jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry. As I wrung my friend's
hand at parting, I said:

"Haven't we had a royal good time! But now I remember, you haven't said
a word for two hours. Come, come, out with something!"

The Rev. Mr.------ turned a lack-luster eye upon me, drew a deep sigh,
and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness:

"Punch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the
passenjare!"

A pang shot through me as I said to myself, "Poor fellow, poor fellow!
he has got it, now."

I did not see Mr.------ for two or three days after that. Then, on
Tuesday evening, he staggered into my presence and sank dejectedly into a
seat. He was pale, worn; he was a wreck. He lifted his faded eyes to my
face and said:

"Ah, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made in those heartless
rhymes. They have ridden me like a nightmare, day and night, hour after
hour, to this very moment. Since I saw you I have suffered the torments
of the lost. Saturday evening I had a sudden call, by telegraph, and
took the night train for Boston. The occasion was the death of a valued
old friend who had requested that I should preach his funeral sermon.
I took my seat in the cars and set myself to framing the discourse. But
I never got beyond the opening paragraph; for then the train started and
the car-wheels began their 'clack, clack-clack-clack-clack! clack-clack!
--clack-clack-clack!' and right away those odious rhymes fitted