Of a victim buried living by his friends who thought him dead;
And I think I know his feelings in the cold and silent tomb,
For I've slept at Uncle Hiram's in the best spare room.

* * * * *

THE OLD CARRYALL

It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed,
Where the spider-webs swing from the beams overhead,
And the sun, siftin' in through the dirt and the mold
Of the winder's dim pane, specks it over with gold.
Its curtains are tattered, its cushions are worn,
It's a kind of a ghost of a carriage, forlorn,
And the dust from the roof settles down like a pall
On the sorrowin' shape of the old carryall.

It was built long ago, when the world seemed ter be
A heaven, jest made up for Mary and me,
And my mind wanders back to that first happy ride
When she sat beside me,--my beauty and bride.
Ah, them were the days when the village was new
And folks took time to live, as God meant 'em ter do;
And there's many a huskin' and quiltin' and ball
That we drove to and back in the old carryall.

And here in the paint are the marks of the feet
Where a little form climbed ter the high-fashioned seat,
And soft baby fingers them curtains have swung,
And a curly head's nestled the cushions among;