But yesterday night I dreamed a dream--
I forget what I'd dined on, really,--
'Twas something heavy, and then I'd read
"What I Know of Farming," by GREELEY.
Many and strange were the sights I saw
As I turned on my restless pillow,
BISMARCK and BLUCHER pitching cents
For beer, 'neath a weeping willow.
JULIUS CAESAR was turning up trumps
In a nice little game at euchre,
With a Chinese coolie, GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN,
SATAN, and old JOE HOOKER.
EARL RUSSELL the small, to make himself tall,
Close by on his dignity stood,
While LITTLE JOHN sang the "Song of the Shirt"
'Till I thought he was ROBBIN' HOOD!
BRUTUS was taking a "whiskey straight,"
Which I didn't think orthodox;
While GRANT, with his usual zeal for sport,
Seemed busy with fighting Cox!
But I woke at last with a boisterous laugh
From a dream that was simply ridiculous,
For I knew (so did you) it couldn't be true
That France had succumbed to St. NICHOLAS.
* * * * *
[Illustration: RAILWAY TALK.
_Old Lady_. "SONNY, BE THEM EGGS FRESH OR STALE?"
_Boy_. "FRESH, 'M. I _buys_ MY EGGS, I DOESN'T STALE 'EM!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: EGGS-ACTLY!
_Mr. Benedick._ "BY JOVE! WHAT AN AWFUL SMELL OF ASAFOETIDA THIS EGG
HAS!"
_Mrs. B._ "O, HOW SHOCKING! NOW THAT I THINK OF IT, I _did_ THROW AWAY
SOME ASAFOETIDA PILLS, AND I SUPPOSE THE HENS HAVE BEEN EATING THEM!"]
* * * * *