A TALE FOR THE TIMES.

I HATE thee, chattering telegraph!

Of madness I am on the border.

That click, click, click, when working well,

That clank, clank, clank, when out of order!

Reason, avaunt! I only state the

Simple fact, which is - I hate thee!

I was not always thus, - to quote

Good Mr. Kellogg's gladiator;

Once I adored with child-like love

Of novelty. It was no later

Than Monday week, at half past nine,

I was a power "on the Line."

O Fate! O Fate! O cruel Fate!

I feel the fatal fire within burn;

I feel the most insane desire

Of emulating Mr. Swinburne;

I feel wild, bitter things which I

Could ne'er express - and so won't try.

A slender wire with graceful span

Connected Tozer's room and mine,

And many a helpful telegram

Has traversed that convenient line;

It signalled each approaching bevy,

It headed off the artful Levy.

We found it jolly! Every day

Some brilliant new device was hit on;

Sharp "Wake up, boy!" to disconcert,

Or kleptomaniac Goody sit on.

Till life became, like ballet throngs,

A pleasant group of shorts and longs.

One morn - O fatal morn! - within

My room, expressing many a wish I

Had n't imbibed that drop too much,

Evidenced by the telltale fish-eye,

Reflecting what a fool I'd been, -

I heard a knock and cried, "Come in!"

A portly man, of middle age, -

Tom Tozer's father. - Heaven defend us! -

I begged he would excuse the room,

Also my stockings and suspenders.

An armchair? Thanks, but stand he'd rather;

A human ramrod Tozer's father!

He had not found his offspring in;

(What luck, he had not found him out!)

He would remain here if I pleased;

Thomas must be somewhere about,

He stood and glowered like a Turk,

When - what!! - the line began to work.

"Zwei bier," - my call; - "in Heaven's name,

If you have got the old man, make him

Remain till I can air the room

And hide the broken glass, - deuce take him!

I've burned those photographs. He knows a

Thing or two. You bet. T. Tozer."

I answered: "O. K. Don't forget

To put your French works under cover;

And as for 'Io,' why not hang

'The Death of Washington' above her?

But, if you love your life, be spry!

There 's something wicked in his eye."

I told the truth. A cruel smile

Lit up the elder Tozer's features,

As if he said, "You 're sharp, sir, but

I know a little game to beat yours!"

He took his hat, unbent his brow,

And said, "I may find Thomas now."

I lied. I told him T. recited

From nine till one. He did not doubt it,

But had some business in town,

And thought he 'd better be about it.

Just at the door he turned him round,

And murmured, "Boy, I read by sound!"

* * * * *

Please, printer, here insert some stars!

For Tozer pere turned out a Tartar;

Finding telegraphy was all

His son had learned from Alma Mater,

He proved as vengeful as Iago,

And Tom is clerking in Chicago.

And so I hate thee, telegraph!

Of madness being on the border.

Thy click, click, click, when working well;

Thy clank, clank, clank, when out of order!

Traitor! ah, well may I berate thee!

Once more, and finally, I hate thee!

C. A. M.