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��THE GRANITE MONTHLY.
��Here, in the pauper lots, Mcintosh was buried. The exact spot of the grave may not be distinctly remem- bered by the aged people who wit- nessed the burial. Over seventy years have the flowers bloomed and the winds chanted a requiem through the pines of the adjacent forest over all that was mortal of brave Mcintosh. .\nd here, where in full sight of the passing traveler in riding along the route of the Passumpsic and B. C. & M. Railroad, let there be a monument erected worthy of the man and the deed. Of slight build, sandy com- plexion, nervous temperament, says our informant, we can easily imagine that a person like our hero would find irk- some the restraints of city life, and like
��the more active frontier life, in Graf- ton county, as known in those days,, where declining years found him in poverty and a pauper. If an active move is made, much information can be gleaned that would throw light upon the history of the man by those who recollect him in their childhood days, when he was known as " the Captain," and always addressed as such by other members of the party, who, living in an adjoining town, occasionally visited him ; and at times, when nerved up and enlivened by a hot punch of rum and molasses, the black strap of old, he would tell of the doings of, not of the Indians, but his chickens, as he facetiously called them. — Mountaineer.. Island Pond, Vt., Nov. 13, 1883.
��PJSCATAQUOG RIVER.
��in- JAMES M. AD.-UIS.
��Thy song has ne'er been sung, () River I Silver streamlet seeking the sea ;
The joy to praise thy wandering ways Is a joy that is left to me.
Thy name abroad has ne'er been known,
Or famed in ancient story ; Thy tide may flow and never know
The golden light of glory.
I'ut more to me than other streams, Thy charms will ever bind nie
With chains of gold, while I behold The happy days behind me.
Behold in fancy, not in fact,
The days that are no more, When I, beside thy rippling tide,
Dreamed dreams that now are o'er.
Fair dreams! sweet dreams! that even now
Come back again to cheer. When at my feet in music sweet
Thy murmuring voice I hear.
��Along thy mossy lanks 1 straj', And watch thy wayward dances v
f]ach word, unheard by other ears, Enwreathed among my fancies.
I see the golden sunbeams fall, And kiss each wave in turn ;
F]ach wavelet's crest upon thy breast A jewel seems to burn.
1 see thee 'neath the moonbeam's light,.
A mass of silver shining ; Thy rocky banks, in stately ranks.
The oaks and maples lining.
Fai'e-thee-well, O rippUng River!
That flows through my heart as weU As between the banks whei-e in stately ranks
The oaks and maples dwell.
O River ! now thy song is sung !
Would that fitter hand than mine Had chose thy name to give it fame ;.
But then — 'tis no other's shrine.
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