g spirit, up yonder in the sky!" shouted Mr. Waples,
with much firmness, "if thou art not mere nightmare, mere figment of
the sciences, let me feel thy strength unequally, for once!"

The vast cloud object moved and yawned. Something like a small world,
wearing a boot, smote Andrew Waples in the rear, as if the spirit
above had kicked him on the proper spot. He felt a pain and a flying
sensation, that was like paralysis on wings, and he never seemed to
stop for years, until he fell and struck the ground, and, after an
interval, looked around him.

He was in his room, at the United States Hotel, and had fallen out of
bed. The clock in the Baptist church cupola struck two. On the gas
bracket was pinned a written notice, not yet dry, that Andrew Waples
had just started for the High Rock Spring.

But he knew that his adventure continued to be true, for when he went
to breakfast at daylight, he found he had no stomach.

THE PHANTOM ARCHITECT.

Four hundred miles of brawling through many a mountain pass,
From the shadow of the Catskills to the rocks of Havre de Grace,
The Susquehanna flashes by willowy isles of May
And deluges of April to the splendors of the bay.

It brings Otsego water and Juniata bright,
Chenango's sunny current and dark Swatara's night,
By booms of lumber winding and rafts of coal and ore,
And gliding barges crossing the dams from shore to shore.

It is an aisle of silver along the mountain nave,
Where towers the Alleghany reflected in its wave,
By many a mine of treasure and many a borough quaint,
And many a home of hero and tomb of simple saint.

The granite gates resign it to mingle with the bay,
And softened bars of mountain stand glowing o'er the way;
The wild game flock the offing; the great seine-barges go--
From battery to windlass, and singing as they row.

The negroes watch the lighthouse, the trains upon the bridge,
The little fisher's village strewn o'er the grassy ridge,
The cannoneers that, paddling in stealthy rafts of brush,
With their decoys around them, the juicy ducks do flush.

And oft by night, they whisper, a phantom architect
Lurks round the Cape of Havre, of ruined intellect,
Who had designed a city upon this eminence,
To cover all the headland and rule the land from hence.

And sometimes men belated the phantom builder find,
Lost on the darkened water and