FROST-BITTEN.

"YES, JACK, THERE WAS MY BRUNETTE."—Page 77."YES, JACK, THERE WAS MY BRUNETTE."—Page 77.

We were driving home from the "Patriarchs'"—Molly Lefévre and I, you know;The white flakes fluttered about our lamps;Our wheels were hushed in the sleeping snow.Her white arms nestled amid her furs;Her hands half-held, with languid grace,Her fading roses; fair to seeWas the dreamy look in her sweet, young face.I watched her, saying never a word,For I would not waken those dreaming eyes.The breath of the roses filled the air,And my thoughts were many, and far from wise.At last I said to her, bending near,"Ah, Molly Lefévre, how sweet 'twould be,To ride on dreaming, all our lives,Alone with the roses—you and me."Her sweet lips faltered, her sweet eyes fell,And, low as the voice of a Summer rill,Her answer came. It was—"Yes, perhaps—But who would settle our carriage bill?"The dying roses breathed their last,Our wheels rolled loud on the stones just then,Where the snow had drifted; the subject dropped.It has never been taken up again.

We were driving home from the "Patriarchs'"—Molly Lefévre and I, you know;The white flakes fluttered about our lamps;Our wheels were hushed in the sleeping snow.

Her white arms nestled amid her furs;Her hands half-held, with languid grace,Her fading roses; fair to seeWas the dreamy look in her sweet, young face.

I watched her, saying never a word,For I would not waken those dreaming eyes.The breath of the roses filled the air,And my thoughts were many, and far from wise.

At last I said to her, bending near,"Ah, Molly Lefévre, how sweet 'twould be,To ride on dreaming, all our lives,Alone with the roses—you and me."

Her sweet lips faltered, her sweet eyes fell,And, low as the voice of a Summer rill,Her answer came. It was—"Yes, perhaps—But who would settle our carriage bill?"

The dying roses breathed their last,Our wheels rolled loud on the stones just then,Where the snow had drifted; the subject dropped.It has never been taken up again.

Spring-time is coming again, my dear;Sunshine and violets blue, you know;Crocuses lifting their sleepy headsOut of their sheets of snow.And I know a blossom sweeter by farThat violets blue, or crocuses are,And bright as the sunbeam's glow.But how can I dare to look in her eyes,Colored with heaven's own hue?That wouldn't do at all, my dear,It really wouldn't do.Her hair is a rippling, tossing sea;In its golden depths the fairies play,Beckoning, dancing, mocking there,Luring my heart away.And her merry lips are the ripest redThat ever addled a poor man's head,Or led his wits astray.What wouldn't I give to taste the sweetsOf those rose-leaves wet with dew!But that wouldn't do at all, my dear,It really wouldn't do.Her voice is gentle, and clear and pure;It rings like the chime of a silver bell,And the thought it wakes in my foolish head,I'm really afraid to tell.Her little feet kiss the ground below,And her hand is white as the whitest snowThat e'er from heaven fell.But I wouldn't dare to take that hand,Reward for my love to sue;That wouldn't do at all, my dear,It really wouldn't do.

Her hair is a rippling, tossing sea;In its golden depths the fairies play,Beckoning, dancing, mocking there,Luring my heart away.And her merry lips are the ripest redThat ever addled a poor man's head,Or led his wits astray.What wouldn't I give to taste the sweetsOf those rose-leaves wet with dew!But that wouldn't do at all, my dear,It really wouldn't do.

Her voice is gentle, and clear and pure;It rings like the chime of a silver bell,And the thought it wakes in my foolish head,I'm really afraid to tell.Her little feet kiss the ground below,And her hand is white as the whitest snowThat e'er from heaven fell.But I wouldn't dare to take that hand,Reward for my love to sue;That wouldn't do at all, my dear,It really wouldn't do.

Old lady, put your glasses on,With polished lenses, mounting golden,And once again look slowly throughThe album olden.How the old portraits take you backTo friends who once would 'round you gather—All scattered now, like frosted leavesIn blustering weather.Why, who is this, the bright coquette?Her eyes with Love's bright arrows laden—"Poor Nell, she's living single yet,An ancient maiden."And this, the fragile poetess?Whose high soul-yearnings nought can smother—"She's stouter far than I am now,A kind grandmother."Who is this girl with flowing curls,Who on the golden future muses?"What splendid hair she had!—and nowA 'front' she uses."And this? "Why, if it's not my own;And did I really e'er resembleThat bright young creature? Take the book—My old hands tremble."It seems that only yesterdayWe all were young; ah, how time passes!"Old lady, put the album down,And wipe your glasses.

Old lady, put your glasses on,With polished lenses, mounting golden,And once again look slowly throughThe album olden.

How the old portraits take you backTo friends who once would 'round you gather—All scattered now, like frosted leavesIn blustering weather.

Why, who is this, the bright coquette?Her eyes with Love's bright arrows laden—"Poor Nell, she's living single yet,An ancient maiden."

And this, the fragile poetess?Whose high soul-yearnings nought can smother—"She's stouter far than I am now,A kind grandmother."

Who is this girl with flowing curls,Who on the golden future muses?"What splendid hair she had!—and nowA 'front' she uses."

And this? "Why, if it's not my own;And did I really e'er resembleThat bright young creature? Take the book—My old hands tremble.

"It seems that only yesterdayWe all were young; ah, how time passes!"Old lady, put the album down,And wipe your glasses.

"HOW THE OLD PORTRAITS TAKE YOU BACK."—Page 83."HOW THE OLD PORTRAITS TAKE YOU BACK."—Page 83.

Old coat, for some three or four seasonsWe've been jolly comrades, but nowWe part, old companion, forever;To fate, and the fashion, I bow.You'd look well enough at a dinner,I'd wear you with pride at a ball;But I'm dressing to-night for a wedding—My own—and you'd not do at all.You've too many wine-stains about you,You're scented too much with cigars,When the gas-light shines full on your collar,It glitters with myriad stars,That wouldn't look well at my wedding;They'd seem inappropriate there—Nell doesn't use diamond powder,She tells me it ruins the hair.You've been out on Cozzens' piazzaToo late, when the evenings were damp,When the moon-beams were silvering Cro'nest,And the lights were all out in the camp.You've rested on highly-oiled stairwaysToo often, when sweet eyes were bright,And somebody's ball dress—not Nellie's—Flowed 'round you in rivers of white.There's a reprobate looseness about you;Should I wear you to-night, I believe,As I come with my bride from the altar,You'd laugh in your wicked old sleeve,When you felt there the tremulous pressureOf her hand, in its delicate glove,That is telling me shyly, but proudly,Her trust is as deep as her love.So, go to your grave in the wardrobe,And furnish a feast for the moth,Nell's glove shall betray its sweet secretsTo younger, more innocent cloth.'Tis time to put on your successor—It's made in a fashion that's new;Old coat, I'm afraid it will neverSit as easily on me as you.

You've too many wine-stains about you,You're scented too much with cigars,When the gas-light shines full on your collar,It glitters with myriad stars,That wouldn't look well at my wedding;They'd seem inappropriate there—Nell doesn't use diamond powder,She tells me it ruins the hair.

You've been out on Cozzens' piazzaToo late, when the evenings were damp,When the moon-beams were silvering Cro'nest,And the lights were all out in the camp.You've rested on highly-oiled stairwaysToo often, when sweet eyes were bright,And somebody's ball dress—not Nellie's—Flowed 'round you in rivers of white.

There's a reprobate looseness about you;Should I wear you to-night, I believe,As I come with my bride from the altar,You'd laugh in your wicked old sleeve,When you felt there the tremulous pressureOf her hand, in its delicate glove,That is telling me shyly, but proudly,Her trust is as deep as her love.

So, go to your grave in the wardrobe,And furnish a feast for the moth,Nell's glove shall betray its sweet secretsTo younger, more innocent cloth.'Tis time to put on your successor—It's made in a fashion that's new;Old coat, I'm afraid it will neverSit as easily on me as you.

Oh, Lowbury pastor is fair and young,By far too good for a single life,And many a maiden, saith gossip's tongue,Would fain be Lowbury pastor's wife:So his book-marks are 'broidered in crimson and gold,And his slippers are, really, a "sight to behold."That's Lowbury pastor, sitting thereOn the cedar boughs by the chancel rails;His face is clouded with carking care,For it's nearly five, the daylight fails—The church is silent,—the girls all gone,And the Christmas wreaths not nearly done.Two tiny boots crunch-crunch the snow,They saucily stamp at the transept door,And then up to the pillared aisle they goPit-pat, click-clack, on the marble floor—A lady fair doth that pastor see,And he saith, "Oh, bother, it isn't she!"A lady in seal-skin—eyes of blue,And tangled tresses of snow-flecked gold—She speaks, "Good gracious! can this be you,Sitting alone in the dark and cold?The rest all gone! Why it wasn't right;These texts will never be done to-night."She sits her down at her pastor's feet,And, wreathing evergreen, weaves her wiles,Heart-piercing glances bright and fleet,Soft little sighs, and shy little smiles;But the pastor is solemnly sulky and glum,And thinketh it strange that "she" doesn't come.Then she tells him earnestly, soft and low,How she'd do her part in this world of strife,And humbly look to him to knowThe path that her feet should tread through life—Her pastor yawneth behind his hat,And wondereth what she is driving at.Crunch-crunch again on the snow outside,The pastor riseth unto his feet,The vestry door is opened wide,A dark-eyed maid doth the pastor greet,And that lady fair can see and hear,Her pastor kiss her, and call her "dear.""Why, Maud!" "Why, Nelly!" those damsels cry;But lo, what troubles that lady fair?On Nelly's finger there meets her eyeThe glow of a diamond solitaire,And she thinks, as she sees the glittering ring,"And so she's got him—the hateful thing!"There sit they all 'neath the Christmas tree,For Maud is determined that she wont goThe pastor is cross as a man can be,And Nelly would like to pinch her so,And they go on wreathing the text again—It is "Peace on earth and good-will towards men."

That's Lowbury pastor, sitting thereOn the cedar boughs by the chancel rails;His face is clouded with carking care,For it's nearly five, the daylight fails—The church is silent,—the girls all gone,And the Christmas wreaths not nearly done.

Two tiny boots crunch-crunch the snow,They saucily stamp at the transept door,And then up to the pillared aisle they goPit-pat, click-clack, on the marble floor—A lady fair doth that pastor see,And he saith, "Oh, bother, it isn't she!"

A lady in seal-skin—eyes of blue,And tangled tresses of snow-flecked gold—She speaks, "Good gracious! can this be you,Sitting alone in the dark and cold?The rest all gone! Why it wasn't right;These texts will never be done to-night."

She sits her down at her pastor's feet,And, wreathing evergreen, weaves her wiles,Heart-piercing glances bright and fleet,Soft little sighs, and shy little smiles;But the pastor is solemnly sulky and glum,And thinketh it strange that "she" doesn't come.

Then she tells him earnestly, soft and low,How she'd do her part in this world of strife,And humbly look to him to knowThe path that her feet should tread through life—Her pastor yawneth behind his hat,And wondereth what she is driving at.

Crunch-crunch again on the snow outside,The pastor riseth unto his feet,The vestry door is opened wide,A dark-eyed maid doth the pastor greet,And that lady fair can see and hear,Her pastor kiss her, and call her "dear."

"Why, Maud!" "Why, Nelly!" those damsels cry;But lo, what troubles that lady fair?On Nelly's finger there meets her eyeThe glow of a diamond solitaire,And she thinks, as she sees the glittering ring,"And so she's got him—the hateful thing!"

There sit they all 'neath the Christmas tree,For Maud is determined that she wont goThe pastor is cross as a man can be,And Nelly would like to pinch her so,And they go on wreathing the text again—It is "Peace on earth and good-will towards men."

"A LADY IN SEALSKIN—EYES OF BLUE, AND TANGLED TRESSES OF SNOW-FLECKED GOLD."—Page 89."A LADY IN SEALSKIN—EYES OF BLUE,AND TANGLED TRESSES OF SNOW-FLECKED GOLD."—Page 89.

"Yes, I'm here, I suppose you're delighted:You'd heard I was not coming down!Why I've been here a week!—'rather early'—I know, but it's horrid in townA Boston? Most certainly, thank you.This music is perfectly sweet;Of course I like dancing in summer;It's warm, but I don't mind the heat.The clumsy thing! Oh! how he hurt me!I really can't dance any more—Let's walk—see, they're forming a Lancers;These square dances are such a bore.My cloak—oh! I really don't need it—Well, carry it,—so, in the folds—I hate it, but Ma made me bring it;She's frightened to death about colds.Thisisrather cooler than dancing.They're lovely piazzas up here;Those lanterns look sweet in the bushes,It's lucky the night is so clear.Iamrather tired—in this corner?—Very well, if you like—I don't care—But you'll have to sit on the railing—You see there is only one chair.'Solong since you've seen me'—oh, ages!—Let's see, why it's ten days ago—'Seems years'—oh! of course—don't look spooney—It isn't becoming, you know.How bright the stars seem to-night, don't they?What was it you said about eyes?How sweet!—why you must be a poet—One never can tell till he tries.Why can't you be sensible, Harry!I don't like men's arms on my chair.Be still! if you don't stop this nonsenseI'll get up and leave you;—so there!Oh! please don't—I don't want to hear it—A boy like you talking of love.'My answer!'—Well, sir, you shall have it—Just wait till I get off my glove.See that?—Well, you needn't look tragic,It's only a solitaire ring,—Of course I am 'proud of it'—very—It's rather an elegant thing.Engaged!—yes—why, didn't you know it?I thought the news must have reached here—Why, the wedding will be in October—The 'happy man'—Charley Leclear.Now don't blame me—I tried to stop you—But youwouldgo on like a goose;I'm sorry it happened—forget it—Don't think of it—don't—what's the use?There's somebody coming—don't look so—Get up on the railing again—Can'tyou seem as if nothing had happened?I never saw such geese as men!Ah, Charley, you've found me! A galop?The 'Bahn frei?' Yes; take my bouquet—And my fan, if you will—now I'm ready—You'll excuse me, of course, Mr. Gray."

"Yes, I'm here, I suppose you're delighted:You'd heard I was not coming down!Why I've been here a week!—'rather early'—I know, but it's horrid in town

A Boston? Most certainly, thank you.This music is perfectly sweet;Of course I like dancing in summer;It's warm, but I don't mind the heat.

The clumsy thing! Oh! how he hurt me!I really can't dance any more—Let's walk—see, they're forming a Lancers;These square dances are such a bore.

My cloak—oh! I really don't need it—Well, carry it,—so, in the folds—I hate it, but Ma made me bring it;She's frightened to death about colds.

Thisisrather cooler than dancing.They're lovely piazzas up here;Those lanterns look sweet in the bushes,It's lucky the night is so clear.

Iamrather tired—in this corner?—Very well, if you like—I don't care—But you'll have to sit on the railing—You see there is only one chair.

'Solong since you've seen me'—oh, ages!—Let's see, why it's ten days ago—'Seems years'—oh! of course—don't look spooney—It isn't becoming, you know.

How bright the stars seem to-night, don't they?What was it you said about eyes?How sweet!—why you must be a poet—One never can tell till he tries.

Why can't you be sensible, Harry!I don't like men's arms on my chair.Be still! if you don't stop this nonsenseI'll get up and leave you;—so there!

Oh! please don't—I don't want to hear it—A boy like you talking of love.'My answer!'—Well, sir, you shall have it—Just wait till I get off my glove.

See that?—Well, you needn't look tragic,It's only a solitaire ring,—Of course I am 'proud of it'—very—It's rather an elegant thing.

Engaged!—yes—why, didn't you know it?I thought the news must have reached here—Why, the wedding will be in October—The 'happy man'—Charley Leclear.

Now don't blame me—I tried to stop you—But youwouldgo on like a goose;I'm sorry it happened—forget it—Don't think of it—don't—what's the use?

There's somebody coming—don't look so—Get up on the railing again—Can'tyou seem as if nothing had happened?I never saw such geese as men!

Ah, Charley, you've found me! A galop?The 'Bahn frei?' Yes; take my bouquet—And my fan, if you will—now I'm ready—You'll excuse me, of course, Mr. Gray."

"BUT YOU'LL HAVE TO SIT ON THE RAILING—YOU SEE THERE IS ONLY ONE CHAIR."—Page 92."BUT YOU'LL HAVE TO SIT ON THE RAILING—YOU SEE THERE IS ONLY ONE CHAIR."—Page 92.

Ten o'clock! Well, I'm sure I can't help it!I'm up—go away from the door!Now, children, I'll speak to your motherIf you pound there like that any more.How tired I do feel?—Where's that cushion?—I don't want to move from this chair;I wish Marie'd make her appearance!I reallycan'tdo my own hair.I wish I'd not danced quite so often—I knew I'd feel tired! but it's hardTo refuse a magnificent dancerIf you have a place left on your card.I was silly to wear that green satin,It's a shame that I've spotted it so—All down the front breadth—it's just ruined—No trimming will hide that, I know.That's me! Have a costume imported,And spoil it the very first night!—I might make an overskirt of it,That shade looks so lovely with white.How horrid my eyes look! Good gracious!I hope that I didn't catch coldSitting out on the stairs with Will Stacy;If Ma knew that, wouldn't she scold!She says he's so fast—well, who isn't?—Dear! where is Marie?—how it rains!—I don't care; he's real nice and handsome.And his talk sounds as if he'd some brains.I do wonder whatisthe reason,That good men are all like Joe Price,So poky, and stiff, and conceited,And fast ones are always so nice.—Just see how Joe acted last evening!He didn't come near me at all,Because I danced twice with Will StacyThat night at the Charity ball.I didn't care two pins to do it;But Joe said I mustn't,—and so—I just did—he isn't my master,Nor sha'n't be, I'd like him to know.I don't think he looked at me even,Though just to please him I wore green,—And I'd saved him three elegant dances,—Iwouldn't have acted so mean.The way he went on with Nell Hadley;Dear me! just as if I would care!I'd like to see those two get married,They'd make a congenial pair!I'm getting disgusted with parties;—I think I shall stop going out;What's the use of this fussing for peopleI don't care the least bit about.Ididthink that Joe had some sense once;But, my, he's just like all the men!And the way that I've gone on about him,—Just see if I do it again!Only wait till the next time I see him,I'll pay him back; wont I be cool!I've a good mind to drop him completely—I'll—yes I will—go back to school.The bell!—who can that be, I wonder!—Let's see—I declare! why, it's Joe!—How long they are keeping him waiting!Good gracious! why don't the girl go!—Yes—say I'll be down in a minute—Quick, Marie, and do up my hair!—Not that bow—the green one—Joe likes it—How slow you are!—I'll pin it—there!

Ten o'clock! Well, I'm sure I can't help it!I'm up—go away from the door!Now, children, I'll speak to your motherIf you pound there like that any more.

How tired I do feel?—Where's that cushion?—I don't want to move from this chair;I wish Marie'd make her appearance!I reallycan'tdo my own hair.

I wish I'd not danced quite so often—I knew I'd feel tired! but it's hardTo refuse a magnificent dancerIf you have a place left on your card.

I was silly to wear that green satin,It's a shame that I've spotted it so—All down the front breadth—it's just ruined—No trimming will hide that, I know.

That's me! Have a costume imported,And spoil it the very first night!—I might make an overskirt of it,That shade looks so lovely with white.

How horrid my eyes look! Good gracious!I hope that I didn't catch coldSitting out on the stairs with Will Stacy;If Ma knew that, wouldn't she scold!

She says he's so fast—well, who isn't?—Dear! where is Marie?—how it rains!—I don't care; he's real nice and handsome.And his talk sounds as if he'd some brains.

I do wonder whatisthe reason,That good men are all like Joe Price,So poky, and stiff, and conceited,And fast ones are always so nice.—

Just see how Joe acted last evening!He didn't come near me at all,Because I danced twice with Will StacyThat night at the Charity ball.

I didn't care two pins to do it;But Joe said I mustn't,—and so—I just did—he isn't my master,Nor sha'n't be, I'd like him to know.

I don't think he looked at me even,Though just to please him I wore green,—And I'd saved him three elegant dances,—Iwouldn't have acted so mean.

The way he went on with Nell Hadley;Dear me! just as if I would care!I'd like to see those two get married,They'd make a congenial pair!

I'm getting disgusted with parties;—I think I shall stop going out;What's the use of this fussing for peopleI don't care the least bit about.

Ididthink that Joe had some sense once;But, my, he's just like all the men!And the way that I've gone on about him,—Just see if I do it again!

Only wait till the next time I see him,I'll pay him back; wont I be cool!I've a good mind to drop him completely—I'll—yes I will—go back to school.

The bell!—who can that be, I wonder!—Let's see—I declare! why, it's Joe!—How long they are keeping him waiting!Good gracious! why don't the girl go!—

Yes—say I'll be down in a minute—Quick, Marie, and do up my hair!—Not that bow—the green one—Joe likes it—How slow you are!—I'll pin it—there!

Suthin' to put in a story!I couldn't think of a thing,'N' it's nigh unto thirty year nowSince fust I went in the ring."The life excitin'?" Thunder!"Variety," did you say?You must have cur'us notions'Bout circuses, anyway.The things that look so riskyAint nothin' to us but biz."Accidents"—falls and sich like?Sometimes, in course, there is.But it's only a slip, or a stumble,Some feller laid out flat,It don't take more'n a second;There aint no story in that.'N' like as not, the tumbleDon't do no harm at all:There's one gal here—I tell yer,She got an awful fall.You know her—Ma'am'selle Ida—She's Jimmy Barnet's wife,The prettiest little womanYou ever see in your life.They was lovers when they was young uns,No more'n two hands high.She nussed Jim through a fever once,When the doctors swore he'd die.I taught 'em both the motions;She never know'd no fear,And they've done the trapeze togetherFor more'n a couple o' year.Last Summer we took on a Spaniard,A mis'rable kind of cuss,Spry feller—but awful tempered,Always a-makin' a fuss.He wanted to marry Ida—His chance was pretty slim,He did his best, but bless yer,She'd never go back on Jim.He acted up so foolish,That Jim, one day, got riled'N' guv him a reg'lar whalin';That druv the Spaniard wild.He talked like he was crazy,'N' raved around, and sworeHe'd kill 'em both; but Jim just laughed—He'd heer'd such talk before.One day, when we was showin'In a little country town,Jim mashed his hand with a hatchet,Drivin' a tent stake down.He couldn't work that night, nohow,But the "trap" hed got to be done.The Spaniard said he'd try it—'N' they had to take him or none.I knew Jim didn't like it,'N' Ide looked scared and white—"Look out for me, boys," she whispered,"I'm goin' to fall to-night;"Then she looked up with a shiver,At the trapeze swingin' there,A couple of bars and a rope or twoForty feet up in the air.But up she clumb—he arter—Stood up, but how Ide shook,Then the Spaniard yelled like a devil,"Now look, Jim Barnet!—look!"—With that he jumped 'n' gripped her;She fought, but he broke her hold,Grabbed at the rope, 'n' missed it—Off of the bar they rolled,Clinched, 'n' Ide a screamin';Thud!—they struck the ground;I turned all sick and dizzy,'N' everything went round.How still it were for a second!—It seemed like an hour—'n' thenThe women was all a screechin','N' the ring was full of men.Poor Jim was stoopin' to lift her,But flopped right down, 'n' said,Sez he, "Her lips is movin'!She's breathin'!—She isn't dead!"For sure!—he'd fallen under;It kinder broke her fall;Except the scare and a broken arm,She wasn't hurt at all."The Spaniard?" Oh, it killed him;It broke his cussed neck.But nobody cried their eyes out,As near as I reckeleck.She married Jim soon arter,They're doin' the trapeze still;So, yer see, as I was sayin',These falls don't always kill.'N' as for things excitin'To put in a story,—well,I'd really like to oblige yer,But then there aint nothin' to tell.

"Hey, Johnny McGinnis, where are yez?I've got a place! Arrah, be quick!"Whiz! Boom! "Hooray, there goes a rocket;Hi, Johnny, look out for the shtick!""Confound it, sir! Those are my feet, sir!""Oh, pa, lift me up, I can't see.""Come down out o' that, yez young blackguards!Div yez want to be killin' the tree?""Hooray! look at that?" "Aint it bully!""It's stuck!" "No, it aint." "There she goes!""I wish that you'd speak to this man, Fred,He's standing all over my toes.""Take down that umbrella in front there!""My! aint we afraid of our hat!""Me heart's fairly broke wid yez shovin'—Have done now—what would yez be at?""Jehiel, neow haint this jest orful!I 'most wish I hedn't a come;Such actions I never—one would thinkFolks left their perliteness to hum.""Look here, now, you schoost stop dose schovin'.""By gar, den, get out from ze vay,You stupide Dootschmans, vilain cochon"—"Kreuz!"—"Peste!"—"Donnerwetter!"—"Sacr-r-re!""Oh, isn't that cross just too lovely!So bright, why the light makes me wink!""Your eyes, dear, are"—"don't be a goose, Fred;What do you suppose folks will think?"Crash! Screech! "Och I'm kilt!"—"Fred, what is it?""Branch broken—small boy come to grief.""Boo, hoo, hoo, hoo! I wants mine muzzer!""Look out there!" "Police!" "Hi, stop thief!""Well, father, I guess it's all over;Just help Nelly down off the stool."moral.Sung:—"Mellican piecee fire bully!"Ching:—"Mellican man piecee fool."

Sung:—"Mellican piecee fire bully!"Ching:—"Mellican man piecee fool."

"Harry, where have you been all morning?""Down at the pool in the meadow-brook.""Fishing?" "Yes, but the trout were wary,Couldn't induce them to take a hook.""Why, look at your coat! You must have fallen,Your back's just covered with leaves and moss."How he laughs! Good-natured fellow!Fisherman's luck makes most men cross."Nellie, the Wrights have called. Where were you?""Under the tree, by the meadow-brookReading, and oh, it was too lovely;I never saw such a charming book."The charming book must have pleased her, truly,There's a happy light in her bright young eyesAnd she hugs the cat with unusual fervor,To staid old Tabby's intense surprise.Reading? yes, but not from a novel.Fishing! truly, but not with a rod.The line is idle, the book neglected—The water-grasses whisper and nod.The fisherman bold and the earnest readerSit talking—of what? Perhaps the weather.Perhaps—no matter—whate'er the subject,It brings them remarkably close together.It causes his words to be softly spoken,With many a lingering pause between,The while the sunbeams chase the shadowsOver the mosses, gray and green.Blushes are needful for its discussion,And soft, shy glances from downcast eyes,In whose blue depths are lying hiddenLoving gladness, and sweet surprise.Trinity Chapel is gay this evening,Filled with beauty, and flowers, and light,A captive fisherman stands at the altar,With Nellie beside him all in white.The ring is on, the vows are spoken,And smiling friends, good fortune wishing,Tell him his is the fairest prizeEver brought from a morning's fishing.

"Nellie, the Wrights have called. Where were you?""Under the tree, by the meadow-brookReading, and oh, it was too lovely;I never saw such a charming book."The charming book must have pleased her, truly,There's a happy light in her bright young eyesAnd she hugs the cat with unusual fervor,To staid old Tabby's intense surprise.

Reading? yes, but not from a novel.Fishing! truly, but not with a rod.The line is idle, the book neglected—The water-grasses whisper and nod.The fisherman bold and the earnest readerSit talking—of what? Perhaps the weather.Perhaps—no matter—whate'er the subject,It brings them remarkably close together.

It causes his words to be softly spoken,With many a lingering pause between,The while the sunbeams chase the shadowsOver the mosses, gray and green.Blushes are needful for its discussion,And soft, shy glances from downcast eyes,In whose blue depths are lying hiddenLoving gladness, and sweet surprise.

Trinity Chapel is gay this evening,Filled with beauty, and flowers, and light,A captive fisherman stands at the altar,With Nellie beside him all in white.

The ring is on, the vows are spoken,And smiling friends, good fortune wishing,Tell him his is the fairest prizeEver brought from a morning's fishing.

"READING? YES, BUT NOT FROM A NOVEL; FISHING! TRULY, BUT NOT WITH A ROD."—Page 109."READING? YES, BUT NOT FROM A NOVEL;FISHING! TRULY, BUT NOT WITH A ROD."—Page 109.

Summer is over, and the leaves are falling,Gold, fire-enamelled in the glowing sun;The sobbing pinetop, the cicada callingChime men to vesper-musing, day is done.The fresh, green sod, in dead, dry leaves is hidden;They rustle very sadly in the breeze;Some breathing from the past comes, all unbidden,And in my heart stir withered memories.Day fades away; the stars show in the azure,Bright with the glow of eyes that know not tears,Unchanged, unchangeable, like God's good pleasure,They smile and reck not of the weary years.Men tell us that the stars it knows are leavingOur onward rolling globe, and in their placeNew constellations rise—is death bereavingThe old earth, too, of each familiar face?Our loved ones leave us; so we all grow fonderOf their world than of ours; for here we seemAlone in haunted houses, and we wonderWhich is the waking life, and which the dream.

Summer is over, and the leaves are falling,Gold, fire-enamelled in the glowing sun;The sobbing pinetop, the cicada callingChime men to vesper-musing, day is done.

The fresh, green sod, in dead, dry leaves is hidden;They rustle very sadly in the breeze;Some breathing from the past comes, all unbidden,And in my heart stir withered memories.

Day fades away; the stars show in the azure,Bright with the glow of eyes that know not tears,Unchanged, unchangeable, like God's good pleasure,They smile and reck not of the weary years.

Men tell us that the stars it knows are leavingOur onward rolling globe, and in their placeNew constellations rise—is death bereavingThe old earth, too, of each familiar face?

Our loved ones leave us; so we all grow fonderOf their world than of ours; for here we seemAlone in haunted houses, and we wonderWhich is the waking life, and which the dream.

Oh, just burning up some old papers,They do make a good deal of smoke:That's right, Dolly, open the window;They'll blaze if you give them a poke.I've got a lot more in the closet;Just look at the dust! What a mess!Why, read it, of course, if you want to,It's only a letter, I guess.(she reads.)Just me, and my pipe, and the fire-light,Whose mystical circles of redProtect me alone with the shadows;The smoke-wreaths engarland my head;And the strains of a waltz, half forgotten,The favorite waltz of the year,Played softly by fairy musicians,Chime sweetly and low on my ear.The smoke-cloud floats thickly around me,All perfumed and white, till it seemsA bride-veil magicians have wovenTo honor the bride of my dreams.Float on, dreamy waltz, through my fancies,My thoughts in your harmony twine!Draw near, phantom face, in your beauty,Look deep, phantom eyes, into mine.Sweet lips—crimson buds half unfolded—Give breath to the exquisite voice,That, waking the strands of my beingTo melody, bids me rejoice.Dream, soul, till the world's dream is ended!Dream, heart, of your beautiful past!For dreaming is better than weeping,And all things but dreams at the last.Change rules in the world of the waking—Its laughter aye ends in a sigh;Dreams only are changeless—immortal:A love-dream alone cannot die.Toil, fools! Sow your hopes in the furrows,Rich harvest of failure you'll reap;Life's riddle is read the most trulyBy men who but talk in their sleep.(he remonstrates.)There, stop! That'll do—yes, I own it—But, dear, I was young then, you know.I wrote that before we were married;Let's see—why, it's ten years ago!You remember that night, at Drake's party,When you flirted with Dick all the time?I left in a state quite pathetic,And went home to scribble that rhyme.What a boy I was then with my dreaming,And reading the riddle of life!You gave a good guess at its meaningThe night you said "Yes," little wife.One kiss for old times' sake, my Dolly—That didn't seem much like a dream.Holloa! something's wrong with the children!Those young ones do nothing but scream.

Just me, and my pipe, and the fire-light,Whose mystical circles of redProtect me alone with the shadows;The smoke-wreaths engarland my head;And the strains of a waltz, half forgotten,The favorite waltz of the year,Played softly by fairy musicians,Chime sweetly and low on my ear.

The smoke-cloud floats thickly around me,All perfumed and white, till it seemsA bride-veil magicians have wovenTo honor the bride of my dreams.Float on, dreamy waltz, through my fancies,My thoughts in your harmony twine!Draw near, phantom face, in your beauty,Look deep, phantom eyes, into mine.

Sweet lips—crimson buds half unfolded—Give breath to the exquisite voice,That, waking the strands of my beingTo melody, bids me rejoice.Dream, soul, till the world's dream is ended!Dream, heart, of your beautiful past!For dreaming is better than weeping,And all things but dreams at the last.

Change rules in the world of the waking—Its laughter aye ends in a sigh;Dreams only are changeless—immortal:A love-dream alone cannot die.Toil, fools! Sow your hopes in the furrows,Rich harvest of failure you'll reap;Life's riddle is read the most trulyBy men who but talk in their sleep.(he remonstrates.)

There, stop! That'll do—yes, I own it—But, dear, I was young then, you know.I wrote that before we were married;Let's see—why, it's ten years ago!You remember that night, at Drake's party,When you flirted with Dick all the time?I left in a state quite pathetic,And went home to scribble that rhyme.

What a boy I was then with my dreaming,And reading the riddle of life!You gave a good guess at its meaningThe night you said "Yes," little wife.One kiss for old times' sake, my Dolly—That didn't seem much like a dream.Holloa! something's wrong with the children!Those young ones do nothing but scream.

Vine leaves rustled, moonbeams shone,Summer breezes softly sighed;You and I were all aloneIn a kingdom fair and wideYou, a Queen, in all your pride,I, a vassal, by your side.Fairy voices in the leavesCeaselessly were whispering:"'Tis the time to garner sheaves—Let your heart its longing sing;Place upon her hand a ring;Then our Queen shall know her King."E'en the moonbeams seemed to learnSpeech when they had kissed your face,Passing fair—my lips did yearnTo be moonbeams for a space—"Lo, 'tis fitting time and place!Speak, and courage will find grace."But the night wind murmured low,Softly brushing back your hair,"Look into her face, and knowThat she is a jewel rare,Worthy of a monarch's heir;Who are you that you should dare!"Hope died like a frost-touched flower;But through all the coming years,In that quiet evening hour,When the flowers are all in tears,When the heart hath hopes and fears,When the day-world disappears.If the vine leaves rustle low,If the moon shine on the sea,If the night wind softly blow,—Dreaming of what may not be,—Well I know that I shall seeYour sweet eyes look down on me.

Vine leaves rustled, moonbeams shone,Summer breezes softly sighed;You and I were all aloneIn a kingdom fair and wideYou, a Queen, in all your pride,I, a vassal, by your side.

Fairy voices in the leavesCeaselessly were whispering:"'Tis the time to garner sheaves—Let your heart its longing sing;Place upon her hand a ring;Then our Queen shall know her King."

E'en the moonbeams seemed to learnSpeech when they had kissed your face,Passing fair—my lips did yearnTo be moonbeams for a space—"Lo, 'tis fitting time and place!Speak, and courage will find grace."

But the night wind murmured low,Softly brushing back your hair,"Look into her face, and knowThat she is a jewel rare,Worthy of a monarch's heir;Who are you that you should dare!"

Hope died like a frost-touched flower;But through all the coming years,In that quiet evening hour,When the flowers are all in tears,When the heart hath hopes and fears,When the day-world disappears.

If the vine leaves rustle low,If the moon shine on the sea,If the night wind softly blow,—Dreaming of what may not be,—Well I know that I shall seeYour sweet eyes look down on me.

I had come from the city earlyThat Saturday afternoon;I sat with Beatrix under the treesIn the mossy orchard; the golden beesBuzzed over clover-tops, pink and pearly;I was at peace, and inclined to spoon.We were stopping awhile with mother,At the quiet country placeWhere first we'd met, one blossomy May,And fallen in love—so the dreamy dayBrought to my memory many anotherIn the happy time when I won her grace.Days in the bright Spring weather,When the twisted, rough old treeShowered down apple-blooms, dainty and sweet,That swung in her hair, and blushed at her feet;Sweet was her face as we lingered together,And dainty the kisses my love gave me."Dear love, are you recallingThe old days, too?" I said.Her sweet eyes filled, and with tender graceShe turned and rested her blushing faceAgainst my shoulder; a sunbeam fallingThrough the leaves above us crowned her head.And so I held her, trustingThat none was by to see;A sad mistake—for low, but clear,This feminine comment reached my ear:"Married for ages—it's just disgusting—Such actions—and, Fred, they've got our tree!"

We were stopping awhile with mother,At the quiet country placeWhere first we'd met, one blossomy May,And fallen in love—so the dreamy dayBrought to my memory many anotherIn the happy time when I won her grace.

Days in the bright Spring weather,When the twisted, rough old treeShowered down apple-blooms, dainty and sweet,That swung in her hair, and blushed at her feet;Sweet was her face as we lingered together,And dainty the kisses my love gave me.

"Dear love, are you recallingThe old days, too?" I said.Her sweet eyes filled, and with tender graceShe turned and rested her blushing faceAgainst my shoulder; a sunbeam fallingThrough the leaves above us crowned her head.

And so I held her, trustingThat none was by to see;A sad mistake—for low, but clear,This feminine comment reached my ear:"Married for ages—it's just disgusting—Such actions—and, Fred, they've got our tree!"

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