer noon,
Kindo' curdled with the breeze And the yallerhammer's tune; And the
smokin', chokin' dust O' the turnpike at its wusst-- Saturd'ys, say, when
it seems Road's jes jammed with country teams!--
Whilse the old town, fur away 'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land, Dozed-like
in the heat o' day Peaceful' as a hired hand. Jolt the gravel th'ough the
floor O' the old bridge!--grind and roar With yer blame
percession-line-- Up and down old Brandywine!
Souse me and my new straw-hat Off the foot-log!--what I care?-- Fist
shoved in the crown o' that-- Like the old Clown ust to wear. Wouldn't
swop it fer a' old