THE OLD STAGE-COACH.

Dingy and old and worn, Battered and scratched and torn, Flapping in every sudden gust Doors that creaked with their ancient rust, So it stood in the Burbank shed— One hundred and ten years old, they said— When I was a lad, and used to play "Driving stage," at the close of day. Never an inch did the old wheels stir; Rusted fast at the hubs they were. Yet how strong were my steeds, and fleet, Streaming out 'neath the driver's seat! Over what hills and plains I sped, Rocking there in the Burbank shed! Crack! and the leaders sprang away; Satin-sheened in their coats of bay, Six broad backs at the driver's feet, Surging into the village street. Oh, it was grand! What a race we led! Though the stage stood still in the Burbank shed. Ah! the fright of a certain day, Just at dusk, in the month of May, When I climbed to the creaking door— Bolder, surely, than e'er before— Crying, "Out here, you ghosts—be quick!" And struck the seat with resounding stick. Ha! with a din that would wake the dead Straight there sprang at my shrinking head Something winged and as white as snow! Down I sank in a heap below, While with cackle of loud reproach Flew a hen from the old stage-coach, Leaving there on the tattered seat Something fit for a king to eat! Long ago to the junkman's store Last of the old stage-coach they bore; Bolt and axle and rusty tire All were mixed in the forge's fire. But I can see it in tattered state Waiting yet for its ghostly freight: Powdered sirs with their shovel-hats, Stately dames with their cloaks and mats; While to the box, with a shivering joy, Climbs a rosy-faced country boy! Oh, the charm of the Long Ago, Youth's Valhalla, and Fancy's glow Lighting many a dim old page With such a relic as Burbank's stage! Just for a glimpse of its chrome and red, Fading there in the ruined shed! Just for an hour of the rare old play, "Driving stage" at the close of day! What are all one may say or do To what he dreams when his life is new? James Buckham.