IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 // 
 
 {/ 
 
 ^ 
 
 :/. 
 
 
 ^O 
 
 (/. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^^^^ 
 
 !.0 
 
 I.I 
 
 1.25 
 
 |50 '""^ 
 
 M 
 
 2.2 
 
 2.0 
 
 1.8 
 
 U ill 1.6 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 Corporation 
 
 i3 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
 ,\ 
 
 ''^^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 o 
 
 
 6^ 
 
 % 
 
 v^ 
 

 &? 
 
 ^ 
 
 CIHM/ICMH 
 
 Microfiche 
 
 Series. 
 
 CIHM/ICMH 
 Collection de 
 microfiches. 
 
 Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques 
 
 6^ 
 
Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques et bibliographiques 
 
 The Institute has attefitpted to obtain the best 
 originol copy availabie for filming. Features of this 
 copy which may be bibliographically unique, 
 which may alter any of the images in the 
 reproduction, or which may significantly change 
 the usual method of filming, &re checked below. 
 
 □ 
 
 Coloured covers/ 
 Couverture da couiour 
 
 [ I Covers damaged/ 
 
 D 
 
 Ccuverture endommagie 
 
 wOvers restored and/or laminated/ 
 Couverture restaurie et/ou p^llicuiie 
 
 pn Cover title missing/ 
 
 Le titre de couverture manque 
 
 □ Coloured maps/ 
 Cartes gdographiques en couleur 
 
 □ Coloured ink (i.e. other th&n blue or black)/ 
 Encre da couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire) 
 
 □ Coloured plates and/or illustrations/ 
 Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur 
 
 □ Bouni 
 Reli* 
 
 D 
 
 □ 
 
 Bound with other material/ 
 avec d'autres documents 
 
 □ Tight binding may cause shadows or distOTtion 
 along interior margin/ 
 
 Lareliure serreo peut causer de I'ombre ou de la 
 distorsion l« long de ia marge Intirieure 
 
 Blank leaves added during restoration may 
 appear within the text. Whenever possible, these 
 have been omitted from filming/ 
 II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajouties 
 lors dune restauration apparaissent dans le texte, 
 mais, lorsque cela itait possible, ces pages n'ont 
 pas iti filmdes. 
 
 Additional comments:/ 
 Commentaires suppl^mentaires; 
 
 L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire 
 qu'il lui a iti possible de se procurer. Lea details 
 de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-dtre uniques du 
 point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier 
 une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une 
 modification dans la methods normale da filmage 
 sont indiqute ci-dessous. 
 
 r~n Coloured pages/ 
 
 Pages de couleur 
 
 Pages damaged/ 
 Pages endommagdes 
 
 Pages restored and/oi 
 
 Pages restaurdes et/ou pellicMldes 
 
 I I Pages damaged/ 
 
 I I Pages restored and/or laminated/ 
 
 >/ 
 
 Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ 
 Pages ddcolor^es, tachet^es ou piquees 
 
 □Pages detached/ 
 Pages ddtachaes 
 
 y/ 
 
 Showthrough/ 
 Transparenre 
 
 n~1 Quality of print varies/ 
 
 Quality inigale de ('impression 
 
 Includes supplementary material/ 
 Comprend du materiel suppl^mentaire 
 
 Only edition available/ 
 Seule Edition disponible 
 
 D 
 
 Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata 
 slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to 
 ensure the best possible image/ 
 Las pages totalement ou partiellement 
 obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata. une pelure, 
 etc., cnt 6ti fllmies d nouveau du facon a 
 obtenir la meilleure image possible. 
 
 This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ 
 
 Ce document est filmi au taux de reduction mdiqui ci-dessous. 
 
 10X 14X 18X 22X 
 
 26X 
 
 30X 
 
 rr 
 
 12X 
 
 16X 
 
 20X 
 
 24X 
 
 28X 
 
 32X 
 
The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanks 
 to the generosity of: 
 
 The Nova Scotia 
 
 Legitlativs Library 
 
 L'eK'empiaire fiim6 fut reproduit grAce A la 
 
 g6nArosit6 de: 
 
 The Nova Scotia 
 
 Leflitlative Library 
 
 The images appearing here are the best quality 
 possible considering the condition and legibility 
 of the original copy and in keeping with the 
 filming contract specifications. 
 
 Les images suivantes ont 6t6 reproduites avec le 
 plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et 
 de la nettetd de i'exempiaire fllm6, et en 
 conformit6 avec les conditions du tontrat do 
 filmage. 
 
 Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed 
 beginning with the front cover and ending on 
 the last page with a printed or illustrated impres- 
 sion, or the back cover when appropTlate. All 
 other original copies are filmed beginning on the 
 first page with a printed or illustrated impres- 
 sion, and ending on the last page with a printed 
 or illustrated impression. 
 
 Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en 
 papier est imprimis sent filmto en commenpant 
 par le premier plat et en terminant solt par la 
 dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte 
 d'impression ou d'illustratlon, solt par le second 
 plat, selon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires 
 originaux sont filmte en commenpant par ia 
 premiere page qui comporte une empreinte 
 d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par 
 ia dernidre page qui comporte une telle 
 empreinte. 
 
 The last recorded frame on each microfiche 
 shall contain the symbol "-^(meaning "CON- 
 TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"), 
 whichever applies. 
 
 Un des symboies suivants apparattra sur la 
 dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le 
 cas: le symbole — ► aignifie "A SUIVRE", le 
 symboie V signifie "FIN". 
 
 Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at 
 different reduction ratios. Those too large to be 
 entirely included in one exposure are filmed 
 beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to 
 right and top to bottom, as many frames as 
 required. The following diagrams illustrate the 
 method: 
 
 Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre 
 filmds d den taux de reduction diffdrents. 
 Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre 
 reproduit en un seul clichd. II nst filmd A partSr 
 de Tangle ^updrieur gauche, de gauche d droitc. 
 et de haut en bas. en prenant le nombre 
 d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants 
 illustrent la m^thode. 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
 I 
 
\ 
 
 BHBB 
 
ONLY BUDS 
 
 BY 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 The works of an author present the aspect of a flower garden. 
 He who wanders through may gather what he loves the best^ 
 and pass by those which offend his vision.— Z. E. H. 
 
 1884. 
 
 FiNLAY A. Grant, PirBLisHER, 
 
 New Glasgow, N'o\'a Scotia. 
 
nsnmnRM 
 
 As 
 
 b 
 
 U^ 
 
TO 
 
 FINLAY ARNON GRANT, 
 
 A TRUE KEPRKSENTATIVE OF THE CAUSE SHE MAS HUMHLY 
 
 endeavored to aid, 
 
 this volume is affectionately inscribed »v 
 
 The Author, 
 
■pm 
 
(V) 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 This volume of poems and sketches represents by individu- 
 ality what Amateurdom is collectively. The idiomatic term, 
 Amaieurdom — sanctioned by its usage since the inception of 
 the institution which it defines — represents the embryotic 
 elements of American literature. The youth of the country 
 who possess literary inclinations and are desirous of culti- 
 vating those germinal impulses, are its members. Amateur- 
 dom may then be analyzed as the period of literary matricula- 
 tion. Many of the young men and women who are identified 
 with it never attain proficiency with the pen, but in the 
 cultivation of then- appreciative faculties, enabling a full com- 
 prehension of the beautiful which derives its nativity, Minena- 
 like, from the brain of others, they receive vast benefit through 
 their connection with Amateurdom. 
 
 By far the lesser element of the members of Amateur Jour- 
 nalism is constituted by those who display ability in the 
 creative field of literature. It is more distinctively this class 
 which is represented in the current volume. 
 
 This, briefly told, is Amateurdom and its objects. Is it not 
 as essential for the cultivation of literary taste among the peo- 
 ple as is the school-room for expanding the iriental faculties of 
 childhood, the gymnasium for the development of the physical 
 possibilities of mankind ? 
 
 A bounteous nature scattered the tokens of Flora in every 
 quarter of the globe to gladden the vision of mankind. While 
 
VI 
 
 Preface. 
 
 in the tropics the richest tints mingle in the harmony of nature, 
 the more delicate, but no less beautiful hues, are given the 
 regions embraced by the temperate zone. Even on the craggy 
 Alpine heights the virgin edelweiss greets the tourist's eager 
 eyes. All are adapted to condition and circumstance. So 
 Amateurdom has its flowers ; though mayhap they are only 
 buds. Whether they are to unfold and breathe forth the rich 
 perfume of full-blown flowers depends upon the public. Its 
 opinion can either touch the blossoms with its icy touch, and 
 the petals lie withered and dead ; or it can instil new life into 
 the parent stem, and the buds may expand and grow to the 
 grander possibilities of maturity. 
 
 The Purlisher. 
 
nature, 
 ven the 
 cragg:y 
 s eaj^er 
 ce. So 
 re '^nly 
 the rich 
 lie. Its 
 ch, and 
 life into 
 /v to the 
 
 >HER. 
 
■ HMUIlyM 
 
 I 
 
(ix) 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 To My ^ -TENDS, . ''^'-j- 
 
 A Life Vjem, . . . . . , . 3 
 
 The Shadow Picture, 5 
 
 Thk L vv' OF THE Lily, . . . . , j, 
 
 Retrospective, ... t<- 
 
 Her Book of Love, iq 
 
 Our Cactus, ^ 
 
 To the Lover, ^c 
 
 The Snow Storm, 2^ 
 
 Autumn, . . .... . . ^q 
 
 Fairy-Land, ....... 
 
 Wait Not, ... 
 
 33 
 
 A Simile, • • . • . . . • 7< 
 
 A Billet Dou:c, ..... ^^ 
 
 Perfected Love, . . . . . * ' lo 
 
 Boa- Song, . . . ^ .. . \ ^ ^, 
 
 Between You and Me, ., 
 
 With A Flower ^^ 
 
 Lines, ^5 
 
 Stanzas, ......... 47 
 
 To My Friend, ^3 
 
I 
 
 X , Contents. 
 
 Her Foot-Prints i>,' the Sxow, 
 My Ideal — A Sonnet, 
 A Sea Shell, .... 
 Trolling, .... 
 
 A Name, 
 
 To Howard, .... 
 Christmas Chimes, 
 The Glad New Year, 
 Disclosed, .... 
 
 Jealousy, .... 
 
 False Friendship's Burial, 
 A Mother's Dream, ^ 
 
 UnI VOCAL, .... 
 
 At Twenty, . 
 
 After Long Months, 
 
 Midwinter, . . . . 
 
 Life Voiceless, 
 
 Pansies, . . . . . 
 
 De Profundis, 
 
 To My Amateur Friends, 
 
 sketches. 
 Little Papers, 
 An Unsealed Letter, 
 A Treasure, . " . 
 
 Love, 
 
 Jake Weston, 
 
 A Winter Memory, 
 
 Trah^ino Arbutus — A Fraorment, 
 
 Lena's Poem, . . . . 
 
 PACE. 
 
 49 
 50 
 
 51 
 
 52 
 
 53 
 
 53 
 
 54 
 
 55 
 
 56 
 
 57 
 
 58 
 
 56 
 
 61 
 
 63 
 
 65 
 67 
 
 69 
 
 7^ 
 72 
 73 
 
 79 
 
 85 
 89 
 
 93 
 102 
 
 no 
 
 "3 
 115 
 
I'AGE. 
 
 49 
 
 50 
 
 51 
 
 52 
 
 53 
 
 53 
 
 54 
 
 55 
 
 56 
 
 57 
 
 58 
 
 56 
 
 61 
 
 63 
 
 65 
 67 
 
 69 
 
 7^ 
 
 72 
 73 
 
 79 
 
 85 
 89 
 
 93 
 102 
 
 no 
 
 113 
 115 
 
V 
 
f I ) 
 
 TO MY FRIENDS. 
 
 One time my j^iiardian an«^el straved, 
 
 And showed to me a <rarden fair: 
 Truth, Hope, and Faith, and tender Love, 
 
 Were the scrange flowers growing there. 
 I tried to grasp them ; tried to bind 
 
 About m_y soul their perfume rare, 
 To give my friends. When lo ! I learned 
 
 Bloomed in their lives more than I dare 
 To eve; crave. I turned away ; 
 
 Then, with a sudden yearning pain, 
 Retraced my steps: There smiled at me 
 
 A few sweet buds, that I mioht fraiii. 
 
 From out the gardens of rich Thou'dit 
 
 Rare blossoms ever have been culled ; 
 They have been worn upon your hearts, 
 
 And often has their perfume lulled 
 The fever of your brain. My friends. 
 
 Had I the power, such would I give. 
 But now I can give Only Buds. — 
 
 Unknowing if they die or live. 
 But in the time that is to be, 
 
 God grant, as kindred spirits meet. 
 Within your souls I then may find 
 
 One of my buds, a blossom sweet. 
 
(3) 
 
 A LIFE'S POEM. 
 
 AWAKENINTG. 
 
 I. 
 
 The gentle breeze strayed through the casement wide 
 
 And mingled with soft whispers, few and low; 
 The birds trilled sweetly from their nests outside ; 
 
 The sun shed o'er the earth its golden "-low. 
 Two pretty eyes ope'd to the light of day, 
 
 Bewildered, closed : a faint and pleading cry 
 Declared in subtle, undefined dismay, 
 
 A new-born soul — a nameless prophecy. 
 
 II. 
 'Mid the clover and the daisies 
 
 Two soft hands wreathed flowers bright: 
 Two red lips sang pretty praises, 
 
 Two blue eyes drank in God's lijrht. 
 In a chamber's holy silence. 
 
 Childhood's faith asked Heaven to keep ; 
 Lightly rose a pure soul's incense — 
 Wondering e3'es then closed in sleep. 
 
 THE SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Love strayed with the sunlight, 
 It roamed in the garden. 
 It kissed the swc 
 
 .'cet fl 
 
 owers 
 
 All dripping with dew. 
 
A Life's / 
 
 'ocni. 
 
 Love stole to that l)()S()in, 
 It blessed that chaste spirit. 
 It thrilled all that heiiiii^: 
 
 Its heart throhhed anew. 
 
 "• 
 
 The sun was low-sinkin<2^ ; 
 A soft breeze in mischief 
 Rare flowers' rich perfume 
 
 ^alf stealthily won. 
 The sweet bells were chimin*^;. 
 Soft words were low-echoed, 
 A bosom wild throbbin<;- — 
 
 Two lives were made one. 
 
 DAUKNKSS. 
 I. 
 
 Upon the shores of Error's barren sands 
 
 A proud wreck — furious, tremblin^^- — faced rude storms ; 
 No human aid came from the neif^hborino- strands — 
 
 But peopled fast the waste with seeminjj^ forms 
 That were foul thoughts from drear Despair's abyss. 
 
 Sprang up to make a suicide's mad brain ; 
 Through aM that aching void Death lured to bliss ; 
 
 Life held supreme grim Torment's bitter pain. 
 
 II. 
 The storm swept slowly past. The wretched soul 
 
 Grasped gentler thoughts; felt breezes mild and light; 
 Bcvond the drearv waters' threatening roll 
 
 Gleamed 'neath the tender sun a far-off height. 
 A ray of light soft beckoned : — stirred the wreck. 
 
 Quick shivered — turned away — turned back; at length. 
 Slow-moving, glided toward the distant speck 
 
 An ea<rer soul, lured on bv heaven-born strength. 
 
A Life's Poem. 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 Grief had pierced e'en Time's dull breast, 
 
 Yet its heart ne'er ceased to beat; 
 And its tender, healinjj^ touch 
 
 Proved a balm, for all wounds meet. 
 Golden rays from Hope's fair dawn 
 
 Shed their blessings m.mifold ; 
 Trust reached out its tender arms, 
 
 Nor did Faith its peace withhold. 
 
 COMPENSATION. 
 
 A faint though pretty smile. Soft, dimpled hands. 
 
 That gently strayed o'er mother's bosom fair; 
 Then childhood — wavering in its demands — 
 
 Leaped to its father's arms, and nestled there. 
 A pulsing, mystic throb of peace divine 
 
 Stole gently to the bosom soft -caressed ; 
 Unclouded light of trusting faith sublime 
 
 Shone from the childish eyes, and all were blessed. 
 
 A love that conquers. Sorrow's pain withdrawn. 
 
 Life's promise won ; lips that once more can pray; 
 A trusting soul that waits a glorious dawn 
 
 Afar, beyond life's evanescent day. 
 
■ I 
 
 (6) 
 
 rilK SHADOW PICTURE. 
 
 Longf years apfo, in lands afar. 
 
 There lived a maiden, fair Orille. 
 Beneath the shadows of old trees. 
 
 And close beside a ripplin*;- rill, 
 Stood a small cotta<j^e, her dear home: 
 
 Wherein she dreamed in silence <i^rave. 
 Or crept in wontler, after hours 
 
 Of rapturous joys that Nature <i,ave. 
 
 vShe dwelt apart from petty cares. 
 
 And far remote fn)m taintin<if strife ; 
 Nor dreamed of auj^ht hut purity, 
 
 Nor wearied of her peaceful life. 
 A blithesome, careless child she seemed. 
 
 Yet 'neath that dainty, childish ji^uise 
 There lav un^^uessed, at sw(n>ninjj depths, 
 
 Thouijhts that when roused, well mi<^ht surprise. 
 
 Fair, sweet Orille ! her wondrous eyes, 
 
 That jj^azed (.n sunset-tinted clouds, 
 (jrrew dark as midnlfrht, and expressed 
 
 A childish awe, as thouji^h dim shrouds 
 Gleamed throu«^h the pearly clouds above. 
 
 That paler grew with dying day, — 
 And in those lustrous, humid orbs 
 
 The smouldering fire of Genius lav. 
 
7'//r .S/idtfow Picture. 
 
 The years rolled on. And sweet Orille 
 
 Stood hlushin<r on the verjrc of time 
 That casts fair jrirlhood with a paii;^^ 
 
 Into a trenihlin<j woman's clime. 
 No lover came in earthlv <niise 
 
 To woo that chaste and lovinjr iieart. 
 Yet in its pnre and sacred depths 
 
 There lay sweet thoujrhts, alone, apart,— 
 
 That ofttimes in the silent hour 
 
 Aros^; to stranjre ,,v 1 thrillin<; speech 
 Upon her dewy lips ; and crrew 
 
 At last to wondrous lessons teach. 
 Within sweet Fancy's tender realm 
 
 There dwelt a fondly-loved Ideal : 
 And ofttimes to the scented winds 
 
 Her soft, white hands threw an appeal 
 
 To waft her hero in warm life 
 
 Unto that silent, peaceful spot. 
 To claim her wealth of youth and love, 
 
 And turn to bliss her lonely lot. 
 I^ut days fled past, and fickle winds 
 
 Revealed to none that trusted prayer ; 
 Yet subtly ^m\<r to pure Orille 
 
 Sweet words that ^rcw, stranj^c fruit U^ bear 
 
 One calm, fair day — a day so warm 
 
 It lured the sweetest, stray injr breeze — 
 A stranjre idea, yet pleasincr well, 
 
 Stole softly in her heart to ease : 
 And yet, amazed at daring thouj^ht. 
 
 Her senses 'neath the vvitchinj^- spell 
 Felt bound with cords of finest steel : 
 
 Grew faint within their prison cell. 
 
 7 
 
 I 
 
The Shadow Picture. 
 
 Thou<>jlit %\Q\s resolve ; and tranct'd still, 
 
 She souj^ht the room, unused and dini, 
 That held the hrush .she fain would louch 
 
 To bring to life her jrirlish whini. 
 O wondrous power! O gifted hands! 
 
 The sun-rays, as they sank to rest. 
 Smiled last upon a canvrs there. 
 
 That held, outlined. Grille's unrest. 
 
 How should that form and face appear? 
 
 She pondered not ; but placed with care. 
 In broad, bold sweeps, a manliness 
 
 That drew her blushes. Gazing there, 
 She wept with tender, saddened tears ; 
 
 She ne'er had seen such manly grace 
 In glowing life ; and wept but more 
 
 At thought of colors she p-,ust trace 
 
 To make complete those outlines rough. 
 
 She slept, to see a colored weft ; 
 And waked, to find what p'.Mfectness 
 
 Should glow with touc.es fond and deft. 
 Time sauntered past with lingering feet. 
 
 Her favorite haunts knew her no more ; 
 Within that chamber grew a face 
 
 That richest tints of beauty wore. 
 
 The good dame of the cottage oft 
 
 In mild though gravest wonder, pondered 
 O'er the changes in her restless pet : 
 
 And yet her straying thoughts ne'er wandered 
 To such a truth as posed abo\e 
 
 Grille's unrest. Her fancied peace 
 None ever thought they could molest. 
 
 So from her task how could she cease .' 
 
The Shado-LV Pictn 
 
 re. 
 
 9 
 
 Was it complete? Alas! Grille 
 
 Sank breathless in a silent prayer, — 
 lint oh! 'twas such a darinj^ one, 
 
 'T was lost in depths of wild despair. 
 Oh, for a ^racious Master-hand ! 
 
 To touch the heauty jjlovvin<r there, 
 And breathe a breath of pulsiu'^ life 
 
 On those moist lips unknown to care. 
 
 The lonjrincr of her <rentle heart 
 
 Grew an<ruish in its wild extreme. 
 Until in dreamland faded pain, 
 
 And o^rew to ccstacy supreme. 
 But dreams fade out. 'T was toward morn. 
 
 When o'er her senses softly steal 
 The tJ^lamour of a heavenly dream, 
 
 Brino-incj to life thinji^s most unreal. 
 
 The form upon the canvas there 
 
 Swayed forward with a half caress. 
 The lips breathed kisses moist with love, 
 
 The lustrous eyes beamed tenderness. 
 Orille rose in her restless sleep. 
 
 Her warm lips sought the fond caress. 
 Her cup of bliss at last flowed o'er ; 
 
 But life ran oui with its excess. 
 
 Hours fled apace. The sun arose 
 And shone upon a strange, sad scene. 
 
 Then crept behind a friendly cloud. 
 Abashed at its own glare and sheen. 
 
 But gathering courage, stole once more 
 To view the wreck of one still night, 
 
 pff'" 
 
lO 
 
 The Shadoic Pi r tun' 
 
 And touch xv'iih loviivj, softened ,<rk'ain. 
 The te:itnres of the fallen kni<,du. 
 
 With lovinjjf rays it sou<;ht the sheen 
 
 Of fair Orillc's Uixuriant hair, 
 And threw a halo soft and mild 
 
 On all the lifeless beauty there. 
 Before that picture faces paled. 
 
 Yet one knew how her loved was blest, 
 And felt, though filled with stony <;rief, 
 
 '^He "ivoth His beloved rest." 
 
 i 
 
(II ) 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LFLV 
 
 { . 
 
 i 
 
 ThtM-e were cloiuls, ami clouds rare-tinted, 
 
 Floating throii«rh the summer air, 
 O'er the waters that reflected 
 
 All the softtuss floatino^ there ; 
 And the children happy voices, 
 
 Murmuriiijr tVom the distant strand, 
 Drifiod like sweet strains of music 
 
 From some unseen secret band. 
 
 There a sail-boat id'y floated 
 
 O'er the ripplinj^ waters' foam, 
 Toward the field of white far-crlcaniin,i(, 
 
 That sujro-ested paths to roam 
 'Mid the «farden of the waters — 
 
 Ah, what bliss strayed o'er the wave ! 
 Thus too^cthcr dreamed two idlers, 
 
 While all earth its sweetness o-a\e. 
 
 He had gathered a lake lily, 
 
 And its calm and lovelv face 
 Placed upon her hci.vintj bosom, 
 
 Where it hunj? in dainty jrracc ; 
 While its heart of crold slow-trembled 
 
 'Mid the fr:.^rance, snowy-leaved. 
 As it shed its sweetest perfume, 
 
 That the sofl air subtlv breathed. 
 
The Lay of the Lily. 
 
 Sweet the calm, as on they floatcfl : 
 
 Happiness is worthy fame. 
 But unto that happy Eden 
 
 Slow the storied serpent came. 
 Bv a movement all too careless 
 
 Swift there lay at Margie's feet, 
 Smiling, fair as any snowdrop, 
 
 A like less strange, but fair and sweet. 
 
 Margie's dark eyes grew still darker 
 
 At: she saw a half-formed fear 
 Starin<r from her idol's blue ones: 
 
 Then upon her soul smote clear 
 With the grasp of fiendish fingers, 
 
 Rumors that once passeil her by ; — 
 Was the time now come to heed them ? 
 
 Stifled, fled an anguished cry. 
 
 'T was his face. Ah. he had loved it! 
 
 Yes, perchance he loved it now ; 
 Banished were all thoughts of gladness. 
 
 As o'er lip, and cheek, and brow. 
 Swept a cloud, a sombre shadow : 
 
 Grim despair at last prevailed: 
 Downward swept the silken lashes — 
 
 l'\u'y, madness, hate, were veiled. 
 
 No words came of explanation : 
 
 Oft they pro\e of no avail ; 
 For a glance, a touch, a something. 
 
 O'er grim Doubt sometimes prevail. 
 Useless were his pleading glances. 
 
 For that sweet face calmly smiled 
 Into her's, from Harold's feet there — 
 
 Frienzied hate was speaking mild 
 
The Lay of the Lily. 
 
 Of the thoughts that swayed her beinjr. 
 
 On the lily's heart of jrojd 
 Harold's lips fell, mutely pleadino-; 
 
 Vet, alas ! too rash ! too bold ! 
 As his kisses shook the petals, 
 
 One white hand .^-learned in the air:- 
 Heaven, seeing, smiled in splendor 
 
 Upon Margie, lonely there. 
 
 Still the soft waves rippled music. 
 
 Still the cloudlets floated by, 
 vStill the lily shed its perfume — 
 
 What cared they for smile or sigh? 
 Did the sweet pathetic silence 
 
 Stir her heart to wilder woe? 
 Did that yonder circling ripple 
 
 Move her pulses fast, or slow? 
 
 What had been? What liendi.sh spirit, 
 
 Floating o'er the waters deep. 
 Flashed into those supple fingers 
 
 That they made so true a sweep ? 
 And what dreadful, unseen presence, 
 
 Or what strange and awful power, 
 Left a warmly brilliant blood-stain 
 
 On the heart of that white flower? 
 
 * * * » 
 
 After months — and long months after - 
 ^ Trembling 'neath the harvest moon. 
 Came the fairest flowers of summer, 
 
 Lilies with their virgin bloom. 
 And upon those placid waters. 
 Drifting like a phantom pale. 
 
 »3 
 
 » 
 
MtiUlMI^ 
 
 '4 
 
 The Lay of the lAly. 
 
 Swayed a boat amid the shadows. 
 With a burden jjhostlv trail. 
 
 Jtist amid the tVajijrant Hlies, 
 
 From tlie waters darkly deep. 
 With a nervous, tremblinu^ motion, 
 
 Plueked from out its dreamy sleep. 
 Came a dewy, tra<^rant blossom — 
 
 On a jj^hastly breast 'twas lain — 
 When, from out its chaste-like ^lory, 
 
 (ileamed a brilliant carmine-stain. 
 
 Wan-white lips were pressed upon it : 
 
 Prayer moaned o'er the waters wide. 
 Then a something smote the water — 
 
 Margie slept by Harold's side. 
 And the moon gleamed on the lilies, 
 
 And the waters mirrored moons 
 That with every tlowing motion 
 
 Fell back into paling swoons. 
 
 Novv with every summer season — 
 
 So the ancient story runs : 
 'Mong the lilies' stately blossoms, 
 
 One with heart of blootl still comes ; 
 And to wish in firm believing. 
 
 When the moon swings o'er that grave. 
 Is to know a Fate most kindly — 
 
 Grants whatever boon vou crave. 
 
OS) 
 
 RETROSPECTIVE. 
 
 "Tell mc no more, no inorc 
 Ot my soul's lofty ^fifts - Are thev not vain 
 1 o quench its h.-iuntin^ thirst for luiopiness > 
 H:ive I not loved, and striven, and failed to hind 
 One true heart unto n,e, whereon mv own 
 MiRht find a restinK-place. a home tor all 
 Its burden ot affections ?■' 
 
 As one who otten strives with vearnino- o,,/e 
 To pierce the raylcss c^loom of solemn Ni<rht. 
 And tossing fevered arms across its hreast? 
 Sheds hitter tears upon its -loomv brow, 
 Crying, for rest and peace with mute, parched tono-ue,- 
 rhus ever on the disc of by.-one years 
 Circled the ureless -hosts of my sad heart. 
 And ever on the -rave of buried Love 
 Dripped tears of blood from that same throbbin- source. 
 
 The busy world ran on ; it heeded not 
 The mournful eyes of its youn-votarv. 
 That ever turned upon its'bafflin- face 
 In weary questioning:; its careless heart 
 Recked not: its ruthless feet sped j^aylv on, 
 ^or stayed themselves for mortal's weal or woe 
 So speechless Sorrow o-rew familiar with 
 The si^ht of Love's fair, precious, sweetened -ifts 
 1 hrown sadly down, or thrust in breathless haste 
 Ipon the reckless world's wide, carnal heart: 
 And sTcw to court absorbino- I^itterness — 
 
 ifi 
 
Rctrosfcctive. 
 
 Th?t twines itself too oft amon<=f the mind's 
 Stronsf clinw-ino- tendrils, near the fruitful vines. 
 To spread the germs of hatred and of woe. 
 
 Sometimes the peace of heaven falleth down 
 Upon the mournino^ spirit swift and sure 
 Am doth the lurid li<i^htnincr cleave the sky ; 
 Sometimes it steals as gently o'er the soul 
 As doth the warmly-tinted rays '^f light 
 Creep o'er the mountain tops to herald day. 
 
 Wan Sadness turned away from the wide pool 
 That seethed within the luring city's breast. 
 And sought the glowing solitude: — when lo ! 
 A strange, warm hand clasped her's, and face to face, 
 And heart to heart, she met. and viewed, and loved 
 Fair Nature. 
 
 Mortal well may sing thy praise, 
 O gentle spirit! Thy sweet voice instils 
 A happiness and calm that is not born 
 Of social joys, nor close companionship, 
 Nor friendships made with kindred heart of man. 
 And yet thy deep instructions light the way 
 We all must walk, to bless that which we dee. 
 Regardless of the source from which they spring. 
 The {Jfleaming lilies on the waters' breast. 
 Unfold their petals chaste with calmest grace. 
 And shed their subtle sweets upon the air. 
 Conscious of ugly thorns, the sweet-bi iar bush 
 Grows fragile gems ot blushing light, and casts 
 Its golden hearts' frail fibres to cold earth — 
 
 avely out-blooming flow'rs of sterner mould. 
 May's dainty blossoms struggle into life 
 From 'neat'.! the fett'ring vines that str've to blight. 
 
l^ctrospcrtixH\ 
 
 And turn their fragrant hearts to far-off heaven 
 C:rivincr their all unto whoe'er shall seek 
 
 '7 
 
 Upon the virgin soil that covered o'er 
 Love's sad, sad wounds, the flow'rs that greet the <lawn 
 Of lightsome childhood spraug once more. Thev bloomed 
 Ky day, and nightly turne^l their perfumed souls 
 lo heav'n for drops of spirit-dew; and peace 
 ^ ell on grim, restless Woe, until it stood 
 Transfigured - and no more the faintest trace 
 Of sadness held mute reign o'er Hope's rapt heart. 
 
 Since that glad hour hath there been no ,nore need 
 Of human love ? Is granted swift desire 
 All that for which it pleads.? Ask me no more 
 Withm the temple of each human heart 
 The quenchless fire of passion burns innate 
 And ev'ry soul that nobly does and well. 
 And ev'ry heart that owns a pure Ideal. 
 Forever yearns a fond, congenial mate ' 
 To some it hath been given to know the jovs 
 That fall like tend'rest benedictions o'er " 
 
 The home of purest, sweetest, truest Love. 
 
 Its bosom is a haven of real rest. 
 
 Where fervid heart-throbs meet rc^sponsi^•e ones ; 
 
 All thoughts, all hopes, all aims, all fond desires 
 
 Meet thoughts and hopes and aims as deep, as sweet, 
 
 As noble and as warm ; and none so blest 
 
 A. they who never weep and long in vain 
 
 For all the blissful peace and sweet repose 
 
 That comes from sacred love and perfect faith. 
 
 For there are some to whom the garnered wealth 
 1 hat snuggles in the untouched, secret depths 
 
i8 
 
 Retrospective 
 
 I 
 
 Of their warm hearts' rich mine, is hut a source 
 
 For restlessness and sorrow — \a<>ue unrest: 
 
 While also, many who are lavishinL"- 
 
 The fresh, sweet passion of their youthfulness 
 
 Upon a selfish idol, soon will know 
 
 The <i;-rief that saps the founts of unwise love. 
 
 And still the years sweep on — hour follows hour 
 Day succeeds day, and tender Nic^ht oft folds 
 Its somhre rohes about earth's weary child. 
 That it may gain, through wild outbursts of grief 
 That Day keeps ever pent within the breast. 
 New courage and relief: wherewith to cope 
 Successfully with all the deep and chill 
 Perplexities Time daily gives fresh birth. — 
 And happy they who find fulfilled in age 
 The luring promises of joyous youth. 
 
 Thus they are flitting by, life's sunny years; 
 And though they fail to quell each lonely heart's 
 Mute cry for tranquil love, in vain their strife 
 To hurl the spirits' haven from its fair. 
 Calm resting-place. There is a sweet, sweet peace 
 That cooling winds from far-off azure clouds 
 Bear gently down to all who silent mourn ; 
 There is a voiceless peace that dwells within. 
 Called into steadfast life from the calm sense 
 Of duties faithfully performed : Replies, 
 For all earth'ft tireless, eager questioners. 
 Than fame — naught but a name, oft dearly bought: 
 Than love — unconscious harbinger of woe: 
 More sweet the calm, low-brooding o'er the soul 
 That owes its hourly rest to glad Content. 
 
(19) 
 
 HER BOOK OF LOVF 
 
 It lay before her enrajMurec! vision 
 Lone^ streaks of lic^ht athwart its side 
 
 And as a diamond's ,crolden settin- 
 
 Gleamed thread-hke letters c^I^,;,',,^, ,,,-,,,. 
 
 She oped it with a nervous fremblin-. 
 And crianced adown the lettered k^af 
 
 And something she had thou^^ht lon:,-huried, 
 Keturned. with unfor-otten -rief. 
 
 Nhe deemed her love so nrmly <.ranite 
 That crnmhled to dust. Upon that pac.e 
 
 .She saw all the cr,im and ^hastlv ruins '^ 
 Grown oloomy and dark and heaw with a-c 
 
 She turned those first leaves slowlv oNer 
 
 ^Vith aching heart, but tearless "eves 
 ^ >ew,n- what Time had tried to co\'er 
 And piercing its filmy, vain disguise.' 
 
 How odious seemed those girlish follies- 
 How much she read below the stains ' 
 
 I li^it marked the death of each frail passion - 
 Buried with stern remorseful pains. 
 
 J 
 
20 Her Hook of Low. 
 
 The fluttering leaves seemed almost countless. 
 And misty and blurred with an<ruished tears. 
 
 That laid on that heart with voiceless pathos. 
 The old-tirne weij^ht of troubles and tears. 
 
 Then one by one the leaves j^rew liji^hter, 
 
 Till only six in the book remained : 
 A nameless terror consumed her beino-, 
 
 As she vaguely wondered what they contained. 
 
 She turned the leat, and there lav jrleamitiir 
 
 A beautiful letter — the letter A. 
 Was this but the symbol of some love-story 
 
 Shinintr out from the past at this late dav.^ 
 
 Nothing but that one beautiful letter 
 
 On that smooth surface of white and j-^old, 
 
 Yet a stranjre, sweet thrill of yearniu": fouf'ness 
 Flashed to the heart that would never j^row cold. 
 
 The loaf fell over; and shone there one letter — 
 A mystical one, as full many could tell : 
 
 Emblematic for ages of life's dearest language : 
 The sweet, pretty letter — the letter I.. 
 
 Strong, eager love, so tender and faithful — 
 It whispered the song as a bird to its mate ; 
 
 How could it but bless in fulfilling its mission .=■ 
 
 Why should she reject it. to sccrn her changed fate } 
 
 l)ver again, and — wonder of wonders! 
 
 Only one letter — the letter B. 
 l^ewildered, she gazed there, then turned the leaf over: 
 
 She sought in those oaafes for more thai 
 
 Ml a kev 
 
Jfi'r J^ook of /.ovc. 
 
 21 
 
 She knew the next letter before .she behel.l it • 
 
 It .s.n.l«l at her „,uteb.- the letter R- 
 How <iear an.l how joyf„| all looks through F.ith', ,. ■ . 
 ' low near .rows the hope that of ..Kltl::' Xr"" 
 
 ■I'hc last leaf fell over, Her tears ,r , , 
 
 That fron, the T's Inst! |e^ •■';;'""' "^ ^^"'^ 
 
 «". felt she the b„rni„r. ov L Ik '^ T'"''' '""''■ 
 And deep „, her hear, lay it, f„i,h, proven tk.e 
 
 "- h„„k understood no. love's pleasures an,l pit: 
 
 '"'rhr''-' T. '•"':"' "P"'- ''^'^ ■''■'-"'t"l to close the.n 
 I hi vnigh this life, forever alljov,. I "osi tntrn. 
 
 That stranjfe book decreed it h ■,''","" '"""' "'"' 
 Most sin^nlv ■» ^."' " • *•"'-' w.shed not to chancre it 
 M-s, .snnplv twas wr.tten, yet nano-ht co.dd tell nvTre 
 
 "And"?'"" '", "■"'" ''"'•■ "^••'' ''■' "P 'h- »ha<lows 
 
 L..y closed, clasped, and sealed: hidden far fro,: her si.ht 
 A.H1 all the sfra,e terrors of sha.lowed hereafters 
 
 nd cirovvniiiP- life'.s sorrow. wJfK "^ ''"^"'"^^ 
 
 s uie ,s .souowj, with one sacred kiss. 
 
22 
 
 Her Book of Love. 
 
 But if from her lips Faith shall claim the key rosy. 
 
 That locks the fond treasure, more precious than ^old. 
 
 Then will her heart weary find rest on Love's Iwsom, 
 And live out its j^lorious promise of old. 
 
 And yet, though still trembling with fondest desire. 
 Love claims not its heritage, early or late 
 
 Love's kingdom, that lies in the life of her dreaming, 
 Will still be unsullied : forever shall wait. 
 
('.U 
 
 OUR CACTUS. 
 
 The house-plants stood i„ the gl„„,„„ ,„„ 
 And sparkled with glistening watrfd"; 
 
 Wh e the cactus, „,d, „„., ....^h. and S' 
 Olew bright, with the sun in it« ,h ' 
 
 Bab,,inin„oce„t,g,.adc:;t;;:t' '"■'">'»• 
 
 Crept to the plant that seeme.l to char.n • 
 «.;^ h,st„,y h.and touched not the gj ' 
 Fo.- the c„,e, thorns pierced his dai^^paln,. 
 
 One day. soon .after, an older child 
 
 Drew near the plant in a curious vein • 
 And h,s hand felt a cruel, thrilling stinl _ 
 
 But he tossed his head, and scorned tlen.nn 
 A cunous fancy sought an<l fo,..nd ' "• 
 
 A place in my restless, weary brain ;_ 
 One te. !er heart smiled grief afar, 
 Anotner wept o>er transient pain. 
 
 The world 's but a cactus of larger ..rowth • 
 In our childish d.ays it seemeth fai; • 
 
 BiU. alas! too soon we feel its thorns 
 
 Through gleams of hope, that turn to care 
 Whde young, we dread e'en sorrows light 
 
 And o er our griefs shed bitter tears ; ' 
 Yet those warm drops cannot nres.age 
 
 The woe that co.neth in after years 
 
24 
 
 Our Cactus, 
 
 Time's wheel rolls on ; we are but spokes 
 
 That with it whirl, nor care to pause ; 
 We now brave grief with scornful smiles — 
 
 Smiles born of tears — that spurn applause. 
 We even laui^h. On our broken hearts 
 
 Love's Hovver lies dead,— we are filled with scorn. 
 For, strivinji^ to jrrasp life's hidde.i oreen. 
 
 We clasp but closer a merciless thorn. 
 
 H 
 
(-•5) 
 
 '^^O THE [.()\'ER. 
 
 rS"K'K...sted upon rea.U„jr..n,, ,.,.,,, 
 
 t" the Moon.- by Ge«.. E. Day. 
 
 As I wandered aimlessly out, one eve, 
 Beneath the pale moon's mellow hVht 
 
 A face filled with sadness I did percefve 
 Vet saw .t transfigured in beauty bright. 
 
 % a ...arden c,ate. in a musing mood. 
 
 And the strange perfume of flower and wood 
 And stranger scene, my steps withheld ' 
 
 And in the shadow of flowering tree 
 i ^azed upon that wondrojs face ' 
 
 Upturned toward heaven, as though in free 
 Resistless longing for a trace ' 
 
 Or sign of wondrous, faithful love - 
 And watching the face beneath the plav 
 
 O the moonbeams that bu.st through cLds above 
 1 saw a promise - one bright ray. 
 
 Then, bethinking me of some verses fair 
 
 I .Lf f,""^^^^^"''^' read, and read once more 
 
 I ^elt on that maid's luxuriant hair 
 
 Lay gleams of light from thy heart's door 
 
■ '~~— — "" — "Tiiniifii'ji'iMiMiij 
 
 26 
 
 7^0 the Lover. 
 
 Then dawned a meaning. O magic scene! 
 
 From viewing those lips ever kissed and caressed 
 By .he tremulous rays of the silver sheen, 
 
 I envied her so strangly hlessed. 
 
 And slowly retracing the lonely path, 
 I thought o'er the mission of the moon, 
 
 And felt to that heart there had been borne 
 From thine, 'Move's bud, to blossom soon." 
 
 f 
 
(^7) 
 
 THE SNOW STORM. 
 
 The great, white flakes camo , i .• 
 And struck fn .n tumbhn^ down, 
 
 Th„ ■ " ' '^''^'^'fo' calm 
 
 1 hat ,,,„,le,l above the first fji-ey belt 
 
 he Hakes ca.ne down too thick to ,„elt. 
 
 They whi,-le,l <l„w„ ,„a<IIy through the ..f,- 
 And some u, hm.Hiter H, , , ' 
 
 .^■7e<, into a„o,.rb::;,~:i:"""'' •■"''''■''■•''- 
 
 A", l.n a vvhKlow 'cross the w y, '• 
 
 1 hree ehihh-en in a row 1 saw! 
 An< one was cooing to the snow, 
 
 A"<l one I saw a circle .Irawi- 
 
 vecp hti — so It seemed to me 
 From w-eepin, .-er an old arm-chai, 
 The cha 7 ,,"'•'' *^ '''- ^''- ''-ee. 
 But h ^""' "'"' *"■■" »"<! old 
 
 •sc^pe z:: hrr ''-'--^ '"-^- 
 
 pea tnue by divers instruments 
 % chlhlish hands in childish lark ". 
 
--•«^ 
 
 H m mfaimumMmm - 
 
 28 T/ie Snow Storm. 
 
 Just a few happy weeks before. 
 
 Beneath that stately old elm tree, 
 I 'd seen the child kiss and caress 
 
 The sullen chair in mirthful glee. 
 And viewing her in wonder mute, 
 
 And thinking of the love that swayed 
 And ruled that heart of innocence. 
 
 My troubled heart I did upbraid. 
 
 I watched the chair in grave content. 
 
 As flakes came tenderly adown. 
 And stopped in pity at its sides. 
 
 Then slowly robed it all in down. 
 Five hours the ^akes caressed the wood, 
 
 Then glancing there — O wondrous sight! 
 The snow^y cushions, gleaming clear. 
 
 To my dull mind brought odd delight. 
 
 And as I gazed, 1 read thereon 
 
 In pearly letter^;, strangely clear: 
 ''See what dear Time hath brought to me ; 
 
 Thou know'st sad wounds are buried here." 
 I marvelled not, for well T knew 
 
 That to the poignant griefs of men 
 Time bringeth cooling heritage,— 
 
 Mysterious draughts, beyond our ken. 
 
 And then I prayc^d from my sad heart 
 
 For deathles time to bring to me 
 With hastening feet, the calm, sweet peace 
 
 My anguished soul could not forsee. 
 And it hath come. I feel, e'en now. 
 
 Oblivion's tranquility; 
 And in delight with that full cup. 
 
 Can smile o'er woful destiny. 
 
(J<>) 
 
 AUTl'MX 
 
 The wild winds vaunt tiiy praises to the earth. 
 
 The wihl birds warble them unto the skv. 
 The wavelets jrently laud thee in their mirth. 
 
 And yet, alas! your jrlories fade and die. 
 
 The leaves, so lately dressed in colors brioht. 
 List to the <yay winds murmur as tl ey pass, 
 
 Become enamored with some distant lij^ht. 
 And float off in a whirlinor, oiddy mass. 
 
 1Mie bare trees toss their wavino- branches out. 
 ^^ And whisper their mild ^nch in murmurs proud; 
 Then o'er their woes they muse with silent doubt. 
 And stran«^ely calm, await their cominj^ shroud. 
 
 Uu<rc bunches of white grasses nod and smile. 
 
 And <rently rustle in the merry breeze 
 That linjrers o'er them lovingly a while. 
 
 Then rushes on. nor heeds their gentle pleas. 
 
 'I'he partridge seeks your carpet sere and dr\- : 
 
 It nestles in the matted underbrush. 
 And. cooing, tempts the wary sportsman nigh. — 
 
 1'hen by a flight, his aspirations crush. 
 
 '^■: m 
 
30 
 
 Aut74?fin. 
 
 Now, dear old year, your youth has fled you by ; 
 
 Your quickened heart-throbs thrilling all the scene. 
 Denote that with your splendor, soon to die, 
 
 You strive to leave us some sweet, happy dream. 
 
 If mortals like to Nature sought their death 
 To dream the dreariness of life away ; 
 
 And like to her shed sweetness with each breath 
 To waken with a pulse of ^Spring's glad day. 
 
 Then gracious death were balm for every smart ; — 
 For blest 'twould be in silent peace to lie, 
 
 Till, wakened by the throb of Spring's glad heart. • 
 They live again the days that bring no sigh. 
 
 But, dear old year, you will not list nor wait ; 
 
 With Nature's chorus, chanting shrill and wild, 
 You hasten to your grave with steps elate, 
 
 And do not care for storms or sunshine mild. 
 
 So shall it be, kind year. The lesson 's mine. 
 
 The soft white snows of Hope shall drift upon 
 My fainting heart — as o'er the grave of thine — 
 
 And happy rest for each will soon be won. 
 
(3«) 
 
 F^AIRY-LAND. 
 
 .> est realm ! The hallowed king^dom where rapt souls demand 
 1 he brightest dreams of youth ; the spot where all the o-rand 
 And maoric scenes -Life actual seeks in vain to claim — 
 Steal witchery from the Queen's own wand to richly frame 
 The.r glowing tracery. Where hearts, grown sad and cold. 
 Live o'er and o'er the transports flaming youth foretold ; 
 Where spirits find sweet charms occult,— that gentlv strand 
 All woes this side the verge of that fair, sacred land. 
 
 He, in the solemn midnight. 
 
 Beheld through filmy snow, 
 That swayed like fairy curtains. 
 
 The sleeping town below. 
 The house-tops peeped from blankets 
 
 That could not quite obscure. 
 Yet folded round their sentries 
 
 Warm coverings, soft and pure. 
 In fairy-land his spirit 
 
 Found answering voice and smile. 
 And gathered brightest visions 
 About the homelv stile. 
 
 I i 
 
 She stood beside the window 
 And viewed the pearly glow 
 
 That Luna, from her highway. 
 Spread o'er the earth below. 
 
■-w-se-v?^:;^ 
 
 ?,^ 
 
 /un'rv- /.(///(/. 
 
 The icc-kin<>- with ijjrini tin.ux'is 
 
 Clutched upon the hikelct's }>rcast. 
 And o'er its vvonderinjj^ bosom 
 
 Fhnijj^ a bricjhtly jewelled vest. 
 Her soul in dreamy nuisinj^s 
 
 Strayed throupjh the silvery sheen. 
 And peopled with sweet fancies 
 
 The wild and lonely scene. 
 
 Fair I.una rose still hi<(her. 
 
 And vainly wooed the joy 
 That wrapped the strayinj? spirits 
 
 Of the thou^^htful jj^irl and hoy. 
 The fair, vvhite vvin<2^s of Slumber 
 
 Then fanned their souls away 
 From fairy-htnd's (ray borders. 
 
 To realms of speechless day. 
 And softly Sleep strayed over. 
 
 With gentle, tender kiss. 
 The lids of each young dreamer. 
 
 That hid a tale of bliss. 
 
 () fairy-land ! O wonder-land I 
 Ne'er yield thy mystic reign. 
 
 Sweet fairy-land I Fair w onder-land I 
 No mortal seeks in vain. 
 
1 t 
 
 ( .u ) 
 
 WAIT NOT. 
 
 Were I to die to-nij^ht _ 
 Then one who now is wanderinj^ far, 
 Would quickly idle steps repair, 
 To view the face death left so fair ; 
 Would ofently touch the soft brown hair, 
 Would press pale lips in mute despair. 
 And breathe a sad, vain voiceless praver. 
 
 Were I to die to-nijrht — 
 Another might in sorrow steal 
 To crjize upon orrini death's strange seal :~ 
 Perchance, beside its shrine to kneel 
 And plead.— Ah, Death heeds no appeal. 
 Stilled lip« no pleading kisses feel. 
 Cold hearts no tender love reveal. 
 
 11 
 
 Were I still lying here — 
 Relentless Death's fair, happy bride. 
 His signet ring this hand beside,— 
 WHiere are the lips thitt then would chide ! 
 All errors, selfishness and pride. 
 Loved ones to earth would then confide. 
 By their unconscious author's side. 
 
 Ah, life is mine to-night. — 
 It sees no terror in the tomb. 
 It finds in death but transient gloom. 
 
34 
 
 The spirit bursts its narrow room. 
 And visions scenes that faintly loom 
 Reyond the <>;ilde(l ^ates of doom. 
 That jjjive to heinjif joyful bloom. 
 
 And thus, while life is mine — 
 While souls may loyal faith enthrone. 
 While hearts may love; while lipsnot prone 
 To make all sacred t'eelinjj^s known, 
 May freely (f'wc: — while free to own 
 That patient strivin<r shall atone 
 For ofrievous ills, — mve not alone 
 
 To hearts tHat death hath chilled. — 
 Bestow your kind caresses now ; 
 Let the warm, livin<2:, throbbinjr brow 
 Feel strayinor hands that love avow. 
 Let the rare fires of friendship ^rlow : 
 Let votive lips their chrism bestow ; 
 Wait not. 'T is sad Death au.oht to owe. 
 
(JS) 
 
 A SIMILE. 
 
 A maiden stood in a crardci fair. 
 And jrathered a rose tor her sunny hair ; 
 'J was a hud that compared with^the hhish of her cheek 
 ^o tracrrant, so dainty, so modestly meek — 
 For the tear-drops of Nature had dripped one by one 
 On Its lips opened wide for the kiss of the sun, ' 
 \\ hde ,ts dew-sprinkled petals all trembled with joy, 
 Neyer thmkin- 'twas only a transient toy 
 For the maiden so careless but <raye it a\.lance, 
 When, directly before her - oh, sad mischance !- 
 She beheld another that seemed more fair. 
 And cast at her feet the rose in despair, 
 rhmk you, if that flower could only haye spoken, 
 I w<>ulc haye been to betray, by a sic^n or a token, 
 I he shock that was dealt to that sensitiye heart. 
 Or the sor-ows of death that would neyer depart. 
 Oh, no! ,t would neyer haye murmured aloud, 
 llioug^h ,ts poor faded petals were formino- its shroud- 
 Yet not tdl its beauties and fracrrance so rare 
 Had scattered their svyeets on the summer air. 
 
 'T is thus many hearts, in a world of their own 
 Lne out their sorrows, with neyer a ^votm. 
 What matters it if in the long ago 
 They were careless and 
 
 blithe, and unk 
 
 novyn lo woe.? 
 
 I 
 
36 
 
 A Si/ni/c 
 
 What can it profit to dwell on the past 
 
 That has left a deep j^iievance forever to last? 
 
 Ah ! Life is so noble, so tender, so sweet, 
 
 When it lacks not affection to make it complete ; 
 
 But when every desire and yearninjjf for such 
 
 Have faded from view, until scarcely a touch 
 
 Of the old and delicious delights of our youth 
 
 Is left us to soften a life void of ruth,— 
 
 We must lonesomely dwell by the wayside wide. 
 
 Cruelly crushed in our youthful pride. 
 
 Thouo-h we kiss the rod drenched in Trial's blood. 
 
 That brinj^s into blossom nor heart nor bud, 
 
 Yet we strive with never a murmurin.<>^ breath 
 
 To rival the rose in Us fraj^rant death. 
 
(J7) 
 
 A MILLET DOrx. 
 
 Dear Will: 
 The v'hitc snow lies knee deep, 
 In a soft carpet o'er the earth ; 
 Our sweet- faced pansies lie asleep, 
 And ripplinjr brooks have lost their mirth. 
 Vet fanc\' holds a summer sky, 
 \Vith blossoms strancrdy fresh and fair, 
 And <,H)lden days that speed us by 
 On perfumed breezes, free from care. 
 
 I see a river broad and deep. 
 That rocks a boat upon its breast, 
 With hucre brown locr a i^niard to keep, 
 And with your oars, in va'n, protest. 
 We crossed the river withotit harm, 
 And landed safely on the shore; — 
 That j^lovvino- scene had a rare charm. 
 \'ct to admit it. I forbore. 
 
 1^1 
 
 
 Inquietness and needless fear.? 
 
 Yes, you are ri<rht, dear Will ; 
 
 Thoucrh even that made safety dear: 
 
 Comparison deep thoufrhts instill. 
 
 But oh, that fire I and opera ! 
 
 What caused our hearts to warmer !L,dow,— 
 
 The darincr flames that leaped afar,^ 
 
 Or faithful love of 
 
 
 -omco, 
 
.^« 
 
 yl m/h't Doux. 
 
 Then our strolls homeward 'neath the moon! 
 That instilled with its chan^injf mood 
 From tj^leaminoj life to darkened swoon, — 
 The lesson oft from life's stag^e wooed. 
 And, Will, I '11 ne'er forget the day 
 You, readinjif, held me on your knee. 
 When I in slumliei dreamed away 
 A fleetin<r hour. You lau<j^hed at me. 
 
 The tables turned, though, after that. — 
 Can you remember what I mean ? 
 I wish together we could chat — 
 But now, alas! miles intervene. 
 Yet still, throi'igh all this dreary space, 
 Through wastes of snow and dreary weather, 
 You must all thoughts of gloom efface. 
 For Will, you know. T 'm yours forever. 
 
 YouK Niece. 
 
 December, iSSi. 
 
(M)) 
 
 t*-2 
 
 PERFECTED L()\'E. 
 
 
 ill 
 
 It wus the blessed, blessed Christmas morn, 
 
 And o'er the silent house a solemn hush 
 Seemed restincr ; and a crentle peace new born 
 
 All thron.s:h the pretty chambers seemed to steal 
 I o centre in the one soft draped with blue. 
 And fall upon its inmate, dreaming there, 
 Like some fair flower the stately lily's hue. 
 
 That sweetly bloomed to bless the Chris'tmas tide. 
 1 he soft blue eyes we. j dreamincr o'er the gifts 
 
 That, strewn upon the pearly colored dress, 
 Suggested sunshine gleaming through the rifts 
 
 In snowy clouds; a lingering smile half dared 
 1 he dnnples _ gently playing hide-and-seek - 
 ^ I hat lurked about the pretty rounded chin — 
 Then, wearied, nestled on each tinted cheek :— 
 And all was peace and harmony within. 
 
 There came a rush and sound of bird-like voice ; 
 
 A merry laugh stole through the sleepv warmth. 
 And sweetest music echoed far— ''Rejoice!" 
 
 A light, quick step went bounding o'er the stairs. 
 And soon beside the happy dreamer's chair 
 
 There glistened lustrous eyes, and smiled red lips. 
 And floated curls of shadowy golden ban-,— 
 
 And eager hands had offered boughs of <rreen. 
 
40 
 
 Perfected Love. 
 
 Then straij^jhtway, with one breath from perfumed pine. 
 
 The chiklish form slow-faded from her si^ht ; 
 Her hein^ was pervaded as with wine 
 
 That steals so subtly o'er the yieldin<^ sense. 
 Once more the summer breezes smile and sigh 
 
 About two youthful forms 'neath boughs of pine : 
 Again her ideal ' )ver lingers nigh. 
 
 And smiles ht r hero from the shadowy past. 
 She sits upon the sear, dried grass and leaves, 
 
 He idles in sweet pleasure's whilom arms — 
 The bright-hued silks with fingers deft she weaves, 
 
 And blushes at his words of tender praise. 
 And on and on swift flies the golden dream, — 
 
 Until a burst of glee a guest proclaims, — 
 And in her presence stands the one supreme 
 
 O'er her fond heart — recalled from out the years. 
 Their married eyes, swift-meeting, haply smiled, — 
 
 Why should she hide her sighs or pearly tears? — 
 Beheld she, in the father of her child. 
 
 Her dreamed-of hero — love of childhood's vears. 
 
me. 
 
 (4') 
 
 BOAT S()N(J. 
 
 We are dr\hm<^ o'er the waters, 
 O'er the waters ripplincr low. 
 
 As they crently kiss the boat-side, 
 Whisperinjr as they onward flow,— 
 
 As they break the happy silence, 
 xMurmurinir soft where'er we o-q 
 
 And the stars above are j^leamintr 
 On your face, so bravely fair,— 
 
 Gleainincr throucrh the cratherin,cr darkness, 
 Smiling softly every where,— 
 
 A\'inkinor into those blue eyes, love. 
 That my kisses coyly dare. 
 
 And your arms about me twining 
 Draw my warm lips nearer thine. 
 
 Till the cm-rent of our being-s 
 Leaps to ecstacy divine, — 
 
 Till we feel a thrill of pleasure 
 That no lanjruajre can define. 
 
 Oh, my love, how sweet the pleasure! 
 
 As 1 rest within your arms, 
 With my head upon your bosom,— 
 
 Pressed above the heart that charms ; 
 Breathless with divinest rapture. 
 
 Thrilled with passion's wild ahtrms. 
 
42 
 
 Hoot So//i>\ 
 
 i'loatinfi^ o'er the inurmurinjr water. 
 
 I^lue above and blue below ; 
 With your soft lips pressinj^ mine, love,- 
 
 Thus forgotten, friend or foe: — 
 Can stern life contain more bless, love? 
 
 Can our hearts more peace e'er know; 
 
(4.{) 
 
 BETWEEN VOr AND ME. 
 
 Ij 
 
 iii.i 
 
 Kmd Nature c^ave nic drauj^hts from her deep well 
 Far sweeter than fro.n Bacchus' fount e'er won ; ' 
 
 I drank w,th deep thanks^^nvinc. and with joy 
 As 1 sat upon the hill-side, in the sun. " 
 
 The wild winds stirred the .c^rasses at m^' feet 
 And swayed the tiny leaflets to and fm, 
 
 1 hat crayly swun^sf in o^old and crimson rohes 
 And lau.crhed upon the lakelet far helow. 
 
 I thought of all the forests far and near 
 Ot all the rolling waters' darkling blue, 
 
 Ot all the smiling vallevs in the sun 
 
 loathed in the dying Autumn's golden hue; 
 
 Of all the bright-eyed birds that softly sin<. 
 
 1 hrough the vast expanse of cloudlets. Tike a sea,- 
 And drew a httle breath - almost a sic^h • 
 
 rt seemed so strange, all this -'tween ^ou an<l me. 
 
 I thou.Ht of all the countless happv homes, 
 
 \^ here lovers with then- lox ed ones are so free : 
 
 1 hat c ense, expansive space far reaching out 
 Saul, -Wishes are but vain --'tween you and me. 
 
 V 
 
 I 
 
44 
 
 Bcttvcen Vok and j\/i\ 
 
 And yet, 1 felt a subtle, tender thrill — 
 1 knew the happ}' future that 's to be — 
 
 So voiceless space, or happy throbbinjj^ hearts. 
 
 Unheeded, could be naui^ht — 'tween you and ine. 
 
 So happy seemed the future for us both. 
 
 Thrice blessed looked the days that are to be; 
 
 So all those o^olden hours' sweet, silent joy 
 
 Seemed but a pretty song — 'tween you and me. 
 
 Strawberry Hill, Oct., 18S3. 
 
(45) 
 
 WITH A FLOWER, 
 
 RcmoN incr from its warn), soft bower, 
 Caressinji^ with a lincrcrin<r j^iss — 
 
 I place it 'tween these leaves ; 
 The perfume of its sweet young life 
 Still lingers 'mid the folds of lace 
 That its departure grieves. 
 
 Thouo-h faded, it shall greet thine eyes 
 For what it would convey to thee,— 
 
 Consider it still fair. 
 And deem its graces not impaired 
 For having blessed my life an hour 
 With sweet Hope's fancies rare. 
 
 Perchance within its golden heart 
 
 lere nestles, wondering, nameless, mute, 
 What thy soul may define. 
 And yet - seek not. My flower but pleads 
 A lovuig thought,- and leaves this heart 
 To find a home near thine. 
 
 it 
 I. 
 
(46) 
 
 LINES, 
 
 TO MY BRAW MIGHLANn I.ADDIE. 
 
 No kiiulrecl blood flows through our throbbing veins. 
 We are not children of the self-same mother; 
 
 Yet, dreaming, waking, in my varied thoughts, 
 I fondly name threje, o'er and e'er, my brother. 
 
 Life, oft relenting, gives rare gifts of love. 
 To bear reluctant yokes of grievous sorrow, 
 
 And oft the heart that yields some cherished hope 
 Finds fuller bliss at dawn of allied morrow. 
 
 So tear-filled eyes, and faltering, wearv hands 
 
 That gladly turned from haunting, cheerless sadness. 
 
 Caught gleams of light and noble tasks of love. 
 That slowly wakened into peaceful gladness. 
 
 Responsive throbbings of a youthful heart 
 
 Send joyous songs with common speeches blending, 
 
 vSet happy smiles on mutely dreaming lips. 
 And stem all counter-currents slow contending 
 
 »S- 
 
 An unseen presence smiles upon and guards 
 
 Affection's shrine, where loyal truth doth hover; — 
 
 My heart thanks heaven for the boon of life : 
 
 To claim thee, name thee, love thee, faithful brother 
 
(47) 
 
 STANZi^S, 
 
 WRFTTRX IX A VOLUME OF ,>07.:ms. 
 
 ill 
 
 A tew sweet thou^^hts steal, one by one, 
 To depths eluding stern control ,• 
 
 lo help a heart that fain would shun, 
 And soothe, perchance, a grievinc. soul. 
 
 E'en icebercrs, '„eath the red-eyed sun. 
 Weep out their hearts in pearly te^rs - 
 
 And proudest hearts, whene'er they 're won 
 Ban.sh fore'er all haunting fears.' 
 
 Rare, glowing thoughts! ye subtly fli„o- 
 A w.tching spell : and songs unsung'' 
 
 Now npp e, gasp, and trembling, sprfng 
 
 Toward warm, rich life: yet backwanl flung 
 
 By feeling that o'er-masters breath 
 
 Fall deaf to yoices that inyoke — 
 Mourn not o'er such untimely dJath, 
 
 Hut gladly claim Obliyion's cloak 
 
 
 
 t i 
 
(4S) 
 
 TO MY FRIEND. 
 
 Beneath my window, in huo^e drifts. 
 
 The snows of many storms lie deep. 
 And from the banks so pure and white. 
 
 No flowering- tree has dared to peep ; 
 Yet 'neath the snowy blanket there, 
 
 Thoufrh all unseen by mortal eves. 
 In patient waiting^ lies rich life. 
 
 That with Spring's whisper shall arise. 
 
 Beneath the surface of Time's snows, 
 
 That drifted o'er a weary heart, 
 There lay a faint, though struggling hope, 
 
 TJ^-.t ne'er felt aught but sorrow's dari. 
 It craved a gende word, a smile — 
 
 For sympathy it thirsted long, — 
 Your listening spirit caught a sigh. 
 
 You blessed the hope with sweetened song. 
 
(4V) 
 
 HER FOOT-PRINTS IN THE SNOW. 
 
 He tn.ce<l th.,„ all al„ng the wiruli,,. p„th 
 That lost ,tself among the dreary hilis, 
 
 1 c„ look.ng, all ,„ vain, for floating hair. 
 1 hat blushes 'neath the sun's warm, kiss-like .low 
 He ,s,g e<l, then smiled: f„r countless looks of.or ' 
 Ope,l w,.le through those light foot.pn..ts in the snow. 
 
 VYi,c,c s k, t Nature wrought, with saws more fine 
 1 1an pohshed steel, rare, intricate <lesi.„s 
 In snowy fretwork. There, c,uick to ,livine 
 
 H.S soul beheld the ra,liant,rap;urecl eyes. 
 As lost „, sweetest me<litation, stoppe.l 
 F^r Nature's child, con.nuning with'h'er God : 
 VVhde tn,y snow-falls through her nn.sings droppe<l 
 
 From senseless, perfun,ed arn.s, far overhea.l. 
 
 I hen stray„,g „„, he marked the sheltered nook 
 Where ,n a solemn mood, with wide blue eyes- 
 
 H,s darhng read fron, out Earth's crystal bool^ 
 hWl on : across the lonely, s,„,lit vale, 
 
 '?;:::;:!;;t^^:"''!'i'.-™_^ '!'-'-«->--' His slow, 
 
 Gl 
 
 The 
 
 wanderings traced ;— his heart d 
 
 meaning of those foot-prints in th 
 
 iHcerned aricrht 
 
 e snow. 
 
(SO) 
 
 MY IDEAL 
 
 'Tis he who daily, in the web of life, 
 Draws through, unnoted by the ciireless throncr, 
 A thread of throbbing sympathy ;— a song 
 Not set to music in all hearts, but rife 
 With hidden meaning, running through the strife 
 In souls responsive^ making firm and strong 
 The strands that in the woof crowd out the wrong. 
 
 'Tis he who, chaste and pure as maid or wife, 
 Can seal with love's own chrism the lips of pride ; 
 And, weaving in life's mystic pattern strands 
 Of loyal faith and truth, can subtly guide 
 The longing soul and tender, eager hands 
 To heights angeiic:— he who can confide 
 In heaven, and gladlv give all love demands. 
 
(5') 
 
 A SEA-SHELL. 
 
 To 
 
 It nestles m a g^rowth of moss and flowers, 
 
 Oivni- the quiet scene a pretty grace 
 Its pearly fairness wooing from the msj 
 ^ A lustrous bloom to tint its dainty face 
 Over a dreamless bosom pulses low 
 Its son- of ocean-wonders far away — 
 
 ?V-f ' ^'""^ ""'"'^ '''''''' ^^t'"^^^' '-^n^J '-apt, 
 T,l strams divine swell there with ocean spray 
 They touch the raptured spirit with a breath '' 
 . E en heaven's indescent mists dispel ; 
 
 xTat w^V'^^'""?^' ^^'^^^"^^ ' ^»-- b^-t the soul 
 hat wms,- d.vmely graced, sweet guileless shell. 
 
 i ■ 
 
 I . 
 
 
(5-i) 
 
 TROLLING. 
 
 The boat j^jHdes throu<ih the waters blue, 
 That flash and <r\o\v 'neath sunset smiles; 
 
 Oars lij^htly dip and flinj^ their tears 
 
 Toward shores of distant, shad'wy isles. 
 
 Low laughter, words, and pretty fears. 
 
 Each serve the warm-hued hours to while ;- 
 
 And bits of scarlet cut the waves, 
 In gleaming, dimpling, greedy guile. 
 
( SJ ) 
 
 A NAMI-:. 
 
 In this stiaiir" -me life each humar. heart 
 
 Holds dear some name, where nieinones hover- 
 
 1 <) nunc there coineth many such, 
 Vet none so dear or sweet as — Motlu'r. 
 
 TO HOWARD. 
 
 My path h'eth here: thine runneth there; 
 
 How kind is fate they blended . m-;~ 
 The brief, sweet meroinjx was so ^ vt ] 
 
 Its memory nauo-ht j^it death can s'' ver. 
 
 
 * ,'1-1.,, 
 
(,^4) 
 
 CHRISTMAS CHIMES. 
 
 Tliroujyh tlie frosty air they 're pealing-. 
 O'er our senses gayly stealinj^, 
 Noisy lips with smiles half-sealing ; 
 
 Merry, merry Christmas chimes. 
 Now they swell in gleeful madness. 
 Now in richest notes of jrladness. 
 Now an undertone of sadness, — 
 
 Blessed, blessed Christmas chimes. 
 
 In the tones rare music lending, 
 Happy tears seem subtly blending. 
 Mortal thoughts are heavenward terulin-^ ; 
 
 Joyous, joyous Christmas chimes. 
 *' Peace on earth! " the tones are flinging, 
 " Love to men! " the echoes rinofin"', 
 Jov to all the rhvmes are brinfrino-- 
 
 Happy, happy Clu-istmas chimes. 
 
 Raptured songs are gaily welling, 
 Peace o'er all g-lad earth is dwelling. 
 Praise from every heart is swellin"- 
 
 On the joyous Christmas chimes. 
 Love spontaneous welds together 
 Hearts that naug-ht can ever sever ; 
 Welcome, welcome, now and ever. 
 
 Merrv, merrv C'hristmas chim 
 
 es. 
 
( 55 ) 
 
 t 
 
 THE GLAD NEW YEAR. 
 
 T hiough the .olenin midnight, near and far, 
 Gleamed n.yriad brothers of the storied star 
 N 'J,^ht breezes filled with music from afar 
 . Rinjr i„ the ghid new year. 
 
 The clamorincr to.igues, proclaiming blessed birth 
 Send sdverv echoes o'er the sleepy earth ; ' 
 
 Exultant tones of wildly rippling mirth 
 Proclaim the glad new year. 
 
 The joyous tidings wafted far and near 
 
 Are pulsing with the grief of Time's mute tear 
 
 T hat bunes all things past: and then witl'chelr 
 Welcomes the new-born year. 
 
 j>lestinf.mt! to thy keeping we confide 
 Life s a I ; and with thy parent, Time, we glide 
 Through Future's ever-open portals. Guide 
 And bless us. glad new year. 
 
 If 
 
 |.-| 
 
(5^) 
 
 DISCLOSED. 
 
 I write as one who oft could meet 
 
 Thy careless glance with colder gaze ; 
 As one who knows no passion sweet, 
 
 As one who deems love hut a haze. 
 I write as one who friendship scorns, 
 
 As one wHo scoffs at love and truth ; 
 1 write as one who knows no friend, 
 
 As one who finds in life no ruth. 
 
 I write like this. My love, I feel 
 
 The tender flame that glows divine ; 
 The rapturous thrill of passion's fire: 
 
 The sweetness grave that grows sublime. 
 And with unfaltering, silent trust, 
 
 From my heart's spool the strands untwine ; 
 Holding the quivering love-stained threads 
 
 With patient trust, to bind with thine. 
 
(57) 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 About my heart the sh'my serpent coils : 
 A though I try to kill it, still it lives ; 
 
 It fills me with a fear far worse than death, 
 And to my soul a terror strange it gives. 
 
 Sometimes it does not move ; yet its bright eyes 
 \yh looking thrills me with the fierc^.t pains • 
 
 And then, to change the fascination dread, ' 
 
 It wnthes within the blood that fills my veins. 
 
 I strangle it sometimes ; and keep it still 
 
 With pleading words, and sighs, and soothing tears • 
 But when ,t gains its breath it rises up ' 
 
 Within, and Trust's white soul it burns and sears. 
 
 Biit yester eve I ^leemed it dead at last- 
 
 To-mght it pierces Nvith its cruel fan-s 
 My aching heart. A.id I am tired of itfe 
 
 And wearied of these strange and awful pangs 
 
 That tomuc so. How long can I endure ? 
 
 UnclTt^s' l' • ''T ^"'^ • "^^' '''''' ^^ -'^'•^^ -'th me ! 
 Uncod this horror that enthralls me thus • 
 
 Oh, kill this serpent! kill, and set me free. 
 
 I 
 
 (..*• 
 
(5s: 
 
 FALSE FRIENDSHIP'S BURIAL. 
 
 Into the murmurinor waters. 
 
 Too deep to be waked by its moan, 
 'T was decreed the fair, false semblance 
 Find a grave unhonored, unknown. 
 'T was firmly taken from its wounded, saddened home, 
 And cast far o'er the maddened waters vvhit'nin«- foam. 
 
 Reluctant, it settled slowly. 
 
 And like bubbles upon a wave, 
 It danced throuc^h the angry seething, 
 Defying its yawning grave. 
 A proud heart mutely struggled to be firm and brave ; 
 It waited, watched and marvelled o'er what it freely gave. 
 
 Madly the breakers encircled 
 And seized upon its pijpy ; 
 Its burial chant was the minoflin^'- 
 Of the winds and the tossing spray. 
 '' 'T is well," decreed the heart that mockery flung away; 
 '^ 'Tis well," Truth echoed. -Well," Hung hack the jovous sprav 
 
( 5M ) 
 
 A MOTHER'S DREAM. 
 
 across the peaceful face .nc ^enc le: v ;':'*f H '" '''"" '''''' ■""''"'"^^ ^"-"-1 
 the broad, white brow. A plavfu br tr """^ '''''''''' '""^ ''"- "^ -re upon 
 
 threshold -slyly tossed the' "^v r nS ~ tr'r 1",°'' "'' "'-^ ^-^^^^l-. "Pon the 
 rustled the leaves of the „eslecterprefS:,r7 '^ '''•■*^'""-^' «'"««thed. arid 
 
 the golden carpet. A conspicuous h ad n. u„: !, ,"7 T """ ^°^^"' '"^ ^^^ """" 
 folded to .ny vision, solved the .nvste Sv^ \ ! '-^^.-'-er that carelessly un- 
 motionless lashes; I saw in U.^ t^^^^.^^'f '" ^'" "-•"■'-' ^-- "P"" the 
 of the mother-heart that ever ve- rn T ^ / """""'^ **''= uncomplaining grief 
 
 place of its honored de^d Fe'rve 'wTshin^^H T^'' '^'^ ^^^^^^^^^^^ "f the re^sting 
 away the curtain, heavy with ^hlt 't Jf ng^ye-irs 'uZ ^^"^^ f ^^^"^ ^°"''' -^-'^ 
 J?rave of the loyal soldier- bov ind hi. I . [ ' ^^ between the unknown 
 
 -t the weary L.on in unSClL^ rel^r r^^yi/r 1^^ ^ ^^ -- 
 
 From the far-off, perfumed, fair, fair southland, 
 
 On the pulseless breast of a drowsy wind, 
 Canie floating a cloud from vvierd, sweet dreamland, 
 
 io|?t.>ntly brood o'er the sorrowing mind 
 It crept o'er the daylight's garish splendor. 
 
 And the aching heart and fevered brain 
 Were lulled into rest 'neath intangible shadows, 
 And slipped for a season from haunting pain. 
 Ihen hand in hand with a radiant peri 
 
 The quieted spirit wandered afar 
 And basked in the light 'yond fair Slumberland's portals 
 
 Which mortal at pleasm-e may never unbar 
 Away on che towering mount's blue summit 
 And down through the fertile, bloomin- vale 
 
 lyf^Mlinrv ..f.4-^ 4-1-.. X" . . . J-> 1 
 
 Liste 
 
 ning unto the founts' 
 
 low n.iurmur.^ 
 
 ;1 , 
 
 And gathering flowers sweetly frail 
 
6o 
 
 A Mother's Drcatn. 
 
 Straying off \vith the amorous breezes. 
 
 And gazing afar o'er the restless main. 
 Then traversing miles of sunh't prairie. 
 
 They silently wandered, the happy twain. 
 Then lo ! as a sudden revelation, 
 
 Or a subtile emotion that hath no name. 
 Swept over the mute soul nearing the southland, 
 
 A breath of strange bliss, like youth's passion flame 
 As swift in the shade of a somber cannon 
 
 That grimly guarded the hallowed ground : 
 Filled with a rapture that burst Sorrow's -hackles. 
 
 The wanderer knelt by a lowly mound. 
 A breeze swept the notes of a bird's w ild wari)le 
 
 Down to the soul in the mystical gloom, 
 And shook o'er the strange and dusky tombstone 
 
 Light perfumed petals of daintiest bloom. 
 Then closer seemed leaning the iron monster, 
 
 And fainter the beautiful notes fell down. 
 And slower the perfume crept out from the flowers — 
 
 The dreamer stood under God's promised crown. 
 
 Mpy 30, 18- 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 I- 
 
 T 
 C 
 
C'l > 
 
 UNIVOCAI,. 
 
 W,th hstless ha„,l I opeM „,y treasured album wide, 
 And ga.ed „p„„ the face that ehanced to first appear- 
 The deep, dark eyes looked thoughtfully away fron, mine 
 And held w,thi„ their lustrous depths a tale of joy ' 
 
 In fancy I beheld the happy, happy sea - ' ^ 
 D,sta„t, vague, and din, _ whose dancing, voiceless waves 
 Cast pearls of rapture, 'mid light spr.ay, upon thy soul. 
 The. o er my l,ps a spark of longing hoverc.l, „n,te 
 A va,n, to break the silence brooding o'er thy brow. 
 An call a warm, responsive glow to those cold cheeks-. 
 And o er my breast secn,ed lai.l a weight of „„defi„e<l 
 Sad quest,o„„,g, that filled nry eyes with unshed tears. 
 An 1 touched „,y heart with voiceless pathos. Then a .sense 
 
 And sta,tle<l w,th ,ts strange, precocious, thralling .spell. 
 
 One long, long breath, as slow I put awav the book - 
 Turnmg n.y „an,eless thoughts to streams fron, clearer founts 
 And hen the sac ness fled, as mists flee heaven's smile; 
 And hough I ne'er again may .seek your face as then. 
 And fam wo,,Id cast the weinl, sweet spell across thy soul 
 That swept o'er mine, I call not on the vanished past 
 
 Of thy bte's sea, that they may mingle, surge, and beat 
 
62 
 
 Univocal. 
 
 With those that ever ebb and flow in ceaseless rythm 
 From my soul's strand. Enough, since from that liquid Mcrht 
 Some magic breeze hath lightly flung a few pure drops 
 Down o'er the banks that fringe my heart's deep-flowing stream, 
 Where* i they blend to bless ;— and ever gleam, my geitis 
 Of priceless worth, upon the mystic scroll of Life. 
 
lij^ht 
 
 ( f\^ ) 
 
 AT TWENTY. 
 
 t Susgested hy Harry Batsford's "At Fourteen.- | 
 
 
 As a ,s,„lcle„ shadow crossing Miuh's sweet ,lav 
 There steals fron, out my questioning sirlhoo',!''., past 
 A memory of the dreary <lo„bts that c^st "^ ' 
 
 A vague, sad gloo.n across my youthful way. 
 
 Ancl yet the me„,ory only serves to make 
 The peaceful present glow more bright and sweet 
 And shows me all the joys of trust complete 
 
 That follow those who strive for Christ's dear sake. 
 
 As e'er a man doth in his ,leep heart think, 
 ^o ,s he ; and the doubts that erst were mine, 
 V amsh beneath the broader light divine 
 
 i hat floods „,y ,so,d upon the gay world's brink. 
 
 Tl^ way that onee .seemed col.i and stern and drear. 
 The creed that filled n,y childish heart with <loubt 
 Illumined w,th a sunnv faith devout, 
 
 tnves room no more for <lisbelief or fear. 
 
 Close, close upon the fleeting steps of Life 
 Change pushes: breathes upon its wond'ring face 
 Betrays ,ts heart, and quickens its quick pnr^ _ 
 
 And never ends the weird and voiceless strife' 
 
Af Txvcntv. 
 
 The same form clasps weak mortal to its l)reast. 
 And stirs its willing victim with strantrc si<rhs : 
 With hopes and fears, with loves and hates, and lies 
 
 Ofttimes upon its questioning- heart, sweet Rest. 
 
 The bonds that bound my soul in cheerless gloom 
 Are long since riven ; leaps a triumph song 
 From my awakened heart, and all along 
 
 The way God's sweetened, purest flowers bloom. 
 
 Now dost thou question at the blessed birth ? 
 Recall the changes in thy heart's belief; — 
 My own, with stn^-^, calm faith, with deep relief. 
 
 And with keen rapture, claims — ''a soul on earth." 
 
C'S) 
 
 AFTER LONG MONTHS. 
 
 Why should we count our life bv vears 
 
 Since years are short and pass" avvav ?' 
 Or why hy fortune's smiles and tears' 
 
 Snire tears are vain ai -l smiles decay? -Ilnh. 
 
 We met upon the busy street a.n.d 
 
 The restless throng.; your hat was quicklv h-fted, 
 M> head nichned m friendly greetin<. ; then", 
 
 Wendni^ my lonely way alone., I drifted 
 With wakene<i memory, and from the past 
 Recalled our old-time ^reetincrs, first to last. 
 
 I (lid not question as I micrht have done — 
 
 -O heart estranged, doth Memory now unfold 
 Its garments light to clothe thy quiet thoughts 
 
 J^JT7 *'""''"' • ^^'^ ^^^'"^ ^^es behold 
 With glac remembrance } Doth my face restore, 
 With rapt rous thrills, fond memories of yore > " 
 
 I did not think, as once I might have thou-ht- 
 Fore'er through joyful youth or golden 2<ro 
 
 Love sways the good and bad, and sad, sacPlines 
 Affection traces o'er Life's tear-stained page ; 
 
 Nor, would that we had never, never met: 
 
 For me the vanished past held small re-ret. 
 
66 
 
 After LoHii Month i^. 
 
 'Tis true that many by-j^onc tliin<rs ivtunied 
 To waken pleasant recollections of the hf»urs 
 
 That ji^ave them heinjr: tender, lovingr ^vords, 
 That min«r|ed with the perfume of ran floners ; 
 
 Caresses, pretty sonji^s, and all that jjive.. 
 
 The life on which Affection feeds and lives 
 
 'Tis true the artist-hand that jj^uides the mind 
 Of oft-recurrin<i^ Past, did paint a scene 
 
 To charm the fond heart's vision : yet the soul 
 Looked jealously beyond the pretty screen. 
 
 And swiftly thrust into Oblivion's arms 
 
 Mem'ries that only for the weak have charms. 
 
 Then vap-rie, sweet fancies jrcntly drifted throuj^h 
 The hadowed shrine within my heart of hearts. 
 
 Hope carved a headstone for the Past's deep jrrave ; 
 Then cl -»ser clasped the peace that faith imparts. 
 
 No need to mourn all that did separate,— 
 
 My heart brimmed o'er with joy inviolate. 
 
s ; 
 
 ("7 ) 
 
 MIDWINTER. 
 
 vc; 
 
 ts. 
 
 'Tis but a little while aj^o 
 
 Dear Nature knew sad Autumn's frown 
 And drew about her shiverincr form 
 
 Soft trailinor robes of gold and brown. 
 
 About her feet down drifted leaves, 
 
 And on her breast the rose-branch slept, 
 
 While to her heart, e'er warm and true 
 The wildflowers' hidden tendrils crept. 
 
 Her willinor fairies far and near 
 
 Flocked forth from sheltered nooks of brown, 
 To rouse tneir dear queen's sluggish blood. 
 
 And plait anew a shining crown. 
 
 'Twas all in vain: the dainty fays. 
 Close nestling to the f.^inting breast, 
 
 Lost swift ambition's fond desires, 
 And gently sank to calm, sweet re^r. 
 
 Fair, far-off heaven beheld the form 
 That trembled in the waning light, 
 
 And straightway bade a messenger ' 
 Bestow rich robes of silvery white. 
 
 I 
 
ss 
 
 Dear Nature ope'd her ofrateful arms 
 And sadly claimed the dainty dre 
 
 That fell a feathery, floatini^ mass. 
 To warmly fold in fond caress. 
 
 Behold! the fair queen's dreaming- soul 
 Then rouseil from out its death-like trance. 
 
 To win chill Winter's holly crown 
 By dazzling smile and radiant glance. 
 
 His lovely ermine-broidered robes 
 She drew about her stately form, 
 
 And guarded all the slumbering fays 
 From piercing wind and cruel storm. 
 
 E'en mortals felt the witching spell. 
 As sheltered she with jjarments lio-ht 
 
 The germs that erst did wreathe her brow 
 With perfumed blossoms fair and bri"-ht. 
 
 Dear Nature ! through thy tranquil heart 
 Impassioned summer's joys we win ; 
 
 And winter's gladness seeking there. 
 Find m Uchless blessings now be<»-in. 
 
(69) 
 
 LIFE VOICELESS. 
 
 ( Suggested ,v the portrait of a friend, and stray fra,..,ents of an o>d po 
 
 em.] 
 
 The dark, dark eyes look into mine, 
 
 And in my heart inspire 
 A feeling- I can scarce define, 
 
 Whose source seems majjic fire. — M. //. 
 
 So runs the pretty son-, and so may sin- 
 
 The hps thai press with uncontrolled desire 
 These unresponsive ones. What reck the hancis 
 
 That grope tor h'ght, if by a silent lyre 
 They reach the height far-off and din, : the land 
 
 VVhere soul greets sotd: where face to face, above 
 ihe pale of common thought, sweet modesty 
 
 Is ne'er deemed bold, betrayrng guileless iove. 
 
 Runs the song: -enshrined with thoughts of love," 
 
 She held the worshipped being in heart,- 
 As treasured e'er are memories of words 
 
 That pierced unfathomed depths, and as a dart 
 Sped from the Archer's hands who spareth few 
 
 Revives transfusion, springs uncalled, unguessed, 
 To glide m deeper channels far and lone. 
 
 Thoughts all unnamed, born of strange, sweet unrest. 
 
7° ^-ifi' I'oicclcss. 
 
 Still runs the song: for, '' as a hallowed shrine," 
 
 She pressed the pictured charms to hers. All this 
 Brings joy ; emotiohs shared beget no loss : 
 
 The fervent lips find likewise transient bliss. 
 A rich dowered heart held love's sweet cup 
 
 To lips unconscious — ne'er, in truth, caressed. 
 The song found ending. Unconfessed the face 
 
 That did inspire ; and yet, such love is best. 
 
 |i ■' 
 
(7') 
 
 P^.NSIES. 
 
 From out her muslin's dainty fold 
 The bright sweet faces coyly peep • 
 O'er the white brow a guard ihev keep, 
 
 With gleams of royal blue and gold. 
 
 Their fares o'er her girdle fall, 
 
 And on her bosoni soft and white 
 ^ They rest like harbingers of light 
 Strayed down from heax'n's ethcM-eal hall. 
 
 There in the sunlight's golden sheen 
 She stands, than pansies far more fair • 
 1 et, nesding in her wavy hair, 
 
 They add new beauty to my queen. 
 
 Catching a radiance from above. 
 Two matchless pansies in disc^uise 
 Seem the veiled depths of thol;;. g,•a^■e eves 
 
 f hat shyly claim my life, my love." 
 
 Coy pansies! in thy gracious eyes, 
 And in each warm and dewy heart, 
 Lies half-unsheathed Cupid's dart^ 
 
 That swift into my being flies. 
 
 And with new rapture overcast, 
 I fold each flower in fond embrace. 
 And kiss each shyly lifted face. 
 
 With love devout, that e'er shall last. 
 
(7-*) 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 She writes the old, old story o'-r, 
 
 And clothes it in sweet vvortis of ^-race ; 
 
 She pictures with a pen of jrold 
 
 Each radiant, jj^lowino^, lo\elv face. 
 
 She writes of jroroceojis velvet robes. 
 Of bright exotics' perfume rare. 
 
 Of all the luxury i>-old can buy. 
 Of all in life that 's piMc and fair. 
 
 She paints full oft a <j;lowin«- scene. 
 That holds no trace of wrief or hate. 
 
 That shows each spirit filled with joy, 
 Each \o\m<r heart with tender mate. 
 
 She writes all this with scornful smiles ; 
 
 And oft with scaldinjr, bitter tears. 
 That splash upon tlie paper duml>. 
 
 And blister like tormenting- fears. 
 
 She often wv tes with yearnin<>- strang-e. 
 And oft with tired, aching brain ; 
 
 And yet from all these wandering words 
 She aims to keep Griefs sad refrain. 
 
 And oft her weary heart rebels: 
 
 Yet, striving still for peace and rest. 
 
 Bestows afar its tenderness. 
 
 And strives to make some life more blest, 
 
(7,0 
 
 TO MV AMATEUR FRIENDS. 
 
 Silent companions of my quiet life! 
 
 To thee in warmest grcetincr turns my heart; 
 Careless of all the weary space between, 
 
 Fam would my soul to thine some joy impart. 
 
 The wan. clipped wings that fan my thoughts to thee, 
 iJeat tn-elessly against their prison bars, 
 
 And strive to higher soar: a thirst intense, 
 Spontaneous,— a child's vain cry for stars. 
 
 What seems the petty cares a'ong our way 
 When soul responds to ,1 i„ blessed truth ? 
 
 Ah, question what in common hath dark Woe 
 With all the radiant dreams of happy youth. 
 
 What power hath ve.iomed shafts to pierce the faith 
 
 1 Hat hlls our yearning spirits with glad life ? 
 O tnends! we know, forsooth, that highest planes 
 Are only reached through sorrow and through strife. 
 
 And so, hovN' blest ire we that Life bestows 
 Hearts that in sweetest sympathy may twine 
 
 And blend with hearts respons- ve - fondest hopes 
 Meet hopes as fond:-v.e ail kneel at one shrine 
 
 I 
 
74 To My Amateur Friends. 
 
 No glances lit with eager, beauteous life, 
 Can flash to mine o'er yonder distant hill • 
 
 No voices break in greetings sweet or kind, ' 
 No touch create a current of glad thrills. 
 
 And yet, dear friends: far off, unseen, unknown. 
 My eager hands bridge o'er the boundless space ; 
 
 With fervent greetings, trust, and friendship true 
 My simple offering pleads vour love and <.race ' 
 
'11, 
 
 ace ; 
 
 lie, 
 :e. 
 
 ■%^:<^ 
 
4 
 
 SA'E7\://ES 
 
<w) 
 
 LITTLE PAPERS. 
 
 \ou h,„k,t.st,nn„e, „„ <loubt, but I really love the sight 
 "1 a l,t e pn,„e.l sheet of paper bearing so.ne o.l.l, spic,, or 
 suggesfve „tle: for it always brings me back to the 'la/two 
 short years ago, when, sitting in perplexe.l thonght, the mail 
 
 lolled up together, accompanying it. 
 
 ea„.b,e,l g,rl, I am not particularly bashful, an.l incline,! to be 
 a iittJe too frank. 
 
 I was going to school in those days, and on this particular 
 Spnng morn„,g was thinking ruefully of graduation day, and 
 emphat,cally saying I would not go to school any mm-e,- 
 though ,n my secret heart I knew I coul<l never give up my 
 st«<l,es then. You want to know my trouble, of course. Well 
 ^ was my fourth year i„ the High School, and although we 
 
 only the day before, that I could not have a new dress to wear 
 on that all.mportant day the coming June, which was to en.l 
 "i> happy schoo!.<lays forever. Therefore, like a vain, im- 
 puls,ve gn-1, I .solemnly declared to my confidential chum that 
 mc!^^r '"> T ' - ;'-g™- of appearing in my old clothes 
 .. nong the ga.ly decked pupil.s that would be sure to grace the 
 platform ; and that I must have a new suit 
 
 God'"rr' "' T:- 'T ' '"' " ^"' "* '"^ "-"' -'-h' 'hank 
 God, I can subdue far easier to-day tlian I could then ; and 
 
^ 
 
 ^^•^o. 
 
 ^^, 
 
 .0^. \^ 
 
 IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 
 ^O 
 
 «. 
 
 v.. 
 
 ^ 
 
 .<9 
 
 1.0 
 
 I.I 
 
 1.25 
 
 [^ U£ 112.0 
 
 2.2 
 
 U III 1.6 
 
 v] 
 
 <^ 
 
 ym 
 
 i?l 
 
 /^ 
 
 
 '> > 
 
 
 -(^ 
 
 '^ 
 
 C/1 
 
 Photognphic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. M580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
 ^ 
 
 <V 
 
 ^ 
 
 f,^ 
 
 <i\^ 
 
 \ 
 
 ;\ 
 
 \ 
 
 ^^^1 <«M 
 
 
 ;\ 
 
r.^ c^ 
 
 
 & 
 
 €/a 
 
 \ 
 
 vV 
 
 ^. 
 
 I 
 
>1 
 
 80 
 
 Little Papers. 
 
 despite my jrentle mother's tears, and the little story she ^ave 
 me to read, about a good little girl who was very, very poor, 
 and who wore her old dress to school on the last day, and how 
 patient and sweet she was, and a lot more I have forgotten — 
 1 was perplexctUy trying to devise some way to earn me a nice 
 new dress for my own self. Of course, mother wouki laugh 
 at the idea of her daughter, unused to labor, earning even a 
 common cambric dress, let alone one nice enough to wear on 
 sucli an important occasion. But I was full of hope, an(' in- 
 clined to b<? stubborn when once fixed on a purpose, so I kept 
 decorously silent, and thought, and thought, and planned. 
 
 First, up-stuirs in my pretty work-basket lay some fine white 
 linen to make up, for which mother had promised me three 
 <lollars when it was all nicely finished, a long time ago. That 
 must surely be done, at a loss of all the long walks and longer 
 talks with my dearest friend, who would perhaps laugh at me ; 
 and the thought confronted me that possibly my dear Jennie 
 would get May Gleason for her confidential friend ! Well, I 
 stifled back a sigh, and sternly put down in red \n\^— three 
 dollars. 
 
 Next — yes, there was Mrs. White, who would like me to 
 paint her an easel to send to her son who was so far away. 
 (I felt guilty when I thought of her, for I had heard her ask 
 mother more than five weeks before, ^'if she supposed Beth 
 could find time to do her a little work.") That would be an- 
 other dollar; and there my resources all failed, and I sat 
 stupidly wondering if something would happen to help me, 
 when — as I guess I told you before — the postman brought 
 some papers and a letter from Belle. I think all girls love to 
 get letters. I did, at any rate ; and my troublesome thoughts 
 of a few moments before all fled as I read the dainty bits of 
 gossip about the last pany, boating by moonlight, the lovely 
 lace Belle was knitting, and the cunningest baby next door, 
 
Little Papers. 
 
 8i 
 
 until I came to the dearest of all (to Belle), about the style 
 and shade of her new blue silk. Then, of course, I thought 
 o^ myself once more ; but what followed, and was so hastily 
 scanned over, proved to be of no little value to me. She said 
 she had written a little sketch, and sent it to an amateur paper 
 pnnted there, and "the foolish editor had sent her a bundle of 
 queer little papers," and she had no time to read them, and 
 did not care anything about them, anyway, so would send 
 them to me. 
 
 I never thought of those papers again for nearly a whole 
 week; for, after finishing the letter, I ran out to talk with 
 Jennie over the gate, and renew our vows of eternal friendship 
 through leisure and through toil, and those poor little papers 
 lay rolled up under one corner of the sofa in solitude. 
 
 I guess the housework was not done very well that week, 
 for, when I went to tidy up the room the next Saturday, the 
 first sweep of the broom brought those papers at my feet, and 
 with natural inquisitiveness, I sat down on the floor and 
 looked them over. 
 
 Such grand ideas as they put into my head, and such a rev- 
 elation from a hitherto unknown world, was perfectly aston- 
 ishing. I never knew there was such a thing as amateur 
 journalism before, and yet there it lay in those minute sheets, 
 neat and perfect in every detail. First I was all absorbed 
 with the puzzles and editorials, then read miscellaneously, 
 until I saw an article about a prize contest. The prizes of- 
 fered were for sketches: five, four and three dollars, accord- 
 ing to merit of the articles entered. 
 
 Of course, I read that over and over again, and it ended in 
 my firmly resolving to v/rite a story that would blight the pros- 
 pects of all aspiring authors forever. I clasped those precious 
 papers to my bosom, and ran up to my room : took off the 
 little dusting-cap that sat so awry on my head, unbound the 
 
m 
 
 npp 
 
 mi 
 
 82 
 
 Little Papers. 
 
 heavy braids of hair (to allow more freedom of thought 
 I think the idea was), rolled up my sleeves, got lots of fools- 
 cap paper and a fine pen, put some glycerine on my lips — 
 which it was my custom to bite most unmerifully when deeply 
 absorbed in anything, — washed my hands, and sat down to 
 write my first story. 
 
 I was going to write a lovely romance about a girl being 
 locked in her room, and her lover going up a ladder outside, 
 and rescuing her; but itstruck me I never had a real lover, so 
 could not do full justice to the subject, — that I never had 
 been locked in a room (neither had Jennie), and I could not 
 think of one of xv\y school-fellows who would do for a hero : so 
 that subject failed me. Then I thought I would write about a 
 proud young lady who put sour cream on her face to purify 
 her complexion, and her lover, seeing her, became disen- 
 chanted. But I found that would make no kind of a story, 
 and so I sat, and thought, and dreamed, and scribbled over 
 sheets of paper, and broke the points of several pens in trying 
 to write as fast as I thought, until aiter ten o'clock, when the 
 door-bell rang, and I heard the minister's voice. 
 
 Come about a poem he wished me to read at the concert, of 
 course ; for Jennie had told me about it that very morning. 
 Whatever should I do.? Here was my heavy hair all in a 
 tangle that should have been nicely braided, inky fingers, and 
 — oh, my, my ! what if mother had not been into that room 
 since I left it! 
 
 But 1 arranged my toilet as speedily as possible, in answer 
 to mother's call from below, and descended. Well, I got out 
 of it somehow, broom and all ; but that story was still lying in 
 the hidden reserves of my busy brain, for it surely was not 
 upon any of the numerous sheets of paper, all scrawled over, 
 that lay in silent rebuke upon my table. 
 
 Well, I left that then, and went to work earnestly upon the 
 
Little Papers. 
 
 83 
 
 thought 
 
 of fools- 
 
 ly lips — 
 
 ;n deeply 
 
 down to 
 
 irl being 
 • outside, 
 lover, so 
 ever had 
 ould not 
 hero: so 
 e about a 
 to purify 
 le disen- 
 a story, 
 >led over 
 in trying 
 t\hen the 
 
 )ncert, of 
 Horning, 
 all in a 
 ^ers, and 
 bat room 
 
 11 answer 
 I got out 
 lying in 
 was not 
 led over, 
 
 upon the 
 
 neglected linen, and soon carried the result of my labor to 
 mother, who gave me a good kiss, three dollars, and some 
 good advice. Then I got my paints, and practiced until I 
 thought I could do pretty well at that once more, and decor- 
 ated the easel for Mrs. White, who was delighted. 
 
 After, when I sat down in my room one evening with four 
 dollars in my hand, and kissed it, and tenderly placed it m a 
 satin-lined box, I read every word in those little papers, and 
 began again to write a story. But this time I think I was 
 humbler than when I first thought of such a thing, and every 
 trial seemed less satisfactory than its predecessor, until I gave 
 up in despair. I then tried poetry, — for one of the other 
 papers offered a prize for some extra good verses. But as fast 
 as I got a nice idea in a beautiful line, the following words 
 contained simply nothing to rhyme ; and I actually sat and 
 cried. 
 
 I did not try again for several days, and then was so very 
 modest and humble in my opinion of my capabilities, that I 
 think therein lay my success — There ! I told you before I in- 
 tended to, after all; for, honestly and truly, I did get the 
 highest prize offered, and honorable mention from the editor 
 of the paper. No doubt many of you will think me foolish, 
 but when that prize came, I sat down in the serene silence of 
 my room, and, laying my head upon my arms on the table, 
 wept tears of joy. 
 
 Mother could hardly credit the faltering recital of my tri- 
 umph, but when she became convinced of it, and saw me with 
 the money in my hand, she almost cried herself. I knew pretty 
 well that she felt a little proud of me then ; and I am sure father 
 did, for he gave me ten dollars on the spot, and said it was for 
 me to do what I liked with : though he could not let me have 
 any more for at least two months, on account of some business 
 troubles. 
 
 % ■■" 
 
84 
 
 Little Papers. 
 
 But my labors were not yet ended, for Belle's mother sent 
 me three dollars, and a beautiful satin ribbon to paint for her 
 daughter's birthday, which was willingly done in my spare time 
 from studies. 
 
 I was soon the delighted possessor of an elegant dress ; and 
 I question if there was one in the row of smiling faces that 
 graced the stage on graduation day that manifested more satis- 
 faction than mine. I was extremely happy, ai\d although I may 
 give no moral to others from this little act of my life, it was of 
 great benefit to me. It taught me the value of money and the 
 sweets that come from honest toil, even if it be for the gratifi- 
 cation of a frivolous desire. 
 
 But above all, it placed me on a level with an army of honest, 
 intellectual and sympathetic boys and girls, united through 
 all this land by the same common interests and desires: to a 
 cultivation of their moral and intellectual life, which, please 
 God, shall never cease. 
 
 I' ! 
 
(8s ) 
 
 AN UNSEALED LETTER. 
 
 My Dear Jennie: Such a stranjre event has befallen me 
 that I cannot wait your presence — although so soon assured 
 me,— but must write at once, that you may not be taken en- 
 tn-ely by surprise upon your arrival here. 
 
 Three weeks ago to-night, I had the strangest and most 
 vivid dream of my life. 
 
 I stood upon the sands — where we have so often stood to- 
 gether — that are caressed by the waters of Silver Lake. The 
 moon shone in full splendor, and as I stood there in the calm 
 silence and looked across the placid waters, listening to their 
 soft murmuring, I thought the place never seemed half so beau- 
 tiful ; and I turned my head involuntarily, with a hope of seeing 
 you beside me, as in the old, happy twilights when we walked 
 together across the sands. I did not see you, Jennie, but I did 
 see two men— young and handsome, both, yet of the opposite 
 types of beauty — emerge from the shadows of our little grove 
 of oaks. 
 
 Beneath the radiant light of the moon, each looked extremely 
 pale, and one put out his hands with a gesture that seemed a 
 mute appeal for love, or for mercy ; but the other— the one 
 with gold-colored and pink tinted chec s: lovelier than your 
 lovely cheeks they were, Jennie— threw up one shapely white 
 hand with a cold, scornful movement, and in another instant 
 
86 
 
 An (Ensealed Letter. 
 
 had placed a revolver into the hand of his companion, and stood 
 examining the s^leaming toy in his own with a careless grace 
 that made me shudder. I closed my eyes and tried to forget 
 the look upon that lovely face, it was so cold and cruel ; then 
 I looked at his companion. He appeared calm, and held th • 
 glittering weapon just as it was put into his hand, and his beau- 
 tiful dark eyes looked mournfully across the water. He stood 
 motionless for some time, then slowly brushed back the luxuri- 
 ant hair that lay in dark waves upon his forehead, and gazed 
 long and earnestly up to the starlit heavens, — then looked into 
 his companion's face with such an expression of pride and 
 wounded love, that I gasped and awoke, to find myself weep- 
 ing bitterly. ^ 
 
 I know you will laugh, but I was angry with myself to think 
 how nervous a dream had made me, — your friend who has so 
 often been reproached for her "cold, unsympathetic nature." 
 
 I did not mention my dream to anyone, but it seemed so real 
 that I walked down to the very spot the next morning, and 
 looked around to see if I could find anv trace of mv visionarv 
 visitants. As you may guess, I did not see a sign of footsteps 
 upon the moist, yielding gravel, and I ran home with a new 
 feeling in my heart. 
 
 That night I lived again the dream of the previous one, but 
 I did not awaken until the men had begun to pace the ground 
 in opposite directions, and just as they turned and I saw a flash 
 of steel between the white fingers of the duelists, I awoke — 
 awoke with a terrible feeling at my heart. The air stifled me, 
 and I felt as though a murdered body lay beside the rippling 
 waters of our beloved lake. 
 
 All the next day I could think of nothing but my dream, but 
 I dared not again visit the now dreaded spot, and night came, 
 only to bring to me with tenfold vividness the scenes of the 
 two previous nights. 
 
An Unsealed Letter. 
 
 87 
 
 nd stood 
 ss grace 
 
 forg^et 
 2I ; then 
 held th • 
 lis bean- 
 ie stood 
 
 1 luxuri- 
 d o^azed 
 ked into 
 ide and 
 f weep- 
 to think 
 ) has so 
 lature." 
 1 so real 
 w^^ and 
 isionary 
 lotsteps 
 1 a new 
 
 >ne, but 
 ground 
 J a flash 
 voke — 
 led me, 
 ippling 
 
 am, but 
 t came, 
 1 of the 
 
 This trnie I saw the fiash and heard the reports of the re- 
 volvers ; but the one in the hand of the dark-eyed stranger 
 pointed to the calm, blue heavens, while the other, with un- 
 flmch.ng grasp, was levelled at the breast of the brave, dark- 
 haired hero. 
 
 I awoke, but such a nameless fear grasped and smothered 
 all the reasoning with which I strove to quiet myself, that I 
 dressed myself and paced the floor of my room until morning. 
 A ter a hearty breakfast and a brisk ride upon Chief, I rode 
 slowly up the front walk, feeling quite natural once more; but 
 1 shrieked audibly as I saw father and Tom bearing the body 
 of a ma-, between them. Father looked verv much surprised 
 ai ..i an unusual betrayal of emotion from me, and I dropped 
 my .od to hide the pallor that I knew overspread my face. 
 
 ^y us >ery queer,— but father found the stranger terribly 
 >. n...dcd, lying upon the sand near Oak Grove. 
 
 Th-it was all I learned for several days. We have done all 
 we could lor him. His name is Ray Stuart ; and ofttimes when 
 I have been sitting by his bedside, viewing in the still features 
 the peiiect counterpart of my beautiful dream-face, I have 
 wondered if it were possible that I had a vision of that which 
 had really been enacted through the long hours of restlessness 
 in which I watched the dawn of day a number of nights before. 
 It has not yet been explained to me how Mr. Stuart became 
 wounded, but with this secret in mv heart, that I have divul-ed 
 to no one but you, I do not care to ask any questions. 
 
 Mr. Stuart is convalescent now. He is lying in the hammock 
 your father sent me last summer, which I have had put up 
 across one corner of the south veranda. I am sitting behind 
 the curtains ot the library window, where I can watch his noble 
 face. I wKsh you were beside me, to see the picture he makes • 
 the soft green of the lawn and the deep shadows of the maples 
 torm such a beautiful background. 
 
 I I 
 
88 
 
 An Unsealed Letter. 
 
 Yes, Jennie, I know you are saying, "Love at first sight.". 
 You are wondering if your stately, your proud queen, your 
 dearest Eda, is out of her senses. But oh, Jennie, he loves me ! 
 and I am to be his wife. Ah, he is calling ; so, Jennie, leaving 
 you to fill in this bit of network from your imagination, I beg 
 of you to come as soon as possible, to 
 
 Your supremely happy friend, 
 
 Eda Murray. 
 
t sight." 
 ;en, your 
 3ves me ! 
 , leaving 
 >n, I beg 
 
 RRAY. 
 
 ( -Sy ) 
 
 A TREASURE. 
 
 I am a flatiron,— and I am a treasure. I hope that half- 
 sneering smile upon your lips will turn to one of grave respect 
 when you have heard my story. 
 
 Twenty years ago, a woman, young and girlish looking, took 
 me from her husband's hand with a smile and a low-toned 
 "Thanks, love." I was only a lump of cold iron, but as her 
 warm fingers closed over rne, I inwardly vowed to perforui my 
 duties faithfully,— and now I proudly assert that I did, through 
 sunshine and through storm. 
 
 For five years, with four comrades, I kept dutifully hot or 
 cold in obedience to the wishes of my gentle owner, who 
 pressed me with much firmness or little half-loving dabs across 
 the snowy garments that came weekly from the washerwoman. 
 Then a change came over the quiet home-life, for I saw the 
 giant husband press his wife and babe to his bosom in a last 
 lingering embrace and then stride through the doorway. 
 
 I was sitting over a fierce fire, and yet I felt strange ice- 
 thrills waver over me as I saw my dear lady clasp her babe to 
 her bosom, and dropping her pale face upon her hands, tremble 
 violently in a vain endeavor to suppress the sobs that pierced 
 the silence of the tiny cottage. 
 
 It was a long time after that before my lady sold my grim 
 companions ; and I never even so much as breathed of those 
 days that brought such sadness to that little home, or even 
 
sae 
 
 90 
 
 A Treasure. 
 
 I 
 
 lisped to my most intimate iVieiul, the holder hanjifinjr yonder, 
 of the tears that often feM in scai<lin<j (hops upon the tmv 
 (h'esses over which I untirini^ly rrlided. I felt sorry for mv lady 
 when she parted with my comiades, hut I felt a little pride as 
 well, to know I was to perform all her work myself, and felt 
 no more pan<(s of jealousy as the tender hands clasped my 
 once rivals. 
 
 T did my best, in order to keep f^ood her faith in me, and I 
 let my haby-friend fondle me all he liked : and it was verv sel- 
 dom that I fell upon his toes, or knocked upon his sweet, happy 
 face, yet 1 almost liked to see soi^ie of his comical surprises at 
 some of my unlucky moves. 
 
 But if my looks w^re to express mv feelings for a moment, 
 I have not a doubt as to their wonderful expressi:>n. when, after 
 beinj( shut up in solitude for nearly six weeks, J came lo lij»^ht 
 in a far-away place. I sat down in one corner of the little 
 room, and looked around me. There were so few articles 
 there that I could <'asily count them, had I tried. Babv, now 
 a good little boy, running fearlessly about, snatched me up, 
 and as he carried me with him in his short journev to the door, 
 1 had a good look at the grim mountains that towered to the 
 clouds all about us. I saw a man in rough clothes, with a 
 pick-axe fiver his shoulder, pass near our cabin on his vvav to a 
 neighboring gulch, and a queer feeling of homesickness over- 
 came me, and I dropped heavily upon the feet of my little 
 friend, who set up a terrible screaming; and as the cries echoed 
 from a distant crag, I, in my youthful ignoiancc, thought some 
 one mocking the poor boy, and really felt mortifed. 
 
 After I became accustomed to my daily labor, I learned that 
 the long-absent husband had come to this wild country upon 
 leaving his peaceful home in New England years ago, and mv 
 gentle lady had come in her poverty and her heartsickness to 
 toil f(5r herself and boy, with a longing to be nearer the grave 
 
A Yrrasfar 
 
 9> 
 
 J yonder, 
 the tmy 
 
 • my lady 
 pride as 
 
 . and felt 
 
 sped my 
 
 le, and 1 
 
 \ ery sel- 
 
 )t. happy 
 
 •prises at 
 
 moment, 
 len, after 
 L* to lij^ht 
 the little 
 -' articles 
 ihy, now 
 1 me up, 
 the door, 
 ed to the 
 , with a 
 way to a 
 ess over- 
 my little 
 s echoed 
 ^ht some 
 
 rned that 
 try upon 
 and my 
 :kness to 
 he gra\e 
 
 of her lamented husband,- for she had received intelligence 
 of hir death a few montlis previous. 
 
 My lady toiled early and late, and I helped her all I could, 
 as she smoothed out the wrinkles in the flannels of the sturdy 
 mmers. -Strai^m, John" was my favorite, and I — else th'e 
 httle hand that guided me — was particular about laying every 
 crease straight in his garments. He was gentle in manner, and 
 kmd and tender to my baby-friend, and I loved him ; — flat- 
 irons ca// love. 
 
 It was always s , • and quiet in our little cabin, and no one 
 ever used disrespectful language to its gentle owner, and we 
 were quite happy; until one dav the door flew rudely open 
 and a burly fdlo v filled the small space of (hmcing sunlighl 
 with his misshapen figure. His eyes were bloody hot, and the 
 words rolled about in wild confusion upon !> ... concr„e before 
 they fell in horrible shamelessness from the bruised'and black- 
 ened lips, as he stared savagely upon my tender lady. 
 
 vShe turned from her posture over the ironing-table, still 
 clasping me in one warm, soft hand, and her first look of mild 
 surprise at the unexpected intrusion turned to one of sudden 
 fear, as she gazed at the loathesome c^bject before her. As he 
 saw the change in the fair, expressive face, he grinned fiend- 
 ishly, and stepped toward her. 
 
 I saw my latly glance quickly about for a weapon of defense, 
 and the next instant, .vith a -.udden bound from the desperate 
 hand, I landed fairly upon one temple of the ugly brute, and 
 rolled to the flo-r, as he staggered forward and fell in a heap 
 beside me. 
 
 A little figure shadowed across the warm sunlight that 
 streamed through the open door, and vanished. A few mo- 
 ments later, my kind friend John strode in. He called in the 
 brave little boy, and hurling the destroyer of our peace thror-h 
 the doorway, closed it: and with white lips and brow, turned 
 
92 
 
 A Treasure. 
 
 to my lady, who leaned upon the table with her troubled face 
 hidden -n her hands. 
 
 He bent caressingly over the slight figure, and I noted the 
 tremor that passed over it, as, with quivering lips, he whispered 
 long and earnestly in one tiny ear ; and a strange and beauti- 
 ful light overspread his face as one warm hand slipped from 
 its resting place and groped upward to meet his. 
 
 We do not work hard any more. 
 
 One day last summer, an artist strayed this way, and learn- 
 ing my history, immediately daubed me over with paint antl 
 put a border of heart's-ease all about me: so I assure you I 
 am the handsomest flatiron you ever heard of, say nothing of 
 being the treasure of a happy home. 
 
led face 
 
 ( 'Al ) 
 
 oted the 
 hispered 
 I beaiiti- 
 ed from 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 id learn- 
 iunt and 
 re you I 
 thing of 
 
 Her mother willed it so, and she was called Love. On the 
 third day of her life, her mother, dying, pressed her to her 
 bosom, and raming kisses and tears in like profusion upon her 
 tmy face, called upon Heaven to bless her darling child ; then 
 died with her first-born clasped in her icy arms. 
 
 Who her father was, no one knew ; for her mother was as 
 much a stranger in that wild western country as was her child 
 to the world in which she was so unceremoniously ushered on 
 that dreary Spring morning; and the woman who took her to 
 bring up, often said, in the same hard voice as when she took 
 her from her dead mother's breast, that she might better have 
 been named Woe. 
 
 This morning of which I write. Love had attained her fif- 
 teenth year, and she stood leaning against an old lumber-pile, 
 one hand shading the dark eyes that looked so mournfully at 
 the noisy mill beyond, while the other grasped the edge of a 
 liuge sketch-book that was making vain endeavors to slip from 
 under the slender arm. Weary of looking, her eyes filled 
 with tears; she dropped her book upon the ])oards and resting 
 her head upon her arms, lost the control she usuallv held over 
 the griefs that were embittering her voung life,' and went 
 bitterly. ' ' ^ 
 
 At last, choking back the sobs, and whispering softly, "She 
 gave her life for mine." she tirnnc. and taking up her beloved 
 
94 
 
 T.ove. 
 
 book, walked slowly down the road, past the mill, down the 
 track, until she came to old Jim, who was loading the long 
 row of cars with shingles. 
 
 He turned to speak to Love as he came out of a car, and the 
 moment he saw his little pet (it was what the rough, though 
 white-souled, old man always always called her in his heart), 
 he knew there was something wrong with her. 
 
 "Well, dear, what is it?" he said, as he placed one hard, 
 bony hand tenderly upon the child's soft hair. 
 
 At his kindly voice the sweet lips quivered noticeably, and 
 the dark eyes sparkled with something very like tears. At 
 last, falteringly: 
 
 "She threatened to burn this, and I took it and came away." 
 
 That was all, but the old man could guess very nearly how 
 much pain and bitternesss were expressed in those few words. 
 
 He had never read what the book contained. He knew it 
 was a present to Love from some strolling artist, and he knew 
 she was always writing upon old pieces of brown paper, and 
 then copying from them into the book ; and he half divined 
 that it held the sorrowful girl's best and truest life, — that it 
 was the comfort and happiness of her innocent heart. 
 
 He offered no words of consolation, but stooped and gently 
 kissed the girl's cold forehead, then went on with his work. 
 Silent sympathy oftener touches the heart than the tenderest 
 words of consolation. 
 
 Love sat down upon a bundle of shingles, and watched the 
 old man for a long time, but her thoughts were evidently 
 straying ; then of a sudden a bright light sprang into her eyes, 
 and a sweet flush glowed and then paled upon her soft cheeks, 
 as she sprang to her feet, and stepping quickly to the old 
 man's side, gasped eagerly: 
 
 "Oh, sir, put me in the car, I beg of you ! Let me go away 
 from here. Oh, if you only would!" 
 
 
Lave. 
 
 95 
 
 down the 
 ; the long 
 
 r, and the 
 b, though 
 is heart), 
 
 )ne hard, 
 
 ably, and 
 .'ars. At 
 
 e away." 
 3arly how 
 w words. 
 e knew it 
 he knew 
 aper, and 
 If divined 
 , — that it 
 
 nd gentlv 
 his work, 
 tenderest 
 
 tched the 
 evidently 
 her eyes, 
 ft cheeks, 
 ) the old 
 
 go away 
 
 Jnn looked dazed for a moment, and was speechless. Then 
 recovering his senses, and realizing the full import of those 
 pleadnig words, he muttered, ''S^^o'd be better off," and said • 
 
 "I will, Love; I will." 
 
 As for the girl, when she saw the man hunt up a saw and 
 carefully cut a good-sized square place in the bottom of the 
 half-filled car, pile the shingles about on three sides, leavino- 
 one bundle alone, for a seat ; tnen walk slowly down the track 
 to the httle store in the distance, counting over the monev i.. 
 his purse,— she felt almost frightened. 
 
 What would Cass say ? Cass was the one she loved, and the 
 one who loved her. He was only a laborer in the mill beyond 
 but he was an honest, whole-souled fellow, who was striving 
 and wa.tnig patiently for the time when he could take Love to 
 a home of her own — his home. 
 
 She must not think of him. She would write him all about 
 It; and m a httle time he would come to her, and they would 
 be happy. 
 
 She had no time to think further, for Jim was back with a 
 number ot packages and a jug of fresh water, which he placed 
 beside the lonely bunch of shingles, and then found a blanket 
 and spread upon the wood, and placed Love in the car. 
 
 She felt so bewildered. There was the dull thud of the 
 ■shingles, as they came heavily together about her, and there 
 was the echo of Jim's husky voice ringing through her brain, 
 as he kissed her farewell: -May God forgive me, if aught 
 comes to harm vou." 
 
 She leaned back against the rows of scented pine that 
 reached the car-top, and drew a sigh of relief. 
 
 She was going to a city in New York,- she had seen a bill 
 of the cars in the office a few days previous, and it all came 
 back to her then. No matter how long must the waiting seem 
 there upon the side track, it would in reality be but a short 
 time, and no one could find her now, even if they tried. 
 
96 
 
 Love. 
 
 t\\ 
 
 It was quite light;, ancl drawinj^ her pencil from her pockety 
 she knelt down and wrote with eager haste all over one of the 
 blank leaves of her treasured book ; then folding her arms 
 about her head, she prayed long and fervently to her mother's 
 God to forgive her from running away from her only friends, 
 to bless them, and put away from their hearts any anger that 
 might arise through her wilfulness, and to lead her steps aright. 
 
 Blessed childhood ! The cruel breath of scepticism had 
 never swept across her heart, to scorch her confiding trust or 
 taint her innocent, simple faith. 
 
 Two weeks slowly took their flight into the irrevocable past ; 
 and Love, worn with anxiety anil wearied of her confinement, 
 knelt upon the floor ^nd looked dow'n at the narrow strip of 
 land that lay beneath the car. How much longer would that 
 strange living in awful solitude last.^ Why did the light of 
 day seem dimmed every time she knelt for a glimpse of it.'' 
 These and innumerable other questions absorbed her tnind 
 until, weepnig like a tired child, -she fell asleep. 
 
 Daylight came, and the car moved slowly on its way. Love 
 sat all the long forenoon with her beloved book spread open 
 upon her lap. There was one page still blank. She did not 
 touch it, but dreamed away the monotonous hours until shrill 
 whistles from the neighboring shops in the town through 
 which they were passing, told her it was the hour of twelve. 
 
 She knew then she must eat a few of the remaining crackers 
 in order to keep alive. Yet she knelt once more to catch a 
 glimpse of the blessed sunlight, but it all seemed so changed. 
 
 Only a thread of faint yellow streamed across the open 
 space that was wont to gleam like gold, and even that ap- 
 peared blurred, and then faded entirely. 
 
 But that was not all. The daylight seemed lost in heavy 
 shadows. Surely it was noon. What could that sudden dark- 
 ness mean.' A terrible fear crept into her heart. A thrill of 
 unspeakable dread surged over her being. 
 
Love. 
 
 97 
 
 r pockety 
 le of the 
 ler arms 
 mother's 
 ' friends, 
 i^er that 
 >s aright, 
 ism hatl 
 trust or 
 
 hie past ; 
 inement, 
 strip of 
 Duld that 
 i light of 
 se of it? 
 er mi 11(1 
 
 ^. Love 
 ad open 
 ; did not 
 itil shrill 
 
 through 
 welve. 
 
 crackers 
 ) catch a 
 :hanged. 
 he open 
 
 that ap- 
 
 in heavy 
 en dark- 
 . thrill of 
 
 Turning to her faithful book, she penciled blindly upon the 
 only remaining leaf, kissed it passionately, closed it, and nest- 
 ing her head upon its stupid-looking cover, faced and resolved 
 to endure patiently the awful burden she was called upon to 
 bear. Peace came at last, and with it sleep, and with sleep, 
 dreaming. '^' 
 
 An angel stood beside her and presented her with a cup of 
 gold. It held, concentrated, the peace and happiness of life 
 and ,t was called Joy. She took the cup, and walked abroad 
 mto the night with the heavenly being. They soon stood upon 
 the shores of a beautiful lake. A full moon swung above its 
 eastern bank, and threw a path of golden light straight to her 
 very feet. They stepped together out upon that gleaming 
 pathway, and walking over the shining bars of light, stood 
 within the glory of the celestial city. 
 
 Love saw a familiar form float toward her. In her sudden 
 yearning to be once more clasped to her mother's bosom, she 
 flung aside the golden cup, and sprang forward with out- 
 stretched arms. Her cup of Joy fell at her mother's feet. 
 
 Love was wide awake, and was staring blindly into the ter- 
 rible gloom that surrounded her. 
 
 Was her dream a warning? Did it tell her she had cast 
 away life's cup of happiness when she so weakly fled from the 
 troubles and indignities of her short life? She knew not She 
 knelt down and prayed in her pretty faith for courage to face 
 bravely whatever the future might hold in store for her; then 
 lolding her hands across her lap, she leaned against the un- 
 sympathetic pine, and dreaming and waking, waited for the 
 light. 
 
 The car had stopped while Love was carrying in her hand 
 her cup of Joy, and after a few hours she heard a door o-rate 
 harshly as it slid open, and the shingles were soon bein- re- 
 moved from about her, ** 
 
98 
 
 Love. 
 
 She felt faint from mingled joy and dread. A bundle had 
 left the pile upon her right; another, — she felt the soft air 
 fanning her face. She heard the breathing of the one who 
 was laboring. She gazed earnestly that way with wide-open 
 eyes, but r.ll was darkness. Then she heard an exclamation. 
 
 In another moment Love lay in a death-like swoon in the 
 strong arms that were outstretched to clasp her. 
 
 In a fit of remorse, old Jim told Cass the manner of Love's 
 flight, and the half-disiractcd fellow immediately started tor 
 the city whither the cars were billed. 
 
 It was none other than Cass himself who carried Love from 
 her strange prison into the broad light of day. 
 
 An old couple neaf by, kindly offered Cass accommodations 
 for his fair burden, and when Love came to herself, she had 
 alreadv found staunch friends. 
 
 At the first sound of Cass's voice, Love started perceptiblv, 
 and one white hand instincti^•ely sought the face that bent 
 above her, which suddenly grew white as marble. 
 
 She touched lightly the clean-shaven lip, and, was it fancy, 
 that she drew a deep sigh of relief.? . Her Cass had worn a 
 moustache. 
 
 When she had told her story to the sympathetic old people, 
 they begged her to remain with them always, as their beloved 
 child. So Cass left the house, unrecognized, but happy in the 
 knowledge that his little Love was well cared for, — until he 
 could claim her as his own. 
 
 Then the brave fellow went patiently to work, and dreamed 
 of the pleasant home he would soon have ; and the occasional 
 glimpses he caught of Love's sweet, pathetic face gave him 
 renewed courage ;as the days went on. 
 
 All that time the little maiden was jealously guarding a 
 secret of her own. 
 
Love. 
 
 99 
 
 tulle had 
 soft air 
 one who 
 ide-open 
 amation. 
 5n in the 
 
 f Love's 
 irtod tor 
 
 )ve from 
 
 odations 
 she had 
 
 :eptibly, 
 hat bent 
 
 it fancy, 
 \ worn a 
 
 people, 
 
 beloved 
 
 py in the 
 
 until he 
 
 dreamed 
 :casional 
 ave him 
 
 irding a 
 
 When .she had been a few days in her new home, she 
 slipped out one wet, dreary day, and groped down the street 
 with her treasured book under her cloak. Inquiring along the 
 way and with a little friendly assistance, she reached the door 
 of the room il which sat the proprietor of the largest publish- 
 ing house in the citv. 
 
 Gathering courage, and opening the d.>or in answer to a 
 ^ern "come in," Love stepped inside and closed the door. 
 1 he gentleman arose, and bowing slightly, offered her a chair, 
 but she made no movement to accept it. Her beautiful dark 
 eyes gazed mutely toward his, and she said softly: 
 "''Sir, I cannot see you." 
 
 The frown upon the noble forehead before her fled, as its 
 owner gently took Love by the shoulder and seated her.' 
 
 Then it was she gave up to a stranger her heart's treasure. 
 In answer to the gentle inquiries, she told, in a few simple 
 words, the story of her life, and said how happy she would be 
 if she might only have a little book of her own in "real print- 
 ing." The gentleman promised to read the manuscript, and 
 told her when to call a^ain. 
 
 When she kept the appointment, she was pleased beyond 
 measure to learn that her wish was to be fulfilled, her desire 
 gratified. But her deepest happiness appeared to live when 
 she learned how much money she would receive. Indeed, the 
 gentleman seemed surprised to see her bow her head upon her 
 clasped hands for a moment, as if in p'ayer, when he made 
 the announcement. 
 
 Then they had a long talk, in thi- course of which the gentle- 
 man asked her to whom her book was to be dedicated. 
 "My mother." 
 "But is she livinsr?" 
 "In heaven, yes, sir." 
 
 Surely that was a novel thought for those times. Why not 
 ilo as the sweet maid wished.? And the man who was" pro- 
 
lOO 
 
 Love. 
 
 V\ 
 
 nounced cold and haughty by the match-making mammas of 
 that beautiful city, actually found tears lingering on the thresh- 
 old of his eyes, ready to step out and wander down his hand- 
 some features, if not rudely driven back. 
 
 After that, Love called at the office several times. She was 
 allowed to dictate as to the arrangement of her little poems, 
 and to say in what shade they should be dressed. And the 
 girl would often touch her eyes lightly and smile, for she be- 
 lieved money would open them once more, and the time was 
 near at hand when she could return to Cass. 
 
 The day came at last, on which she held what seemed to 
 her a large sum of money in her hand ; and thanking her bene- 
 factor over and over, she wept tears of joy that, stupidlv 
 enough, splashed all over a copy of her book that lay upon 
 the office table. 
 
 Then she hurried home to her foster-mother. She gave her 
 the money, and begged of her to get a doctor quick^ "to make 
 her eyes well." She sobbed out her story to the kind though 
 surprised woman, — and then poor Love was laid upon a bed 
 of pain and fever. 
 
 Cass suffered untold agonies as he learned the secrets of that 
 weary heart, and was forced to listen to the sweet voice im- 
 ploring for one more breath of the scented pine : calling upon 
 him to forgive her for leaving him : praying God to send back 
 the beautiful angel with her cup of Joy. 
 
 The days passed wearily, but the time came at last in which 
 Love recognized her friends, and with a cry that made known 
 the suprepie joy of her heart, she nestled in the strong -arms of 
 her lover, who clasped her as if he would defy Death itself. 
 
 But the passing hours brought no more strength to Love. 
 And still resting peacefully upon the true heart of her noble 
 lover, she took the shining cup of Joy that life had given her, 
 and carried it once more into the glory of her angel-mother's 
 presence. 
 
Love. 
 
 lOI 
 
 In a certain office, in a certain town of the east, a gentleman 
 maybe found, handsome and proud-appearing still, who, amid 
 the hurry and cares of this wearisome life, finds time to mourn 
 over a 1 ttle blue-bound book, lettered in gold, that has been 
 blistered m a number of places with something strangely like 
 tears. Upon the fly-leaf is written: 
 
 ""A fairer, siveeter thing 
 Is my life for having known you; 
 
 Forever with my sacred a n 
 
 My souVs soul, I shall u.jn your 
 
 Not far away is a happy home ; and the father of the lovely 
 children who grace it, still treasures carefully, and handles 
 with reverent touch, a litde volume of poems that bears a 
 marked resemblance to the tear-stained one in the grave man's 
 office beyond. 
 
 Naught but one. short, innocent life, yet in its living may be 
 found a trace of the subtle forces that reach out to us eveiy- 
 where, breathing the essence of all pure, true being. And 
 though our cup of Joy shall be shattered, even at its brimming, 
 we can ask no more blessed thing than a faith that can hold 
 the delicate fragments in patient waiting for the Master-hand 
 to make it whole. 
 
 Oaly one brief, simple life. Yet who shall say one life is 
 lived in vain.? 
 
(mi) 
 
 n J 
 
 JAKE WESTON. 
 
 "a guilty conscience needs no accuser." 
 
 ''Shall I <ro 'long, too, Jakey?" 
 
 "No, yer needn't. G'long inter the house. ^ teli ycr the 
 deer b'longs ter me, 'n' I'll 'ave it. 'Fi can't bag that 'ere 
 feller's game for'm 'thout eny help, why th'n — " and the 
 speaker's lips closed together grimly, and an ominous scowl 
 settled over the hard features. 
 
 The poor old woman silently shrank back against the door- 
 way, and wrung her thin, wrinkled hands in a fashion that had 
 become habitual with her. 
 
 "Better 'ave a roarin' fire 'gin cookin' the a limal ;" and 
 with a sardonic grin, Jake Weston shouldered his rifle, and 
 started for the neighboring forest. 
 
 A number of brisk steps brought him to a point where the 
 road diverged into several foot-paths. Scrutinizing them care- 
 fully, Jake took the extreme left, and muttering, "This 'ere 
 cros's t'other further on ; we'll see, my fine gentleman, who 
 brings down ther game," he pushed stealthily through the 
 underbrush, aiming for the track of a noble deer he had sighted 
 the day previous. 
 
 It was still early morning. The October sun was rashly 
 throwing from his glittering quiver innumerable golden darts 
 along the eastern horizon. Many of them dipped their gleam- 
 
yake Weston. 
 
 103 
 
 ing: points Into the placid waters that rippled before the open 
 doorway of the hut wherein Jake Weston left his ajred mother, 
 while others, aimed higher, pierced the rising mists beyond,' 
 and touched the fluttering garments of the stately trees, until 
 their robes were radiant with tints of matchless loveliness. 
 
 In the path extremely opposite the one taken by Jake Wes- 
 ton, a blithe young sportsman, noting the beautiful sunrise, 
 stopped. All earth to him was glorious. On every breath he 
 drew in, with keen delight, the fresh October air. Involun- 
 tarily he bared his head to the kiss of the cool winds, while a 
 favorite melody burst from his lips in a clear, joyous whistle. 
 
 The moments sped by. What was there about the scene in 
 that wild northern wood to remind him of a pile of bones he 
 once saw bleaching in the sun, at a mountain resort in far-off 
 New Hampshire.? He instinctively shuddered. Perchance his 
 straying thoughts then wandered to his city home, and lingered 
 lovingly about his gentle mother's sweet face. A tender smile 
 lighted the handsome, boyish features, as he replaced his cap. 
 
 ''Well, well; what sort of a huntsman are you, anyway, 
 Arnon Leigh, that you stand here like a post.? How do you 
 know but your fine buck has already been brought down by 
 the fellow that lurked here yesterday.?" And the stranger 
 hastened on. 
 
 Meanwhile. Mrs. Weston — in her second childhood, poor 
 woman— after finishing the homely duties indoors, tied an old 
 scarf over her white locks, and left the hut, intending to do as 
 she h ul often done before — startle, or head off, a deer for 
 her son. 
 
 She wandered on a long, long way, but no unwonted sound 
 disturbed the loneliness of the woods ; she neared the verge of 
 a broad clearing that lay, dry and fragrant, in the happy sun- 
 light ; she sat down upon a fallen log, with a faint hope of 
 seeing a deer, and a strange dread of Take findino- her. 
 
*"¥»»• ■^S*'***-iS«! 
 
 104 
 
 yakc Weston. 
 
 The wind sought the frost-touched grasses at her feet, and 
 playfully threw their heads together, making a rustling mono- 
 tone not unlike music. x\ partridge cooed softly in the thicket 
 near by. Beautiful leaves, decked in their holiday attire of 
 gold, crimson and marbled tints, fluttered about her like iairy 
 messengers of light. An audacious squirrel ran nimbly up the 
 decayed trunk of a fallen tree at her side, and iiymX her know- 
 ingly, then skipped off with his rheeks puffed out as though 
 in silent laughter. 
 
 Strange thoughts wandered vaguely through the clouded 
 brain, and happy dreams flitteJ there, not wholly unlike 
 dreams of ours, good neighbor ..line. On the evanescent 
 walls of Fancy's castle we lightly trace grand, glorious visions 
 that vanish if sought' by a simple worldly touch, — as the fairv 
 scenes with which Jack Frost beautifies the window panes 
 deftly elude the generous sun who smiles benignly down to 
 gild the outlines of their magic tracerv. 
 
 Jake Weston strode through the woods with every sense on 
 the alert. He had struck the track of a deer, and was nearing 
 a point where there were few trees and nothing but light under- 
 brush for many reds He stopped suddenly at sight of some- 
 thing away beyond, moving slowly to the southeast. Follow- 
 ing with his eyes the direction of the moving object, he sighted 
 upon a rising across the clearing, a noble buck. The dark 
 object was creeping in the shadows of the henvier timber to- 
 ward the beautiful animal. 
 
 Now, my g.,r>d .'eighbor. if you and I, from the "'sublime 
 heights of our philosophy," see a rival cany off the trophy for 
 which we are striving, we doubtless nourish our spite to vent 
 upon the primary object of our avaricious desires ; but Jake 
 Weston was not of our kind. 
 
 All the germs of fiendishness that lay dormant in his ignor- 
 ant, cruel heart, sprang into being as his quick eye noted the 
 
feet, and 
 ip mono- 
 le thicket 
 
 attire of 
 like iairy 
 ly up the 
 er know- 
 s th()uj2fh 
 
 clouded 
 y unlike 
 anescent 
 IS visions 
 the fairy 
 w panes 
 down to 
 
 sense on 
 > nearing 
 it under- 
 of sorne- 
 Follow- 
 3 sighted 
 ^he dark 
 mber to- 
 
 'sublinie 
 
 ophy for 
 
 to vent 
 
 )ut Jake 
 
 is ignor- 
 oted the 
 
 
 yakc Wat on. 
 
 105 
 
 scene, and his quicker sense comprehended the advantage his 
 nval held over him. With hot, hated breath and glaring eye.s, 
 Jake Weston aimed at the unsuspecting sportsman, and pulled 
 the tngger of his Winchester. He considered himself an un- 
 ernng shot ; and when he saw the object of his brutal venge- 
 ance fall, he waited for no more, but fled back throu<rh the 
 warm shadows of the wildwood. ^ 
 
 ^ The feeble woman, who sat smiling at the beautiful bird 
 i.iat had poised upon a branch near her resting place, and 
 aroused her from her trance-like dreaming with its sweet carol 
 to the mornmg sun, was stariied by the sound of crackling 
 l>rush, and surprised into immovable silence by the si<.ht of a 
 strange young man who emerged un the shadows r. short 
 distance beyord, and stepped into the path before her. 
 
 He noted not the quaint figure, hut moved stealthily on. 
 1 he trunk of a fallen tree impeded his progress ; he placed the 
 handle of his rifle upon the ground to aid him in vaultin- over 
 1 he woman heard a deafening report : she saw the pmstrate 
 torm of whaL sh^ had confusedlv deemed a charming vision. 
 She heard the dull thud of lead as it struck the tree just above 
 her head. She staggered to her feet. Did a mother's unfail- 
 ing eyesight discern the dim outlines of a human bein- fleeing 
 trom the radit^ice of the glad sunlight in the dim distance? A 
 withered hand was unwittingly passed across the bewildered 
 eyes; the trembling footsteps strayed themselves beside the 
 wounded stranofer. 
 
 The placid face and tearful eyes seemed like the features of 
 an angel to Anion Leigh, as he slowly recovered from fhe first 
 bewildering sensations ot the terrible shock his system had 
 r^ Mved. He ascertained his injuries, and arose to his feet ; 
 ro. rifle had discharged the contents of one of its chambers 
 through his right arm. He asked the gentle woman if she 
 could give him temporary accommodations at her home. A 
 
io6 
 
 Jake Weston. 
 
 look of terror stole over the wan face as he questioned. The 
 thin worn hands were wrung together ; then they seized the 
 stranger's uninjured arm, and the voice trembled with per- 
 plexed entreaty : 
 
 "•No, oh no!" Pointing the opposite direction from the 
 hut: "There's 'elp there." Dubiously: "Jakey ought er 'ad 
 the deer." With eager declaration: ''He al'ays hunts 'ere," 
 
 With sudden energy the withered lips were pressed to the 
 boy's firm hand, and the old woman turned away and set her 
 troubled face toward her wretched home. 
 
 Solemn tears filled the eyes of Arnon Leigh as he watched 
 the awkward figure out of sight ; and he took away the remem- 
 brance of that uncultured woman's kiss as the memory of a 
 sacred blessing. In' the long after years he was spared to his 
 
 own loved mother, he never wholly forgot Jake Weston's. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The \yarm, odorous zephyrs that sprang up to usher in the 
 soft October twilight, gently fanned the careworn face of Jake 
 Weston's aged mother, as she sat upon the steps of their rude 
 dwelling, awaiting her son's return. The water rippled in a 
 gentle monotone at her feet, and the beautiful clouds that hung 
 above the western horizon looked like enormous seashells with 
 rose-tinted hearts, floating in a sea of sparkling sherry, that 
 slowly faded into huge white billows floating gently up on an 
 ocean of heavenly blue. But the beauties of nature were 
 powerless to woo the mind of the poor lone woman from its 
 vague, confused wanderings. 
 
 The shadows were deepening all about her, as Jake Weston 
 emerged from the darkness. As he neared the steps and 
 caught a glimpse of his mother's ghost-like figure, he started 
 back affrightedly ; then recognizing her, with a muttered oath, 
 strode into the hut. The gentle woman, unquestioningly, 
 arose and followed him. He had no game, and flung his rifle 
 
D(l. The 
 eized the 
 AJth per- 
 
 tVom the 
 ^ht er 'ad 
 Its 'crc," 
 ied to the 
 ul set her 
 
 watched 
 i re me Hi- 
 ll ory of a 
 'ed to his 
 
 ton's. 
 
 * 
 
 ler in the 
 e of Jake 
 heir rude 
 pled in a 
 hat hung 
 lells with 
 _MTy, that 
 up on an 
 n'c were 
 from its 
 
 3 Weston 
 teps and 
 le started 
 red oath, 
 ioningly, 
 <■ his rifle 
 
 yaie Weston. jqm 
 
 into a dark corner of the room, and sought his couch in sullen 
 silence. 
 
 Away along in the night, Jake's mother, with timid anxiety 
 sought h.s hedside ; as she hghtly kissed the feverish temples 
 other son, a strong arm flung her aside, and wide, horror- 
 stncken eyes stared half-insanely at the prostrate form beside 
 the couch. 
 
 * * * » 
 
 Life, that had never been very bright for that poor woman 
 m the back-woods, suddenly grew darker. When another 
 October blessed the earth with its gorgeous splendor, the 
 weary heart, had it been capable of forming reproaches, would 
 have pronounced existence a wretched bane. 
 
 The game law had passed, but Jake Weston's rifle lay rusty 
 and neglected ; he who had once been the most ^mtirino- of 
 huntsmen, sought no more for trophies in the neighborino- 
 forest; he sat about the hut a terrible wreck of the strong" 
 vigorous boy that had spent most of his life in outdoor exercise' 
 But rumors of the well-stocked wilderness floated out to- 
 ward many who were eager for sport. The mild October day 
 was at Its dawn when unwonted sounds disturbed the serenity 
 of the solitude in that northern wild. 
 
 Jake Weston's mother sought the window, and a soft, pretty 
 glow tinged the wrinkled cheeks, as she saw a party of gav 
 sportsmen nearing the rude dwelling. Half unconsciouslv she 
 murmured, -Like the other one." The tender smile upo^ her 
 hps turned to an expression of tremulous fear, as she felt the 
 liot breath of her son upon her neck, and the fierce grip of his 
 hand upon her arm. 
 
 She was pulled from the window, instantaneously, and the 
 wild eyes stared into her innocent ones with frightful intensity 
 ''Likexvhor' -^ ' 
 
 The poor woman sank down upon the floor, and buried her 
 
io8 
 
 Jake Weston. 
 
 face in her hands. Perhaps she had a faint idea that some- 
 thing]^, more terrible than she could imajrine, would happen to 
 her if she confessed to havinjr conversed with Arnon LeiH.. 
 
 The sou. ids of conversation and lau<>^hter died away in the 
 distance. Jake Weston drew back from the wretched fiirure 
 as though a vague comprehension of his brute-like savageness 
 had pierced the rough exterior of his half-maddened brain. 
 
 The day wore slowly on. The sound of several rifle-shots 
 pierced the hearing of the inmates of that dismal dwelling; 
 when the tired woman, glancing up from her homely duties, 
 saw her son moving stealthily toward the door, with a bundle 
 in his hand. 
 
 ^'VVhere goin' ?" she inquired; then with a stifled crv of 
 agony, she sprang :o liis side: ''Don't go, Jakey ; don't." 
 
 Jake Weston looked savrgely down upon the inanimate 
 form of his loving mother, and laid down his bundle. Then 
 he got some water and restored her to her senses. He was, 
 unconsciously, resting upon his knees beside her as she opened 
 her troubled eyes, and before he was aware of her intentions, 
 the wasted arms were clasped tightly about his neck, and the- 
 feeble lips murmured, half-hysterically : 
 
 "Jakey, I couldn't 'elp it; his arm was 'urt. He talked so 
 pretty, and he was so good, Jakey ; he went 'wav 'thout the 
 deer." 
 
 What had happened ? Had God sent back the affectionate 
 boy that had blessed her life in years agone } 
 
 The warm October twilight enveloped the little hut in the 
 woods, and quietly softened the uncouth proportions until it 
 presented a strangely picturesque appearance. The twilight 
 deepened, and the "lamps of heaven" shone forth in all their 
 splendor. Little Mrs. Weston stood at the uncurtained win- 
 dow of her humble dwelling, and looked wistfully into the 
 calm heavens. Perhaps a faint longing stirred the clouded 
 
J a'-'- Weston. 
 
 109 
 
 fijj^urc 
 
 soul - a loncrincr for angel voices to bear the tidings of her 
 wondrous happiness to the companion of her maiden days. 
 She looked long and wistfully at the golden stars that winked 
 shyly at one another while gazing down upon her from the 
 benign, peaceful face of heaven. 
 
 What affinity could there possibly exist between her misty 
 longmgs and calm delight, and the wishes of the fair mortal 
 who stood at her casement and prettily raved about her Romeo 
 bemg cut mto little stars to make the face of heaven .0 fine? 
 
 1 he moon coyly played hide-and-seek with the great white 
 clouds that floated on and on in majestic grandeur; a fish 
 leaped to the surface of the beautiful water, and sent silver 
 sparkles rippling toward the silent dwelling. The o-cntle wo 
 man turned away at last, and all through the brooding nic^ht 
 mused with wondering joy on the unutterable blessedness Hfe 
 had given her. 
 
 The moon rose higher and still higher. It peered into the 
 tace of Jake Weston, that lay upturned toward the heavens ; a 
 .^-H'l-smile lingered about the lips, and such a look of relief 
 and mute happiness rester' upon the features of the happy 
 dreamer, that fair Luna drew back abashed, and left the in- 
 mates of that humble dwelling in unwatched, undisturbed 
 peacelulness. 
 
(110) 
 
 A WINTER MEMORY 
 
 The little hoixt had been drawn ashore and overturned, sev- 
 eral weeks previous, but the sudden return of a mild Autumn 
 day, leapir.g inost eharmingly into the lap of snowless Decem- 
 ber, warming its sluggish blood and fascinating it into unde- 
 murring acceptance ' of the pretty caress, had suggested to 
 our jolly oarsman, just before twilight, the idea of a boat-ride. 
 
 The boat was unceremoniously tipped into the water ; the 
 oars were carried down the bank, and slipped into the row- 
 locks ; the seats wee fitted in ; three persons took possession, 
 and ' ere instantaneously gliding over the calm water. 
 
 Tl, boat shot swiftly along the western bank, until the per- 
 fumeil pines, bare roots and grim-looking logs that were so 
 faithfully mirrored in the peaceful waters, seemed to glide 
 past us in their dull, silent grandeur, like the memory of som- 
 ber, wind-swept storm-clouds. Tbe water looked dark and 
 still beside us, but gradually spread into a clear, radiant light, 
 until the tips of the ripples far beyond gleamed like diamonds. 
 
 We were fast approaching the southern -icrge of the tinv 
 lake, when a glance at the iridescent heavens gave us a kev to 
 all that strange, glowing splendor. It seemed that the sun- 
 god, who lurked beyond the western tree-tops, had been auda- 
 ciously flirting with the fair new moon, who stood high in the 
 cloudless heavens nnd was returning his vivid blushes with 
 charming effrontery. 
 
A Winter Memory. 
 
 Ill 
 
 10(1, scv- 
 Aiitumn 
 Decem- 
 :o unde- 
 Ccstcd to 
 aat-rido. 
 ter ; the 
 the lovv- 
 vsession, 
 
 the per- 
 vvere so 
 to glide 
 of som- 
 ark and 
 nt light, 
 imonds. 
 the tiny 
 a key to 
 the sun- 
 m auda- 
 ;h in the 
 les with 
 
 
 We wondered if the magnificent fellow had any idea of 
 leaping back to his fair enchantress; if he had, he probably 
 reflected upon the consternr.cion such a deed would bring to 
 numberless hearts that beat just as warmly as his own fiery 
 one, and blushingly withdrew from the smiling, steadfast o-aze 
 of charming Luna. ^ 
 
 The' boat sped steadily on, and exclamations of admiration 
 broke the silence of the glowing solitude as we neared the 
 eastern banks; then common words died away upon our lips. 
 
 The homes that, far across the water, nestled upon the 
 western banks, were shrouded in deepest gloom ; above the 
 impenetrable darkness, clearly defined against the tinted sky, 
 arose a long, unbroken line of somber tree-tops. 
 
 A golden light emerged from behind the solemn temporary 
 breastworks of Nature, and flashing into tints of deepest pink, 
 shot boldly into the cloudless heavens ; but the radiant hues^ 
 soon vanquished by the calm splendor of Night's fair queen, 
 slowly retired, and left her in undisputed possession of the 
 field. 
 
 Conversation succeeded silence; and the cool breeze that 
 suddenly sprang up, wafted snatches of familiar melodies 
 across the ruffled waters, until they trembled, and softly mur- 
 mured with reproaches on being awakened from their peace- 
 ful slumber. Voices from the encircling forest flung hack in 
 softened sweetness words that soared away from happy lips. 
 The oars dipped, plashed, and arose in vigorous uniformity; 
 a few lights twinkled from the shore that lay in darkness be- 
 fore us as we flitted past the northern banks; a :ittle bayou, 
 running in at our 'eft, hugged a thin layer of ice to its gloomy 
 bosom; the oars cut a transparent coating of the same, and 
 then we sped into deeper water. 
 
 The gleaming moon sent showers of silvery sheen over the 
 sleepy earth, and much of it fell toward our little boat as it 
 swiftly neared the western bank once more. 
 
112 
 
 A Winter Memo 
 
 ry. 
 
 Three merry cheers were gaily given, and we landed. Then 
 the boat was pulled ashore, and our pleasant boat-ride had 
 become a past joy. 
 
 Yet, in all the dim, obscure future, naught but death can 
 effectually efface the memory of that winter journey over the 
 glowing face of Lake Michigan's tiny child, — that dimples 
 and smiles and frets and fumes in the midst of the scented 
 pines that toss their bare, gloomy branches in grotesque sol- 
 emnity on Strawberry Hills. 
 
. Then 
 ide had 
 
 (",?) 
 
 ;ath can 
 over the 
 dimples 
 scented 
 que sol- 
 
 TRAILING ARBUTUS. 
 
 A FRACJMEXT 
 
 A tniy, tiny spray, it lies upon the bit of cardboard ; a few 
 straggling tendrils, the hue of mother earth, trail from the 
 brighter stems, adown the scrap of paper. 
 
 What soul, that intuitively catches the artistic lurking in 
 every leaf and bud and flower and blade of grass, can find one 
 solitary ray of beauty in the first rough production of eager 
 hands that stretch longingly toward the doors of Art's fair 
 te:.iple,— which, alas! open for but a chosen few? 
 
 Unconcerned eyes can see nothing of interest in the crude 
 mixture of pink and green and brown; they cannot even tell 
 what the colors have patiently tried to express for long, long 
 years. 
 
 And yet, for one, the faint, imperfect reproduction holds a 
 multitude of childish fears, intermingled with pretty gleams of 
 pride and joy. It carries a world-weary heart into a past that 
 clasps upon its withered breast youth's fondest hopes and 
 sweetest aspirations. Floating from the happy world of care- 
 less childhood, with no glimpse of the dark, trailing passions 
 that lurked below the fair, blush-tinted surface, swept the fin- 
 gers that nervously imprinted it upon the tiny, valueless card. 
 
 A beautiful bouquet, il lies upon the table. Sweet flowers 
 of Spring! can you recognize your innocent namesake here .? 
 
 I 
 
«H 
 
 Ira ilitig A rbuti,. ^ . 
 
 Ah, no! your fair delicate faces shrink aside as you behold 
 the poor, miserable design. 
 
 And yet, turn your exquisite features this way, my fresh, my 
 dainty woodland trophies. Think you your lot more blest than 
 that of your wee, unfragrant namesake? Have you, then, 
 clasped for aye the perfume that treinulously wafts its being 
 into the greedy face that bends and kisses? 
 
 Fair, guileless flowers! The lips that sip your honey will 
 drain every drop of your perfumed life-blood. Your crushed, 
 death-stricken faces will twine and blend with earth and roots 
 that weigh and drag forever. 
 
 Is it, then, more blessed to be for one brief hour the fairest, 
 sweetest life that bursts from the dark bosom of Nature as it 
 draws its first glad brfcath of spnngtime ? Yet, you still shrink 
 from the poor, defective, valueless sketch. 
 
 Miserable, blotted, tiny spray? Crude, worthless? O friend! 
 consider well ! 
 
( n.O 
 
 LENA'S POEM. 
 
 Lena EwHig was sittin- upon the fra-rant grass that softly 
 carpetci the wule common i„ front of Deacon Hammond's 
 house. She had been trying to look the glowing sun straight 
 ." the face, and he had rebuked her with such a fiery stare 
 that her sweet blue eyes were filled with unbidden tears 
 
 Lena had been in the quiet New England village but a short 
 tniie yet she felt more at home, sitting there in the glowin- 
 sunshme, than she ever had in the long years that had been 
 spent m the noise and bustle of a city. It seemed to her that 
 she had found her ideal host in jovial Deacon Hammond, who 
 kept h.s large, airy house open to -summer boarders;" and 
 she felt very happy, despite the tears she was trying to wink 
 off the long lashes tliat shaded her eyes. 
 
 A volume of poems lay upon her lap, and a sheet of blank 
 paper and a pencil held it open at "The Barefoot Boy." Her 
 quick eyes had noted the beautiful scenes that spread away 
 from her upon every side, and she drew a deep sigh, born of 
 unspeakable happiness, as she looked down at the open pac.es 
 in her lap, and then across the pretty green into Deacon Ham- 
 mond s garden, where a boy was busily hoeing 
 
 ''Wonder if he is a barefoot boy!" and then a musical laugh 
 broke the stdlness about her as she fancied how comical such a 
 well-grown person would look barefooted. 
 
 The heat was growing intense, and thinking her sun-bath 
 quite sufficient for the time being, she sought the shade of a 
 
ii6 
 
 Lena's Poem, 
 
 
 row of maples that skirted the common upon the rij^ht. This 
 brou<>^ht her some nearer the g^arden, and as the in(Uistrious 
 toiler there was the only visible sign of active life, she fell to 
 dreaming over and wondering about the different phases of 
 humanity she had so often studied ; wrote a little upon the 
 stray paper in her book, and idled away the happy hours until 
 the dinner-hell awoke her to a sense of her surroundings, — if, 
 indeed, she had lost ccmsciousness of their rare beauties. As 
 she arose to obey its summons, a penciled scrawl stole out of 
 the pretty volume in her hands, and, unnoticed, settled itself 
 where she had been sitting. 
 
 Deacon Hammond always had his help at the saine table 
 with his summer boarders, and it was at his hospitable board 
 Lena first met Frank 'Wallace, the lad who had been working 
 in the garden. Being a new comer, she was introduced in a 
 tormal way to the inmates oC the dining room ; as she met the 
 lad's penetrating glance, she thought she had never seen such 
 beautiful deep blue eyes before ; Frank bestowed one com- 
 passionate thought upon Lena's pale face, and then devoted 
 himself to the tempting viands that were so generously served. 
 
 Dinner was over. Frank Wallace had been to the little 
 post office across the common, and was walking back beneath 
 the shade trees, when he came upon a sheet of paper which, 
 at first glance, he supposed to be Lena's handkerchief, — for 
 he remembered having seen iier sitting there. He picked it 
 up, and with boyish curiosity, read — 
 
 ''Life contains much prose, yet every heart one day lives a 
 poem. It may not flash in letters of gold before the gaze of a 
 multitude, nevertheless it is there, palr>i*:^*^ing in warm, rich 
 life, beneath a cold or impenetrable exte lor. When a child, 
 I wondered, with childish thoughts, why every paper, maga- 
 zine, and countless books contained poems. Childlike, I dimly 
 supposed when one had written a poem they were done with 
 
Lena's Poem. 
 
 7 
 
 poesy forever; that the emotions and the study producing the 
 thoughts that swelled and inflamed my eager heart drained the 
 cup of poetical fervor forever. Lr.ier on, I was surprised into 
 changmg my mind, for I found that no sooner had I placed 
 one thought upon paper, than innumerable others crowded my 
 bram, clamoring to be placed beside their brother. Then did 
 the truth begin to dawn faintly ; then did I vaguely compre- 
 hend that one poem, one story, should never satisfy the long- 
 ing of an awakened soul. These thoughts were confused and 
 dim but a short time ago: now do I feel through all the vig- 
 orous striving an hungering spirit that mortal is never satisfied. 
 1 look about me and find so many beautiful poems in the 
 happy Ignorance of unbeing that—" 
 
 The .ad felt almost sorry that there was not more to read 
 He studied the pretty, peculiar chirography, and re-read the 
 crudely written ideas ; then he bethought himself of the merry 
 party that was lounging about the front piazza of the house 
 beyond. 
 
 He walked quickly across the common, and soon stood be- 
 side Lena, who was swaying to and fro in one of the ham- 
 mocks that were suspended from the maples before the ver- 
 anda. A vivid blush overspread his face as he proffered the 
 truant penciling; and as he replied to Lena's" thanks and 
 turned away, he blushtV leeper still at remembrance of ber 
 unembarrassed air,- it u .s so unlike what his sister's would 
 have been had he discovered some of her private thoughts. It 
 did not enter his mind that Lena Ewing was accustomed to the 
 society of gentlemen who would have deemed it dishonorable 
 to do what he had so carelessly done. 
 
 When Lena had been in the country nearly three wrecks 
 accustomed herself to the innocent, well-bred familiarity, and 
 understood the equal ground upon which all seemed to rest in 
 tnat delightful spot, she had become verv friendly with Frank 
 Wallace. 
 
ii8 
 
 LvNo'.s Povm. 
 
 \ ^* 
 
 He was the son of a neighboring^ farmer: a careless, ohlig- 
 in«^ and warni-hearted boy, and he took quite a fancy to Lena : 
 if you had questioned why, he would have unhesitatingly re- 
 plied, ''She is sucl: a 'cute little thing," and would have 
 wound up his logic with a whistled bar of ""Atton Waters." 
 
 F'rank was quite boyish about some things, and verv manly 
 about others ; indeed, his manner plainly showed he was hov- 
 ering upon the verge of years that would speedily bear him 
 beyond the gildcf' portals through which all his sex pass so 
 proudly. 
 
 He often took Lena for a drive after a slow, ungainly-look- 
 ing horse, and she always entertained him with serious 
 thoughts and quaint nothings, uttered in her own pretty way ; 
 and one time she laughed till the tears rolled down her 
 cheeks, when their spirited animal stopped short to rest at the 
 bottom of a slight hill. 
 
 He made sport of her fervert liking for the pretty wild 
 flowers that blossomed all about the country ; yet he gathered 
 handfuls of field daisies, countless roses from the sweet-briar 
 bushes, and broke off whole limbs from the apple trees, just 
 for the fun of seeing the little face buried in the fragrant blos- 
 soms, and hearing the exclair 'ions of delight that interspersed 
 the deep, long breaths that drew in their delightful perfume. 
 
 One morning Frank <'eclared he had seen some very large' 
 violets in the wood the day previous, and as Lena was eager 
 to procure some, they started away in high "glee to find them. 
 The wood was some distance from Deacon Hammond's, and 
 after arriving there, they gathered a huge cluster, and then 
 they sat down upon a grassy knoll, while Lena artistically 
 arranged her pretty wild-flowers. She pinned a little knot of 
 them upon the deep collar of Frank's coat; and as it was cool 
 and shady in the wood, they sat there a long time ; yet their 
 conversation was not just what would naturally be expected by 
 
Leila's Poch,. 
 
 IK 
 
 s, ohlijij- 
 () Lena : 
 in^rly re- 
 Ul have 
 ters." 
 y manly 
 vas hov- 
 car him 
 pass so 
 
 ily-look- 
 scrious 
 ty way ; 
 )\vn her 
 St at the 
 
 tty wild 
 gathered 
 jet-hriar 
 ees, just 
 mt blos- 
 rspersed 
 rfume. 
 ry larjj^c 
 as eager 
 d them, 
 d's, and 
 nd then 
 tistically 
 knot of 
 vas cool 
 y'et their 
 L'cted bv 
 
 those who curl their lips in a superior smile over youthiul tute- 
 a-tetes. A fragment may suggest a change that was slowly 
 takmg place in the deeper feelings of at least one of the un- 
 suspecting dreamers. 
 
 ''I do not see how you can paint flowers to look just like 
 real ones, Lena." 
 
 Lena's eyes sparkled, and she laughed mischievously. 
 
 ';Why, you foolish boy, I don't. But I ican to be a great 
 jntist some day; and when I am, you shall have a life-size 
 picture of the elegant carriage with its accompanying statue of 
 Weanness that— you know ?" 
 
 [This was before the idea of reproducing the ocean life-size 
 had been originated.] 
 
 Frank joined heartily in the merry laugh that ended the un- 
 finished statement. Then his eyes took a strangely intense 
 expression as he questioned hesitatingly: 
 
 ''Lena, would you like to be a celebrated artist better than 
 — or would you rather write, you know.?" and he raised his 
 eyes half deprecatingly ;— ''to be famous." 
 
 Lena did not meet his glance, but she understood. The lad 
 had an intuitive knowledge that she wished to be an author of 
 note when she grew older. Her eyes suddenly lost then- strik- 
 ing brilliancy and were looking far away toward a pretty cloud 
 that slowly drifted in the open space between two groups of 
 trees: a strange wistfulness crept into their lovely blue, and 
 she seemed to have forgotten her companion. 
 
 There was a long silence, in which Lena dreamed her own 
 girlish dreams of the glory and fame for which she honestly 
 meant to strive all her life ; while Frank studied the girl's pale, 
 delicate features, and wondered if he ought to wish^for some- 
 thing a little more womanly, something very much more 
 affectionate than the petite mortal beside him. He had seen 
 considerable of the strange earnestness and almost incompre- 
 
I20 
 
 Lena^ s Poem. 
 
 hensible longings of the youthfulness that seemed to be uncon- 
 sciously studying and tryinir to bear •\ heavy share of the great 
 world-heart's weary throbbings. He also had his own secret 
 hopes and ambitions, and could sympathize with Lena in her 
 desire to le among the foremost in the world's people, — but 
 he could not understand the brilliant flush that suddenly sprang 
 into her cheeks. 
 
 "Lena, what of all things in life can give you — would make 
 you happiest?" 
 
 The girl had just reached, alone, the topmost pinnacle of 
 fame, and the praises of the multitude rang in her ears and 
 throbbed through all her being. She started and recollected 
 herself ; and after Frank had repeated the question, and she 
 had been silent a few'moments, she smiled and said: 
 
 "You would laugh at me were T to tell you." 
 
 The lad avowed he would not, and after all that sweet 
 dreaming, Lena's true womanly nature asserted itself in her 
 reply : 
 
 "1 believe a home with one I loved" — blushing — "would 
 make me happier than all the fame or fortune the whole world 
 could bestow;" — dreamily — "it would be so nice to have 
 pretty children to play with id care for, and — " 
 
 An undertone of sadnetj rippled through the light laugh 
 that abruptly broke the thread of her speech. 
 
 Frank drew a deep sigh, but it ended in a smile of satisfac- 
 tion. His companion did not seem so far away from him after 
 her confession, and he impulsively dragged into close compan- 
 ionship with his habitual thoughts a germ of something that 
 had previously lain far too deep in the inner sanctuary of his 
 heart to be touched by common musings. 
 
 A short time after, roaming through the woods, they came 
 out by a meadow that lay at the foot of an elevation of land 
 sloping down from Frank's father's house, and there a little 
 difficulty presented itself, — for Lena, at least. 
 
Lena's Poem. 
 
 121 
 
 }. uncon- 
 he great 
 n secret 
 a in her 
 e, — but 
 1 sprang 
 
 1(1 make 
 
 nacle of 
 ars and 
 ollected 
 ;nid she 
 
 t sweet 
 f in her 
 
 "would 
 e world 
 :o have 
 
 t laugh 
 
 iatisfac- 
 im after 
 ompan- 
 ing that 
 y of his 
 
 'y came 
 of land 
 • a little 
 
 A fence lay between the wood and meadow, and over the 
 fence there was quite a stretch of moss that, although it looked 
 very bewitching— its beautifully shaded tints beaming up from 
 the shallow pools of water about it — looked also very treach- 
 erous. Frank settled all intruding doubts by assisting her to 
 the central rai' of the fence, and commanding her to stay 
 there ; then he sprang over, and aiking her from the fence in 
 his arms, carried her across the yielding moss and placed her 
 upon solid ground. 
 
 Lena hardly knew if she were provoked or not, but a sense 
 of the ludicrous situation on ercame the little feeling of morti- 
 fied vanity, and she laughed. 
 
 Frank had placed her upon solid ground, but one hand was 
 
 held detainingly upon her shoulder, and as he hurriedlv spoke 
 
 It was evident some of his characteristic indifference had fled. 
 
 "Lena, won't you let me make yon happy .? — won't you trv 
 
 to love me.? — won't you — " 
 
 The girl had a vague idea that her position was even more 
 uncomfortable than it had been on the other side of the fence, 
 Init she checked the words upon his lips with one look of her 
 speaking eyes. The lad comprehended the girl's unspoken 
 thoughts, and stopped suddenly, and led the way across the 
 meadow to his home, where Lena rested and partook of an 
 inviting lunch, ere returning to Deacon Hammond's. 
 
 lliat evening, Lena wrapped herself in one of the inviting 
 hammocks, and lay there a long time, looking into the calm 
 blue above in thoughtful silence. 
 
 A strange, undefined restlessness filled her unawakened 
 heart as she recalled the look in the frank blue eyes of her 
 summer friend. She questioned if the lad really 'loved her, 
 but the question seemed absurd when she recollected that he- 
 was but nineteen, and no older than herself. The girl held an 
 ideal hero in the shrine of shrines within her untouched heart. 
 
122 
 
 Letia' s Poem. 
 
 and she quite unconsciously drew a more impenetrable veil 
 than ever about the hallowed spot where the visionary being 
 dwelt ; yet, after all, the cool night breezes straying across the 
 swaying hammocks in front of Deacon Hammond's house, 
 kissed lips and cheeks far warmer than usual, as Lena Ewing 
 recalled again and again the new and strange expression in 
 Frank's lustrous eyes. 
 
 Frank Wallace retired early that night, and lay awake until 
 near morning, trying to solve the problem life had suddenlv 
 placed within his heari;. Why, he questioned, need Lena have 
 looked at him with a whole volume of reproaches in her mild 
 blue eyes? What had he said so very offending? What if he 
 could not woo in the language of novel-heroes? Of what mo- 
 ment could it be to her that their sunny, frank acquaintance- 
 ship were disturbed for a brief time, if it darkened a whole 
 life-time for him? And yet he really loved Lena better after 
 all those mute reproaches and hours of self-communing. 
 
 Perhaps a careless observer would have marked no differ- 
 ence in the conduct of Frank and Lena while together; indeed, 
 the change was an indescribable one to those who were most 
 unhappily concerned. Lena strove to appear just as kindly in 
 her manner toward Frank, and he tried to forget his unwar- 
 rantable mistake, yet, despite all, a very embarrassing restraint 
 underlay all their struggles, and they slowly drifted farther and 
 farther apart. 
 
 When Lena was about to leave the quiet village, Frank took 
 both her hands in his for a moment, and asked if she would 
 ever spend a vacation there again. She looked up into the 
 eyes that beamed so sadly upon her, and answered falteringly 
 that she had promised good Deacon Hammond to return the 
 following summer, if possible. 
 
 A brief, tiny pressure of the hand, an unexpected ''God 
 bless you!" as Frank's lips lightly touched the veiled fore- 
 
ble veil 
 •y being 
 TOSS the 
 house, 
 Ewing 
 :ssion in 
 
 ke until 
 uddenly 
 na have 
 ler mikl 
 lat if he 
 hat mo- 
 intance- 
 a whole 
 :er after 
 
 -) differ- 
 indeed, 
 re most 
 indly in 
 unwar- 
 estraint 
 her and 
 
 nk took 
 ; would 
 into the 
 teringly 
 :urn the 
 
 1 ^'God 
 ;d fore- 
 
 Lena^s Poem. 
 
 123 
 
 head, and Lena had said farewell to her summer friend, and 
 stepped mto the carriacre that bore her to the station several 
 miles away. 
 
 ***** 
 The reluctant year had ushered six preciou. keepsakes 
 through the shadowy portals of its mysterious storehouse, and 
 was prepanng to yield up the seventh when Lena Ewin- sat 
 once more beneath the refreshing shade of Deacon Ham- 
 mond's maples. The sun shone just as brightly as upon the 
 hrst day she sat there ; the birds sang just as sweetly, and the 
 warm, odorous sunshine was just as full of subtile ioy and 
 beauty. ^ -^ 
 
 Lena was just as happy, even if a shade more thoughtful 
 than of old, and very glad to be near her country friends once 
 more. 
 
 Acle-.r whistle pierced the brooding silence, and -Afton 
 Waters" rippled through the summer air. A warm blood-tint 
 tanitly fluttered in Lena's face, as Frank Wallace crossed the 
 common, and clasped the hand in friendly greeting. 
 
 Frank appeared much more dignified, yet as carelessly 
 happy as the lad who nodded to her across Deacon Ham- 
 mond's dmner-table a year previous. 
 
 Perhaps Lena felt just a little bit disappointed to see her 
 once ardent wooer seemingly forgetful of their latter days of 
 restramed courtesy, as well as the cause of them ; yet it 
 seemed very pleasant to renew their old, careless companion- 
 ship. They played croquet together; rode, walked, read and 
 talked ; and Lena took great pride in noting the quiet manli- 
 ness of her cordial friend, and set down all his characteristics 
 and witty sayings in her memorandum. She secretly intended 
 having Frank in a book one day. 
 
 Lena often questioned herself if Frank had forgotten that he 
 once loved her, and when she had been near him a month 
 came to the conclusion he had, most decidedly. 
 
 nil 
 
124 
 
 Lena's Poem. 
 
 The very day she settled the question for herself, Frank, 
 vvalkinji^ up the <]^arden path to his home, overtook his little 
 brother, and immediately hoistin^ him upon his shoulder, con- 
 tinued his way to the door. The child held a bunch of crump- 
 led violets in his dirty iittle fist ; and as he clasped his tiny 
 arms about his brother's neck, Frank inhaled their delicious 
 perfume. He was a noble, strong-minded lad, and not apt to 
 give way to sentiment, yet he immediately set the innocent 
 child upon its feet, and sat down on the doorstep. 
 
 Perhaps, as he sat there, he recalled the past, and chided 
 hiinself for having been so rash and boyish upon the day he 
 wore Lena's violets, months before ; but if those were some of 
 his thoughts, there were others to keep them company. He 
 would not try to win 6ne whom he could not make happy. If 
 Lena considered herself above accepting the love that en- 
 nobled his every-day life, — if the woman of his choice could 
 not bestow as much love and respect as she gained, — then he 
 preferred to live alone. 
 
 When Frank arose and sauntered around the house toward 
 the well, one would conclude that he had been cultivating the 
 acquaintance of his sister's library, had they heard him repeat: 
 
 "And what are words? How little these the silence of the soul express ! 
 
 Mere froth, — the foam and flower of seas whose hiuifjerinji^ waters heave and press 
 
 Ag;ainst the planets and the sides of night,— mute, yearning, mystic tides I" 
 
 Fortunately for Frank, his sister, who was carefully clipping 
 from her pansy-bed as he turned the second corner, heard 
 only the last word, — and even that was suddenly lost in a bar 
 of "Afton Waters." 
 
 It was nearly September, and it was nearly noon. Lena 
 walked slowly across the common, and was about to pass up 
 the steps, when Frank appeared around one end of the bow- 
 window upon her right. It was quite apparent he was after 
 
Lena's Poem. 
 
 "5 
 
 one of the "August sweetings" she carried in a basket on her 
 arm. She caught the mischievous smile on his face, and 
 started to run. There were three steps, the wide piazza floor 
 and another step. Three steps,- Frank's hand grasped her 
 flowmg skirt -a bound over the floor, a light leap for the hall, 
 a sprmgmg motion,- a cry of pain, mingled with a burst of 
 laughter, and Lena, a li^.de bundle of smiles and tears surround- 
 ed by apples, lost consciousness. Frank took her in his arms 
 ^nd carried her into the cool f'-ont room, and when he placed 
 her ,n the wide easy chair, she opened her eyes. He quickly 
 unfastened the tiny boot, but it would not yield, and his knife 
 hurriedly cut it from the swollen ankle. 
 
 Perhaps we all know what it is to suffer with a sprained 
 ankle ; but ^i we do not, we certainly do not wish to. 
 
 Lena had ample time, the two weeks following her mishap 
 to lay the plot for a most beautiful and startling romance • she 
 even had many paragraphs carefully written and revised in her 
 busy brain:- they clashed sometimes with the glorious pic- 
 tures that lay outlined upon the canvas of the mind, waiting 
 upon dim, shadowy backgrounds for life and beauty in the 
 world of art,- but she tried to keep them distinctly by them- 
 selves. '' 
 
 She also found many opportunities to study Frank The 
 result seemed highly satisfactory, judging from the frequent 
 memorandums made of his speeches. She often thought vhat 
 a queer figure he would cut in her romance: always singino- 
 or whisding, or humming -Afton Waters." She often trie"! 
 to tease him about his favorite melody, but it did no good ; if 
 he commenced "Shoo Fly," it ended in — 
 
 "Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturi not her dream." 
 
 But all those days of inactive idleness served to convince 
 Frank that his little friend was quietly soaring away from his 
 
\ 
 
 126 
 
 Lena's Poem. 
 
 prosaic sphere. Shp appeared to be living in a little world of 
 her own, and he could have wept many and many a time as 
 he noted the flush upon her cheeks as she dreamed her pretty, 
 ambitious dreams ; he questioned if any one would ever touch 
 her heart and awaken her to a remembrance of the by-gone 
 years' innocent confession, and hopelessly believed that her 
 over-weening ambition had displaced all thoughts of the com- 
 mon lot of her sex. 
 
 It was twilight in Deacon Hammond's parlor. Lena lay 
 upon the wide couch in one corner of the room. She had been 
 thinking of the past and present, and had looked very wistfully 
 toward the strange, expressionless face of the unsealed future. 
 Very few would have deemed it possible that the slight figure 
 reclining there, held a spirit striving to rise above manifold 
 grievances. Perhaps the uncomplaining soul itself, fettered 
 within a circle of inaudible sighs and iiaunted by a shadow of 
 vague restlessness, declared itself peaceful and happy. 
 
 Life is not what we planned it in our blithesome youth, and 
 to but few is given, in tl ? idol of their wiser hearts, the beauti- 
 ful ideal of their youthful days. 
 
 The twilight softly deepened. Frank, happening around, 
 ran in to inquire if his little friend was better. He was assur- 
 ed she would walk again very soon ; and then silence again 
 brooded in the shadowy parlor. 
 
 Perhaps the tender gloaming, odorous with perfume from 
 flowers in the garden nearby, — perhaps the thought of Lena's 
 near departure, perhaps the long-repressed emotion that 
 fiercely sprang into unbidden life in his heart, made Frank 
 unusually sad. 
 
 "A penny for your thoughts, Frank." The lad stood by 
 the open casement ; he turned his face toward hers and then 
 turned slowly back again. 
 
 'Lena, do you remember what you wrote out there on the 
 
 (i , 
 
 '■" 'a 
 
Lena's Poem. 
 
 127 
 
 common ?" She had written so much and so often, she could 
 not recollect what he referred to, but waited patiently. 
 
 '^Your whole life is a poem, Lena,— I wish I could find 
 any rhyme in mine." 
 
 -But 'Afton Waters,' " she suggested. He heeded not, but 
 continued — 
 
 ''All prose, and dull reading at that. Life seems all wrong, 
 — so strange and sad." 
 
 She could not distirtguish the expression upon Frank's face 
 but his words seemed startlingly like thoughts that had strayed 
 through the musings which the lad interrupted by his presence 
 It came floating dimly back, like a delusive vision that figured 
 m some long- forgotten, faint-recurring dream. 
 
 ''You must not think like that, Fra— " 
 
 He interrupted her: -I have not forgotten, Lena; but since 
 It cannot be-" He laughed - a proud, scornful laugh - as 
 he moved toward the door. 
 
 A voice stopped him : 'Trank ! forgive me ! I forgot my- 
 self. I do not wish to trouble you." 
 
 There are moments in life that contain the concentrated 
 power of whole hours of earnest thought. L,cna lived one of 
 those inoments. She trembled ; her soul fluttered away from 
 Its long anchorage beside the seething waters of alluring fame, 
 and settled with unutterable happiness within the shrine of 
 imperishable love. 
 
 "But, Frank, suppose — suppose —what if one were sorrv 
 for the past? what if— " 
 
 The voice, more than the words, was a revelation to Frank 
 A moment later he knelt by Lena's side, and his heart was 
 throbbmg in raptured unison with the long, beautiful poem 
 that commenced its never-ceasing, rythmic measures in the 
 happy heart of his little love.