1 The last of the poems written for the class of '29. See the letter from Samuel May to F. J. Garrison, quoted in Morse's Life of Holmes, vol. i, p. 78: " After the Curfew" was positively the last. "Farewell! I let the curtain fall." The curtain never rose again for 29." We met once more a year later at Parker's. But three were present, Smith, Holmes, and myself. No poem - very quiet-something very like tears. The following meetings-all at Dr. H.'s house - were quiet, social, talking meetings - the Doctor of course doing the live talking. At one of these meetings four were present, all the survivors but one; and there was more general talk. But never another Class Poem.'

This poem, and the three following, appeared in Over the Teacups.

2 The personal reference is to our greatly beloved and honored classmate, James Freeman Clarke. (HOLMES.)

Look here! There are crowds of people whirled through our streets on these new-fashioned cars, with their witch-broomsticks overhead, if they don't come from Salem, they ought to, and not more than one in a dozen of these fish-eyed bipeds thinks or cares a nickel's worth about the miracle which is wrought for their convenience. They know that without hands or feet, without horses, without steam, so far as they can see, they are transported from place to place, and that there is nothing to account for it except the witchbroomstick and the iron or copper cobweb which they see stretched above them. What do they know or care about this last revelation of the omnipresent spirit of the material universe? We ought to go down on our knees when one of these mighty caravans, car after car, spins by us, under the mystic impulse which seems to know not whether its train is loaded or empty. (HOLMES, in Over the Teacups.) The first electric trolley-cars had just been introduced when this poem was written, in 1890.

For he came from a place they knew full well,

And many a tale he had to tell.
They longed to visit the haunts of men,
To see the old dwellings they knew again,
And ride on their broomsticks all around
Their wide domain of unhallowed ground.

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In Essex county there 's many a roof
Well known to him of the cloven hoof;
The small square windows are full in view
Which the midnight hags went sailing
through,

On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high,

Seen like shadows against the sky;
Crossing the track of owls and bats,
Hugging before them their coal-black cats.
old wives,

Well did they know, those gray
The sights we see in our daily drives:
Shimmer of lake and shine of sea,
Browne's bare hill with its lonely tree,
(It was n't then as we see it now,
With one scant scalp-lock to shade its

brow;)

Dusky nooks in the Essex woods, Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes,

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Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous

snake

Glide through his forests of fern and

brake;

Ipswich River; its old stone bridge;
Far off Andover's Indian Ridge,
And many a scene where history tells
Some shadow of bygone terror dwells,
Of Norman's Woe' with its tale of dread,
Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead,
(The fearful story that turns men pale:
Don't bid me tell it, my speech would
fail.)

Who would not, will not, if he can,
Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann, -
Rest in the bowers her bays enfold,
Loved by the sachems and squaws of old?
Home where the white magnolias bloom,
Sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume,
Hugged by the woods and kissed by the
sea!

Where is the Eden like to thee?

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For that couple of hundred years, or so,' There had been no peace in the world below; The witches still grumbling, 'It is n't fair; Come, give us a taste of the upper air!

To mind his orders was all he knew; The gates swung open, and out they flew. 70 'Where are our broomsticks?' the beldams cried.

'Here are your broomsticks,' an imp replied. 'They've been in - the place you know so long

They smell of brimstone uncommon strong; But they've gained by being left alone, Just look, and you'll see how tall they 've grown.'

And where is my cat?' a vixen squalled. 'Yes, where are our cats?' the witches bawled,

And began to call them all by name:
As fast as they called the cats, they came:
There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-
tailed Tim,

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They came, of course, at their master's call, The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all;

He led the hags to a railway train
The horses were trying to drag in vain. 120
Now, then,' says he, 'you've had your

fun,

And here are the cars you've got to run.
The driver may just unhitch his team,
We don't want horses, we don't want
steam;

You may keep your old black cats to hug,
But the loaded train you 've got to lug.'

Since then on many a car you'll see
A broomstick plain as plain can be;
On every stick there's a witch astride, -
The string you see to her leg is tied.

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