["You Will Tell Me Where Is Conrad?"]

"You will tell me where is Conrad?" said an old man, bent and gray, While the flames were wildly dancing, and the walls were giving way.

"I haf heard some ones was buried--underneath the ruins fell; He was in de topmost story--ach, mein Gott! I luf him well!

"I will tell you how you knew him: he had full and laughing eye, And his face was smooth and smiling--and he was too young to die.

"Hair he had like clouds at sunset when anodher day is done, And I luf him--how I luf him! and he is mein only son.

"Say, Policeman, tell me truly that this young man you did see, And I all the money gif you, such as I could bring with me.

"Tell me that he anxious acted--that he hunted far and long, Like as children would be calling for their fadher in a throng;

"Or he wounded was, pray tell me--in the hospital to lie?-- I will just now hasten to him, and I not will let him die!

"Tell me--oh, you must not told me--dead you haf my Conrad see? Yet if so is I can stand that--I did long a soldier be.

"Only--Death, we do not fear him when we hear the bullets sing, But to haf my boy killed this way is a rather different thing.

"Only--that his poor old mudher, she waits home all full of fear, And I cannot there be going, till I take good news from here!

"Young he was when we did bring him from the Rhine land o'er the sea; I did lif for her and Conrad--she did lif for him and me.

"Other ones we bring not with us: Gott he says, 'These more be mine;' And we left them all a-sleeping 'mong the vineyards of the Rhine.

"He haf not a cross word gif us--he haf luf us every day, And if he to-night comes home not, 'tis the first that he's away.

"Let me to that fire, Policeman! I care what for walls or brand? Maybe he in there be living--reaching for his fadher's hand!

"Let me past, I say, Policeman! I haf work there to be done! Let go me or I will strike you!--is it that you haf no son?"

* * * * *

Still the flames were like a furnace, and the walls were crashing loud, And the old man, held in safety, fainted 'mid the trembling crowd.

And the mother watched and wondered, with her great eyes scarcely wet; But, half dazed amid her sorrow, waits for Conrad even yet.

WATER.

[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]

APRIL 25, 18--.

RAIN--rain--rain--for three good solid fluid weeks-- Till the air swims, and all creation leaks! And street-cars furnish still less room to spare, And hackmen several times have earned their fare. The omnibuses lumber through the din, And carry clay outside as well as in; The elevated trains, with jerky care, Haul half-way comfort through the dripping air; The gutters gallop past the liquid scene, As brisk as meadow brooks, though not so clean; What trees the city keeps for comfort's sake, Are shedding tears as if their hearts would break; And water tries to get, by storming steady, That fourth of all the world it hasn't already.

And men are not so sweet as men could wish, In air that wouldn't offend a moderate fish; Few places can be found, outside or in, Where this dark-featured weather has not been; For man has always striven, and in vain, To roof his disposition from the rain. I've strolled about, this morning, several miles, 'Mongst men who get their living by their smiles; I've set my old umbrella up to drip In places where I claimed relationship (Or, rather, where my heart did; and that's more Than blood connection is, sixteen times o'er); I've journeyed up and down through half Broadway, And did not see a first-class smile to-day.

And so, in spite of all that I can do, These gold-bowed spectacles are growing blue; And my old heart must bear along the road A fanciful but rather heavy load; A painful pressure from a hand unseen: Most any one knows nearly what I mean.

I think I'll powder up this dark-skinned day, By going, to-night, to hear the actors play! They'll make me laugh, and tone me up a bit, And get me out of this unnatural fit.

* * * * *

11 o'clock P.M.

Got back alive; and that's worth thinking on, From where there's been such lots of killing done; Mercy! it was a somewhat skittish sight-- So many people butchered in one night! 'Twas just a lot of people playing crime-- A sort of murder-picnic all the time.

We found the theatre with handbills spread, Near where the notice in the paper said (The weather had slacked up an hour or so, And Wife thought she would condescend to go), And after stumbling over several chaps, Who thought they'd met us somewhere else, perhaps, And cheerfully addressed us o'er and o'er, As if they'd known us several years or more, Persisting in affording us a chance To buy our tickets at a slight advance (The theatres employ these men, I've heard, To greet their patrons with a friendly word, And light their way in with kind word and smile, And make a dollar out of them meanwhile); We brushed past these remarkable "dead-beats," Some tickets bought, and scrambled to our seats.

After a piece of music by the band, The curtain rose before a castle grand, And soldiers talking, with a half-scared mien, About a spook that one of them had seen. When lo! this ghost appears, plump to their view, And will not talk, although they beg him to. (I whispered to my wife that I'd a freak That a newspaper man could make him speak; But suddenly my comments had to cease, For Wife encouraged me to hold my peace.)

When lo! this ghost, who, thus far, might have come Out of a sky-asylum for the dumb, Speaks with a queer but rather human sound, When once his son, the Prince, gets on the ground; And taking him aside, ten feet almost, Tells the poor boy that he's his father's ghost, Whose own false brother softly to him crept, And poured him full of poison while he slept.

Then the young man got mad, though to my mind 'Twas lunacy of quite a knowing kind; And went to work with an apparent view Of killing off 'most every one he knew.

I haven't the time his actions all to state; I'll only say he managed it first-rate, And some way killed all relatives he saw, From uncle to prospective father-in-law; And when he got through, those he hadn't snuffed out Were hardly worth while bothering about. (I mustn't forget to say that this poor elf Became, at last, a good square corpse himself.)

I looked around, and, the whole building through, Women were shedding tears as if 'twas true; And Wife was 'most too much concerned to speak, And even my old eyes had sprung a leak. 'Twas a moist time; and I remarked, "'Tis plain We've come out of the rain into the rain."

I got so full of funeral, sitting there, Then, when we once more sniffed the clean, live air, It seemed a piece of good-luck all around, To get away once more, alive and sound.

That's what they call a "tragedy;" where Death Flies 'round till he himself gets out of breath; And, with sword-slashes and cold poison filled, All who amount to anything, get killed. It's part of life; some time again I'll view it, But take a good square rest before I do it!

[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]

Here on this sea-beach I wander; Why of the storms am I fonder Than of the sunlight above them? And the clouds: why do I love them-- Waves of the sky, onward sweeping, Or to the ocean-waves leaping? Why do I court this fierce day, Dashing my face full of spray? Why, when the waves strike the shore With their strong, leonine roar, Does my soul fiercely entreat them-- Rush out with rapture to meet them? Why do I love to descry War in the fields of the sky? Why does the chain-lightning's glare, Ploughing blue meadows of air, Look to my vision alway Sweet as a star in the day?

You who in fair summer weather Seek this sea-city together (Built for tumultuous rest, With the famed ocean chief guest), Not half the pleasure you've known That I, here wand'ring alone, On these wet sand-fields have found, Hearing the ocean's own sound, Viewing fierce waves from afar Strive with the winter in war. Storms that tumultuously roll Far through my innermost soul-- Here you encounter, at last, Harmonies wondrous and vast!

* * * * *

What did I find on the shore? Must I rehearse it once more?