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THE 
 
 Prose and Poetical Works 
 
 OF 
 
 > r J- "--^ 
 
 FANNIE U'^IICHENER. 
 
 ,^3 
 
 PRESS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 

 Copyright, 1S84, by Amanda Michener. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Memoir 
 
 PAGE 
 
 7 
 
 PROSE. 
 
 Bessie Leigh's Christmas ........ 17 
 
 MiUy's Boat- Ride .......... 21 
 
 Tom's Birthday Surprise ........ 27 
 
 The Lost Ring 38 
 
 Minnie's Cross Day . , , . . ' . . . .49 
 
 Dot's Thanksgiving . • • 55 
 
 Birdie's Christmas . . . . . . , . . . ' 61 
 
 Mistal^en 65 
 
 Reclaimed. A Love Story ........ 70 
 
 L — Madehne 70 
 
 n. — -Lady Vernon's Decision ...... 72 
 
 III. — Madeline's New Home -75 
 
 IV. — Riverview 79 
 
 v.— The Party 82 
 
 VI.— The Portraits 84 
 
 VII.— The Mysterious Box . . . . . . ^ . 88 
 
 VIII. — Edith's Letter • 92 
 
 IX.— Wedding-Bells 95 
 
 Sunshine and Shadow. In five chapters ..... 98 
 
 Lost in the Snow 106 
 
 Bessie's School-days. In twelve chapters ..... 112 
 
 Lost and Found. In three chapters 142 
 
 Ethel's Halloween 151 
 
 Brownie. A Prize Story ........ 156 
 
 Lenore. In four chapters ........ 166 
 
 Compositions : 
 
 Summer 174 
 
 .'\ Trip to Rocky Point 174 
 
 Lessons from the Life of James A. Garfield .... 176 
 
 Edna Reed's Sacrifice. Unfinished ...... 177 
 
 Lillie's Visit to Fairy-Land. Unfinished . . . . .182 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lina's May Party. Unfinished 185 
 
 That Wild, Wild Rose. Unfinished 
 
 I. — An Introduction to our Heroine 
 
 II.— After Six Years 190 
 
 Life at Birdsnest. Told by Belle. Unfinished .... 192 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 Only a Train Wrecked 199 
 
 My Birthday ........... 200 
 
 My Baby ........... 201 
 
 Buried Hopes 201 
 
 Snow- Flakes 202 
 
 The Sick Patient .......... 203 
 
 Twilight and Daybreak 205 
 
 Sunbeams ........... 206 
 
 Shadows ............ 207 
 
 Two Little Barefoots 208 
 
 Pearls ............ 209 
 
 Night 210 
 
 A Prayer 211 
 
 Letters 212 
 
 The Storm 
 
 213 
 
 Clouds 216 
 
 Snowdrop. A Story of Lake Crystal 217 
 
 May , 221 
 
 Lines for an Album 222 
 
 A Face at the Window 222 
 
 The Baby is Dead 223 
 
 Reaching after Sweets 224 
 
 Voices of the Night 226 
 
 The Mother's Lament 228 
 
 Autumn Rain 230 
 
 Baby Jean 231 
 
 Alone 232 
 
 From Sunrise to Sunset 233 
 
 A Dream of Life . 235 
 
 Dreaming 235 
 
 Tasting 236 
 
 Loving 237 
 
 Grieving . 238 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Somebody's Child is Dead ........ 240 
 
 Friendless 242 
 
 New-Year's Eve 244 
 
 The Unfinished Dress 246 
 
 The Old Homestead 249 
 
 After the Storm . . 252 
 
 Kitty's Prayer 253 
 
 The Magic Wishes 257 
 
 Daisy's Test 261 
 
 The Deserted Church 266 
 
 Waiting at the Gate 269 
 
 Drifting 272 
 
 Forgotten 274 
 
 I. — Before the Wedding 274 
 
 II.— The Wedding 276 
 
 III. — After the Wedding 278 
 
 IV. — Forgotten 280 
 
 A Home Picture 284 
 
 What the Wild Waves Said 288 
 
 A Kitten's Troubles 302 
 
 What Bessie saw in the Coals 308 
 
 Lady May's Dream ......... 314 
 
 Spring . . .' 321 
 
 Summer ............ 322 
 
 Autumn 324 
 
 Winter 326 
 
 Mamma's Blossom ' 3^7 
 
 Polly, the Fisherman's Wife 329 
 
 Autumn 331 
 
 Void of Hope 33^ 
 
 Love's Enchantment 335 
 
 Little Nell's Valentine 337 
 
 Acrostic . 341 
 
 The Window over the Way • • 34^ 
 
 There's a Father Above 344 
 
 To Lottie 344 
 
 He is Risen .......•••• 345 
 
 Moonbeams 34^ 
 
 Shepherd, Hold Me in Thy Bosom 348 
 
 Almost 350 
 
 The Lost Vision 35i 
 
 I* 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Wind 358 
 
 Good-Night Baby, Good-Night 359 
 
 Baby May Asleep 361 
 
 A Bit of Scandal 362 
 
 The Horses' Talk. A Fable 366 
 
 Ode to the Moon 369 
 
 A Little Dreamer 371 
 
 Unfinished Poems : 
 
 A Withered Rose 372 
 
 Alphabet of the Seasons 373 
 
 A Very Remarkable Man 374 
 
 Daisy's Dream . • 375 
 
 A Dream of the Months 375 
 
 Christmas-Eve .......... 379 
 
 "She Turned Over, and Sweetly Went to Sleep" . . . 382 
 In Memory of Fannie : 
 
 To her Friend and Playmate 383 
 
 In Memoriam .......... 384 
 
 Resting 385 
 
 Hereafter 386 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 Frances Lavinia Michener was born near Avondale, 
 Chester County, Pennsylvania, on Sunday, April i, 1866, 
 When about four years of age her parents removed to 
 Wilmington, Delaware. Five years later they met with 
 their first great bereavement in the loss of their youngest 
 child, William Ralph Leslie, then a beautiful boy of six 
 years. 
 
 Early in the summer of 1875 Fannie was taken sick. 
 This sickness proved to be scarlet rash, and though not 
 dangerously ill, Leslie was not allowed to enter the sick- 
 room. Long afterward Fannie told how, every morning, 
 he would come to her door and ask, " How are you this 
 morning, little sister?" 
 
 She recovered rapidly; but on Monday, the 21st of 
 June, Leslie complained of feeling so sick. Alas ! it was 
 too true: the dire disease had taken hold of his little 
 frame. He soon grew very, very sick, and on Tuesday 
 he was delirious. Being conscious at times, he would 
 talk to his mother in the most loving terms. Thursday 
 night his beautiful brown eyes grew large and bright, and 
 glancing upward, he called, " Frankie, Frankie !" (His 
 mother had lost a little brother named Frankie.) Friday 
 morning, June 25, he lay still and quiet, and seemed 
 better, but at noon, as the attendants were bending over 
 him to administer medicine, they saw a change and knew 
 he was dying. " O Leslie, stay just a little longer !" ex- 
 
 7 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 claimed his mother. For answer he looked up at her 
 with a bright, sweet smile, and was gone. 
 
 It was all over. Only eight days before the household 
 pet was well and joyous, and now, looking down the long 
 vista of years, his parents realized that they must be 
 spent without their little son. 
 
 Perhaps it was this great loss, so early in life, that gave 
 such a touch of sadness to many of Fannie's poems, and, 
 as in the criticism of Alice Gary's works, " filled them so 
 full of graves." 
 
 Some time after Leslie's death she wrote the following : 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF A BROTHER, 1876. 
 
 " Alone ! the word sounds cold and grim 
 For Death hath carried away our gem : 
 Away to the realms of peace and joy 
 The angels have taken our darling boy." 
 
 This was her first attempt in poetry. She was then in 
 her tenth year. Soon after she composed the following 
 lines : 
 
 " Beautiful, beautiful roses, 
 
 Pink, red, and white. 
 Opening out in the morning. 
 
 And closing again at night. 
 Such was our little Leslie : 
 
 With his smile so winning and bright, 
 He opened out in the morning. 
 
 And closed again at night. 
 
 " Beautiful, beautiful lilies. 
 
 So fair and graceful and tall ; 
 Many flowers are pretty. 
 
 But thou art queen of them all. 
 Such was our little Leslie, ^ 
 
 So fair and lovely and small ; 
 Many children are pretty. 
 
 But he was fairer than all." 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 At a very early age she showed a disposition to convey 
 her thoughts to paper, as may be seen from the following, 
 which was found on the fly-leaf of a little blank-book 
 some time after her death : 
 
 " Fannie Michener, 821 Adams St. Born April First. Aged 11 years. 
 Ralphie, her brother, was a dear little boy of six, but he died when he 
 was in his seventh year. His little sister misses him." 
 
 Touching memento to her beloved dead ! Showing 
 that he was still living in her heart. 
 
 From her earliest infancy Fannie exhibited a great love 
 for nature. While yet a babe, whenever she saw the 
 moon, she would stretch out her little arms and exclaim, 
 in great glee, "Oh, the moo! the moo!" Her "Ode 
 to the Moon" is very beautiful. As she grew older, every 
 floweret, every zephyr, every brooklet, contained for her 
 a world of beauty, but the great sea was her chief 
 delight. 
 
 When a mere child she used to entertain her little 
 friends by telling them most delightful original stories. 
 She would gather them around her, and they would listen 
 spell-bound. Her gift of story-telling was not until after- 
 ward recognized as a talent. 
 
 Naturally not of a strong constitution, much of her 
 time was spent out of school. When she brought home 
 her first little composition, "Summer," she was de- 
 lighted to think the teacher considered it good. She 
 wrote nothing more except compositions until she was 
 about thirteen years of age, she then commenced writing 
 prose. 
 
 Her first story, "Bessie Leigh's Christmas," was pub- 
 lished in Flowers^ Family Magazine, December, 1S79, for 
 which she continued to write for some time. 
 
 Though passionately fond of reading, she cared less for 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 poetry tlian prose. She was at home among works of 
 prose. She read " David Copperfield" with delight when 
 scarcely ten years old. To meet and become personally 
 acquainted with the author of " Little Women" was one 
 of her highest aims. 
 
 In February, 1 88 1, she wrote "Only a Train Wrecked." 
 She was now in her fifteenth year, and from that time her 
 prose became of secondary importance. Three of her 
 unfinished prose stories are among her earliest writings. 
 These were laid aside when she began her poetry ; but a 
 short time before her final illness she again turned her 
 attention to prose, and commenced "That Wild, Wild 
 Rose," also a book containing thirty chapters, entitled 
 "Birdsnest." Her last poem was written on Sunday, 
 September lo, 1882. 
 
 At the age of fifteen she united with St. Andrew's Epis- 
 copal Church. Her well-marked Bible shows how well 
 she loved it and how faithfully it was studied. 
 
 On the first Sunday in September she was at church 
 for the last time. During the summer, in some unac- 
 countable way a heavy cold fastened itself upon her, 
 and quite early in September she became unable to go 
 out. 
 
 To those who knew her (and to know her was to love 
 her) Fannie was a particularly interesting child. In ap- 
 pearance she was tall and graceful ; a face fair and 
 sweet, wistful, blue-gray eyes, with a wealth of chestnut 
 hair falling over her neck and shoulders; modest and 
 unassuming in manner, she yet possessed a dignity and 
 grace beyond her years. In conversation she expressed 
 herself so well and intelligently that unconsciously one 
 became a charmed listener. In character she was very 
 decided. I can no better describe her than in her own 
 words : 
 
MEMOIR. 1 1 
 
 " She was a maiden meek and lowly ; 
 Face Madonna-shaped and holy, 
 All her features wearing solely 
 
 Love and pureness like a saint. 
 «- «««»*» 
 
 In his dreams he saw her faintly, 
 Sitting with her forehead saintly 
 
 Crowned with flowers not full blown, 
 And he murmured, ' Emblem meet 
 Of the maiden fair and sweet 
 Who is not a woman grown.' " 
 
 When asked, she would entertain guests with her poetry 
 with the simplicity of a little child, and wonder much 
 that they should be so interested. 
 
 Strange to say, she never thought her poems were of 
 any merit. She always brought them to her mother for 
 criticism, whose watchful eye kept many of them from 
 being destroyed ; though Fannie would often laughingly 
 remark, " Perhaps in the future I shall awake some morn- 
 ing to find myself famous." 
 
 During her long illness her sweet disposition manifested 
 itself in the patience with which she bore her sufferings. 
 Only once she said, "It seems hard that I must lie here 
 all this lovely October weather." 
 
 As the days went by, medical skill proved of no avail, 
 and on the morning of December 20 she was unable, for 
 the first time, to go down-stairs ; still, she seemed no worse 
 than usual, only weaker. Though her family realized it 
 not, the little poetess who had so beautifully written, — 
 
 " There is only a shadow between this life 
 And the endless one over there," 
 
 was about to enter the valley of the shadow of death, but 
 her heart knew no fear. 
 
 About four o'clock she asked if her father and brother 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 were home, and a little later, taking her ring from her 
 finger, she handed it to her mother, saying, *' Keep this, 
 mother." An hour later her friends realized the dread 
 truth. She was indeed passing through the shadow. 
 They might go with her to the border of the valley, but 
 they could go no farther. Their dim vision could not 
 penetrate the mysterious shadow. 
 
 Faint and exhausted, she asked for more air ; for a 
 time so intense were her sufferings that nothing loving 
 hands could do, relieved her. Presently her voice, so 
 weak in the morning that she could scarcely answer the 
 physician audibly, grew clear and strong. Seeing the 
 tears on the cheeks of her dear ones, she said, " I cannot 
 cry, — I don't know why, but I cairnot shed a tear." In 
 her unselfishness it seemed to her that she ought to weep. 
 Forgetting self, she tried to comfort her almost idolized 
 mother. "It will not be long, mother, till we will all 
 be there, and I cannot forget you," Again to her mother, 
 "I have sometimes thought that I was making an idol of 
 thee, as thee might have made of Leslie." 
 
 In the tenderest terms she bade each farewell, bidding 
 them meet her in heaven, and telling the others to take 
 care of mother, and her father to meet her in heaven ; 
 and said to him, " You must, you must ! You know how 
 well I love you all, but mother best next to Jesus. You 
 know I love Jesus, and oh, I wonder if it is wrong to 
 think of you so when He is coming for me ! I wish He 
 would come right now : I suffer so. I hope — I hope — I 
 hope I'm ready. Yes, I know I am, for I am one of the 
 lambs, and Jesus carries the lambs in His bosom. I hope 
 He will take me right into His arms." Again she said, 
 "I hope I'm pure and fair to enter into heaven. Oh, I 
 hope I'm worthy ! I know my sins are all washed away 
 in the blood of the Lamb." 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 13 
 
 Her sufferings seemed so great that those who were 
 with her thought she had better not talk, but she re- 
 plied, " Let me talk while I can, for I shall never see 
 another day break." Presently she said, " I am going 
 easier than I expected. I almost knew I would." Her 
 dearest friend came in, and calling her to her bedside, 
 Fannie said, " I have always loved you so. Do not for- 
 get me, and meet me in heaven." She also sent loving 
 messages to her many friends, with love to all and every- 
 body. 
 
 Prayer was offered, and when " Amen" was said she 
 also said "Amen." Turning to those she was leaving, 
 she said, "Kiss me again." Mother, sisters, father, 
 brother, and the few dear friends pressed nearer for a last 
 kiss, and she murmured, " Mother — best of all next to 
 Jesus!" 
 
 Presently she said, " Please turn up the light, for it is 
 growing dark;" and a moment later, "The light has 
 gone down." On being told it was still burning, she re- 
 plied, " The light is all right, but it is still dark, and I 
 know why; but it is all right. I'm not afraid to die. 
 I'm growing cold." Gazing through the darkness, she 
 said, " I can see you all yet," and each name for the last 
 time lingered lovingly on her lips, — " Mother — best — 
 of — all next to Jesus." Then as if gazing beyond, "It is 
 all light now. Good-by — good -by. I'm going home — 
 home — home — forever and* forever more." 
 
 Again her lips moved faintly, but the last word was in- 
 audible, and with perhaps the word " Mother" or " Jesus" 
 she had passed through the darkness beyond the sliadow 
 into the light of the blessed. 
 
 At the close of a cold, dreary day, December 24 (it 
 was the Sabbath), Fannie was laid to rest in Union Hill 
 Cemetery, a beautiful burying-ground near Kennet Square. 
 
 2 
 
14 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 As if to bring peace to the mourning hearts, just as the 
 casket was lowered to its last resting-place the heavy 
 clouds lifted, and the lingering rays of the setting sun 
 seemed to rest lovingly upon the spot. 
 
 " She fell asleep. 
 
 Pray do not weep : 
 She's left earth's keenest sorrow. 
 
 To tears and sighs 
 
 She closed her eyes : 
 She'll wake in heaven to-morrow." 
 
 Yet the tears would fall as we turned away from the 
 hallowed spot. 
 
 Later the great moon rose in its glory, and all that 
 night shone with softened beauty upon the grave of the 
 little poetess who had loved it from childhood. 
 
 It seemed sweet to her friends that the moon should 
 shine thus the first night that she lay in the church-yard. 
 She had once said, " Lovely spot for the dead, to lie with 
 the wind sighing in the trees above them." And thus it 
 was that after sixteen brief years she had come to rest 
 there, — 
 
 " Almost through the warfare and strife, 
 Almost through the unfinished life." 
 
 Yet who shall say that her life is indeed unfinished? 
 We cannot think of her as dead ; we rather feel that she 
 is " Home at last," there to complete her work in the 
 light and love of God. 
 
 A. E. M. 
 
PROSE. 
 
 15 
 
BESSIE LEIGH'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, it must be dreadful to be sick !" And 
 Adele Gray's blue eyes filled with tears as she spoke. 
 
 Mrs. Gray raised herself languidly from the delicate 
 lace-work which had employed her time, and said, " Why, 
 Dela, what has come over my gay, sprightly daughter?" 
 
 Little Adele knelt down on the ottoman at her mother's 
 feet. "Mamma," she said, gravely, "when you were 
 away, Aunt AUie used to drive out to see the sick and tlie 
 poor. To-day I was over there, and Aunt Allie and 
 Mabel were going down to see little Bessie Leigh, the 
 minister's child." 
 
 Mrs. Gray raised herself, with flashing eyes. "Adele, 
 how dare Alice take you into such places ? She has 
 already changed Mabel into a little bigot. 1 was thor- 
 oughly ashamed of her last winter. She and a gentleman 
 were visiting here. One Sunday eve, Mr. Arnold asked 
 her to play a song for him. She arose, and astonished 
 us very much by saying, sweetly, she could not play a 
 song on the piano Sunday. It was shocking ! And now, 
 Adele, I want no more of this foolishness ; but come, the 
 dinner-bell is ringing." And, taking the child's hand, she 
 swept haughtily from the room. 
 
 Quite a different scene was enacted at a simple but 
 pleasant cottage, hidden by a row of oaks, thus giving it 
 the name of Oak Cottage. On a lounge near the window 
 lay a child about the size of Adele, apparently eleven 
 years of age. On her face was a look of suffering, but 
 nothing rebellious, only sweet, patient resignation. The 
 mother was dressing a baby about nine months old. 
 Mrs. Leigh (for this is our Bessie's mother) looked wist- 
 fully toward her sewing. Bessie longed to read the story- 
 book which Mabel Gray had brought that morning, but, 
 
 b 2* 1 7 
 
1 8 BESSIE LEIGH'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 sacrificing her own feelings, she said, winningly, " Come 
 to Bessie, Charlie." 
 
 The mother laid him in her lap, and soon the baby boy 
 was fast asleep. Then Bessie began to talk. 
 
 "Oh, mamma," she said, "it must be nice to be rich 
 and have everything you want." And the child sighed. 
 
 Her mother took her sewing, and sat by Bessie's couch. 
 A quiet talk ensued, which soothed the child greatly, and 
 when Mrs. Leigh rose to get dinner Bessie was sleeping 
 sweetly. 
 
 Weeks passed on, but no news came from Adele's home. 
 Bessie had read her story-book again and again. One 
 day the postman tapped at the window. Mrs. Leigh 
 turned pale, thinking harm had come to her boy, who 
 was at that time in the army ; but the feminine hand 
 reassured her, and, besides, it was addressed to Bessie. 
 
 "A letter for me?" Bessie's usually pale face colored 
 with pleasure as she broke the seal. In an instant her 
 countenance was aglow with light. " Oh, mamma, it's 
 from Miss Adele, at the great house, and listen to what 
 she says : 
 
 " Dear Bessie, — Mamma said 1 might have a party all Christmas day 
 and evening, and I might invite whom I pleased ; so I say for you to come 
 Christmas day, early. (Of course. I mean all, Harry, Eva, Grace, and 
 baby Charlie, too, if he can.) For we will have a grand time. All my 
 cousins will be here from the city, and papa will drive you home in the 
 sleigh, next morning. 
 
 " Your loving friend, Adele. 
 
 " P.S, — Be sure and come." 
 
 When Bessie finished reading, she raised herself eagerly. 
 " Oh, mamma, may we go?" 
 
 For a moment the question was not answered, and 
 Bessie was afraid the answer would be " No ;" but at last 
 she came and knelt beside the couch, and said, — 
 
 " Bessie, Bessie, I guess you may go. How kind they 
 are to us !" 
 
 From that day till Christmas there was a great bustle 
 at Oak Cottage. Bessie's face was perfectly tranquil and 
 happy in anticipation of the coming event. At last the 
 day arrived. The children were not to go until nine 
 o'clock. Mr. and Mrs. Leigh gave their presents, as 
 
BESSIE LEIGH'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 19 
 
 usual, but even these were eclipsed by the thought of the 
 happy time they would have at the great house. At last 
 the sleigh drove up, and they were all snugly tucked 
 among the warm buffalo-robes, except baby Charlie, who 
 showed his disappointment by clapping his hands gleefully. 
 
 " You might as well have let him gone," said the good- 
 natured coachman, " for Miss Adele expects them all." 
 
 The ride was delightful, and they were all sorry when 
 it was ended. The coachman carried Bessie right into 
 the warm sitting-room. 
 
 When Adele saw the sleigh coming up the drive, she 
 hastened to meet them. "Oh, you little beauty!" she 
 cried to Eva, who certainly looked very pretty as she sat 
 on an ottoman, looking at a picture-book which the house- 
 keeper had provided her with. Clothed in a red dress 
 which set off her rich, dark skin, brown curls and eyes, 
 she showed her pretty teeth in a smile, as Adele said, " I 
 must carry this little one up to mamma, while you, Mabel, 
 are with Bessie." 
 
 Mrs. Gray, like every one else, was charmed with Eva, 
 who chatted away as if she was at home. 
 
 " ThiC child was certainly born for a higher position," 
 said the haughty lady. 
 
 In the mean time the children from the city had arrived, 
 and they were soon all the best of friends. The day was 
 one of unalloyed pleasure, and, as Grace whispered to 
 Bessie, *' it seemed just like a dream." 
 
 Soon Bessie's chair was wheeled to the door of the large 
 play-room, where, for once in their life, the children were 
 doing just what they pleased. 
 
 But we will pass on from the pleasures of the day to 
 those of the evening. 
 
 In a darkened room the children were waiting. Soon 
 the door was thrown open, and then what bursts of ad- 
 miration ! In the centre of the room was a large tree 
 fairly groaning with the weight of toys and good things, 
 which bore it almost to the floor. Then the presents were 
 distributed, and what think you our friend Bessie got? 
 Why, a large, elegant chair, in which, by a little aid, she 
 could wheel herself all around the room. Tears of grati- 
 tude filled the brown eyes, and her lips quivered, but her 
 
BESSIE LEIGH'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 attention was arrested by hearing her brother exclaim, 
 "Beautiful!" and a tiny gold chain and locket was thrown 
 around Eva's neck. Harry received an elegant sled and 
 pair of skates, while Grace got just what she had wished 
 for, — a beautiful ring. We will not mention the numer- 
 ous other presents, but sufficient is it to say that the even- 
 ing ended with great enjoyment, and, as little Eva said, 
 "not one bit of quarrelling." 
 
 That night, as Grace climbed into the high bed, she 
 said, in a sleepy tone, "Ain't you glad we came?" and 
 Bessie exclaimed, vehemently, "Indeed I am !" 
 
 But, despite Bessie saying they would keep awake and 
 talk about their happiness, they were soon fast asleep, 
 locked in each other's arms. Thus ended Bessie Leigh's 
 Christmas. 
 
 November 29, 1879. 
 
MILLY'S BOAT-RIDE. 
 
 It was a glorious day, at least so thought Milly Wes- 
 ton, as she sprang out of bed with the lark and bounded 
 to the window for the purpose of looking out. The sun 
 was just rising above the hills, flooding everything with 
 glory. A quiet hush brooded over the landscape. Milly 
 leaned her dimpled arms on the window-ledge and gazed 
 silently at the scene. She was a pretty child, slightly 
 tall for twelve years, but also plump and healthy, with 
 short, dark hair, which, despite all combing and brush- 
 ing, would curl up in the most coquettish ringlets around 
 her face and neck ; dark-brown eyes, peeping from under 
 drooping lashes, and, to crown all, a pair of saucy lips, 
 which looked just ready to kiss, and whenever they 
 opened to let forth a peal of silver laughter, disclosed two 
 rows of pearl-like teeth. Altogether, as she stood there, 
 she formed a pretty picture which blended well with the 
 landscape. 
 
 Milly Weston was pretty, and Milly knew it, but was 
 not at all vain of her charms. She had been standing 
 there a long time, lost in thought, when suddenly the 
 breakfast-bell rang, rousing her from the delightful rev- 
 ery into which she had fallen. 
 
 "Oh, dear me," sighed Milly, **who would have 
 thought I had been musing so long? I will be late to 
 breakfast, — an occurrence that papa particularly detests. 
 Well, it can't be helped ; I will have to bear the conse- 
 quence." And, so saying, she sprang lightly down-stairs. 
 
 The family were seated at breakfast, waiting for Milly. 
 Mr. Weston was displeased, and looked as if he was about 
 to say something as Milly entered the room ; but wilful 
 Milly, foreseeing a lecture, sprang forward, and, placing 
 both her little white hands over his lips, said, laugh- 
 ingly,— 
 
MILLY'S BOAT-RIDE. 
 
 "Dear me, papa, you should not scold me; you know 
 how perfectly irresistible this delightful weather is, and I 
 really did not mean to be late. You will forgive me, 
 won't you, papa?" 
 
 Milly spoke coaxingly, and Mr. Weston, who could 
 never resist the light in Milly's dark eyes, said, kindly, 
 "Well, Milly, I will let you off this time; but hereafter 
 be more punctual, daughter, or I will not surrender so 
 easily." 
 
 So saying, he untwined the arms which had been 
 wound around his neck, and Milly took her seat, shaking 
 her head deprecatingly, as much as to say, "You see I 
 am not afraid of you, papa." Mr, Weston seemed to 
 understand, for he smiled quietly. 
 
 So far we have not mentioned Fred. Fred was Milly's 
 younger brother, and, though Milly loved him dearly, 
 she was sometimes inclined to be patronizing in her 
 manner. 
 
 Breakfast was eaten in silence. Fred was restless and 
 uneasy, as if he wanted to speak. 
 
 "Why don't you speak, Fred?" said Milly, after 
 watching him a few minutes. "I am sure you need not 
 be afraid of papa." 
 
 Fred colored, and then said, suddenly, "Papa." 
 
 Mr. Weston turned. "Well, Fred." 
 
 "Papa, I received a note from Cousin Frank, and he 
 says he is going fishing to-morrow, and he wants me to 
 come over to-day and stay all night, so that I can go 
 with him. And oh, papa, I want to go so bad, to try 
 my new fishing-rod. Please, may I?" 
 
 Fred spoke with eagerness, watching his father anx- 
 iously meanwhile. 
 
 "Yes, you may go, Fred," said Mr. Weston, after a 
 minute's deliberation ; " but, as it is such a busy day, I 
 would rather you would wait until evening. Will that 
 suit you, my boy?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, papa." And Fred looked truly gratified. 
 
 As Milly was clearing away the breakfast things, Fred 
 said, in a low voice, "Milly, won't you go with me to 
 Cousin Frank's ?" 
 
 "No, thank you, Fred," said Milly, loftily, and with 
 
MILLY'S BOAT-RIDE. 
 
 23 
 
 a slight degree of scornfiilness in her voice. " I prefer 
 staying at home." 
 
 Fred looked hurt, but did not reply. He would have 
 been much pleased if Milly had promised. She was so 
 full of fun and mischief; always proposing such nice 
 plans. At school she was leader in everything, a favorite 
 with both scholars and teachers ; and yet, when any mis- 
 chief occurred, no matter how demure or innocent Milly 
 appeared, she was always found to be the ringleader. It 
 was Milly who proposed skating parties, boat-rides, and 
 picnics. Boat-rides were the most prominent, for the 
 river was near Milly's home. 
 
 Right down at the foot of the garden lay the glittering 
 expanse of water. There was one spot which was Milly's 
 especial delight. Near the garden-gate was a large tree, 
 whose branches spread far out into the water. This was 
 where Milly's little boat lay, of which she was so proud. 
 And a most trustworthy skiff the "Water Lily" proved 
 to be. 
 
 It had taken Milly a long time to choose a name for her 
 treasure, but, after a great deal of consideration, she told 
 Fred she had at last thought of a very poetical name. 
 After Milly had confided the chosen name to Mr. Wes- 
 ton, he had it painted on the stern of the boat, in crim- 
 son and gold, together with an opening lily. 
 
 It was vacation now, and though Milly looked long- 
 ingly toward the little boat swinging at anchor, she 
 dared not go to row until all her work was done, for it 
 was an unusually busy day at the farm-house, and a large 
 portion had fallen to Milly's share. 
 
 Just as Milly had finished her work and was going up- 
 stairs to dress, she espied one of her most intimate 
 schoolmates, Nellie Ray, coming in at the gate, and ran 
 eagerly forward to meet her. 
 
 "I am so glad you have come," Milly said, in a 
 pleased tone. " But how did you enjoy your visit?" 
 
 "Oh, splendidly," Nellie replied. 
 
 "I am glad you returned when you did," said Milly, 
 " for I had a beautiful ring given me by one of mamma's 
 friends, Mrs. Clifton, who was visiting here, and I have 
 been longing to show it to you. Don't you think," 
 
24 
 
 MILLY'S BOAT-RIDE. 
 
 continued Milly, "mamma had not seen Mrs. Clifton 
 (who was one of her schoohnates when she was small) 
 for ever so many years, and mamma did not even know 
 she was coming to see her; so you can just imagine how 
 deliglited she was. Mrs. Clifton wanted to take me 
 home with her, but mamma could not spare me. I was 
 terribly disappointed, for they have a houseful of chil- 
 dren. But come up now and see my ring." 
 
 Nellie's unbounded admiration of the ring pleased 
 Milly. 
 
 "I don't know when I have spent such a pleasant af- 
 ternoon," Milly said, as she bade Nellie good-by, "and I 
 am sorry you have to go so soon." 
 
 "Soon! Do you call five o'clock soon?" laughed 
 Nellie, glancing at the pretty French clock. " But, by 
 the by, did Mrs. Clifton give Fred anything?" 
 
 " I entirely forgot Fred's present," said Milly. " Yes, 
 ' e got a handsome fishing-rod. Of course we would not 
 like that, but Fred was pleased with it." 
 
 " I think it is splendid. Tell Fred so. But now 
 good-by." And Nellie was gone. 
 
 Milly went up-stairs and dressed herself in a cool mus- 
 lin dress, and, having procured the new story-book whicli 
 was so profoundly interesting, ran down to the " Water 
 Lily," which was moored at " Milly's Cove," as Fred 
 called it, and seated herself in the delightful shade of the 
 sturdy tree. Milly had been reading fully an hour, when 
 she was suddenly startled by a dark shade falling across 
 her book, and, raising her eyes, found with dismay the 
 boat had become untied, and was now drifting far out 
 upon the river. But that was not the worst, for dark, 
 formidable clouds were rolling up in every direction, and 
 had entirely hidden the blue. For a long time the air 
 had been still, with hardly enough breeze to stir the 
 leaves, but now it was blowing furiously, tossing the little 
 skiff to and fro. 
 
 Milly was bewildered ; she knew not what to do. Be- 
 fore she had come to the boat her papa, who was then on 
 his way to the city, had bidden her not to row out, for 
 he thought there would be a storm. "I sent Fred to 
 Frank's an hour earlier on purpose," said Mr. Weston; 
 
MILLY'S BOAT-RIDE. 
 
 25 
 
 "so, Millj', you must not go to row." And Milly had 
 obeyed him, but was she not in just as bad a predicament 
 as if she had gone? Tlie wind blew her hat into the 
 turbid flood, and the spray dashed relentlessly into her 
 face. 
 
 Milly was helpless, for she could not control the boat 
 by those slender oars; so on it drifted, at the mercy of 
 the waves. Oh, how she longed to be home I How 
 glad she would be to see Fred ! 
 
 "Oh," thought Milly, " if I had only gone with dear 
 old Fred, I would not have been here I" And she leaned 
 her head upon her hands and burst into tears. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Weston was not at all anxious about 
 Milly, for she thought that she had gone home with 
 Nellie, 
 
 The farm-house looked very cosey and inviting to Mr. 
 Weston as he carue home from the city, and very delight- 
 ful the pretty table looked, loaded with the most tempt- 
 ing viands. 
 
 " This is a fearful night," Mr. Weston said, cheerily, 
 ?s he hung up his coat and then seated himself at the 
 table, "and right glad I am to be home, too; but," 
 glancing around the apartment, "where is Milly?" 
 
 "Over at Nellie Ray's. She was over here this after- 
 noon, and, living so near, I suppose Milly ran over home 
 with her," ■ Mrs. Weston spoke confidently. 
 
 Mr. Weston started from his chair. " I was just over 
 at Ray's," he said ; " but I see : Milly has been reading 
 in tlie boat again, and it has drifted." 
 
 Mr. Weston said this as he was putting on his coat, 
 and in another minute he was gone. 
 
 Mrs. Weston, with a white face, watched him until he 
 was no longer visible in the darkness; then sl>e turned, 
 and, seating herself in the rocking-chair, waited for their 
 renirn. 
 
 Mr, Weston, having secured a boat, bravely faced the 
 storm. Although in reality but a short period, it seemed 
 hours to the anxious father before he reached the child. 
 Thus it was that, as Milly was sitting dejectedly in the 
 boat, she felt two strong arms embrace her, and heard 
 her father's voice say, huskily, "My little Milly!" 
 B 3 
 
26 MILLY'S BOAT- RIDE. 
 
 Then all was darkness, and Milly lay unconscious in her 
 father's arms. 
 
 When Mr. Weston reached home he found everything 
 in preparation. Soon loving care restored her to con- 
 sciousness. For several days Milly was threatened with 
 illness, but youth and buoyancy prevailed, and she was 
 soon the same loving Milly, a trifle graver, perhaps, and 
 with a terrible aversion to the river. 
 
 When Fred returned from his cousin's he was very 
 much surprised at the story, and for several days Milly 
 was almost spoiled, for no one could do enough for her. 
 
 A few days afterwards Milly and Fred were sent away 
 to Mrs. Clifton's, who had written specially for them to 
 come. Three months later, when Milly came home from 
 her delightful visit, slie could look upon the river with- 
 out the slightest emotion, although she never forgot her 
 terrible boat-ride. 
 
 January, 1880. 
 
TOM'S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE. 
 
 Tom was in disgrace. He stood in the dark drawing- 
 room, where the gas was turned so low that the dim out- 
 lines of the chairs were scarcely visible. The rain pat- 
 tered drearily on the pavement, as if in accord with his 
 angry spirit. Now and then merry laughter floated in 
 from the parlors, where Alice, Tom's oldest sister, was 
 having a party. What had he done that he was banished 
 from the merry circle? It happened thus: 
 
 Poor Tom was always getting in trouble on account of 
 being careless. Tom, with his graceful, sturdy form, 
 frank, handsome face, willing and obliging ways, was 
 always in demand, and it seemed as if he had no faults, 
 excei)t that one, carelessness. On this particular day a 
 great deal was to be done, and Tom was kept running 
 hither and thither. Just as he thought he was almost 
 through, his sister's voice sounded from her room : 
 
 "Tom, come here a minute." 
 
 In an instant he stood in the door-way. 
 
 "Tom," said Alice, as she stood before the mirror 
 dressing her hair, "just hand me that little box upon the 
 stand." 
 
 He took a step forward and picked up the box. The 
 lid swung open, and, in his anxiety to save an ear-ring 
 of solid pearl which had fallen from it, he turned too 
 hastily, stepped upon and crushed the beautiful ear-ring 
 out of all shape. 
 
 " You careless boy !" cried Alice, springing to his side, 
 but too late, — " you careless boy !" 
 
 Tom could have sunk. He moved toward the door. 
 
 "Yes," continued Alice, relentlessly, "you may go 
 now, but not to dress, for you shall not enter the parlors 
 to-night." And Alice moved haughtily toward her dress- 
 ing-case. 
 
 27 
 
28 TOM'S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE. 
 
 Tom turned, and mechanically left the room. As he 
 was passing through the hall, he met his little sister, 
 Bertie, the household fairy. 
 
 " What ! not dressed yet, Tom?" she exclaimed, with 
 affectionate concern; "but," with a little start, "how 
 pale you are. What is the matter, Tom?" 
 
 If Bertie had been looking at him then, she would 
 not have thought him pale. His face was suffused with 
 blushes. 
 
 "I am tired, Bertie," he pleaded. " Alice will tell 
 you all." And he passed on to the drawing-room. And 
 that was wliy Tom was standing in such a dejected attitude 
 by the window that rainy night. 
 
 Bertie, who had not the least idea what the real matter 
 was, danced gayly toward Alice's room, As Bertie 
 entered the room, she gave a cry of delight. 
 
 "How lovely you are to-night, Alice!" she said, 
 lovingly. 
 
 " Bertie, you are a little darling," Alice said, bending 
 and kissing the sweet, upturned face of her little eleven- 
 year-old sister. 
 
 "Oh, Alice! what is the matter with Tom to-night?" 
 asked Bertie, suddenly. 
 
 Alice related the story of the ear-ring. 
 
 "Oh!" Bertie said, drawing a quick breath when 
 Alice had finished the recital ; " those lovely ear-rings 
 papa gave you for a birthday gift?" 
 
 Alice nodded assent. 
 
 " How could he be so careless? But oh ! Alice," in 
 a changed voice, "you know he did it accidentally, and 
 you will let him go to the party, won't you?" asked 
 Bertie, pleadingly. 
 
 For a moment Alice relented, then she said, coldly, 
 " No, Bertie ; it will teach him to be more careful in 
 future. But I must go down to the parlors." And Alice 
 left the room. 
 
 Bertie stood irresolute, and then she ran after her 
 sister. 
 
 "Alice," she said, breathlessly, "since Tom can't go 
 to the party, I won't go, either. I will stay with Tom." 
 And Bertie looked very resolute. 
 
TOM'S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE. 
 
 29 
 
 Alice gazed at her in astonishment. " No, indeed, 
 Bertie," she said, decidedly; "you are going to the 
 party. Come with me now." And she took Bertie's 
 hand, leading her reluctantly toward the parlors. 
 
 When Tom entered the drawing-room and curled him- 
 self up in his father's easy-chair, he expected Bertie, the 
 little comforter, would come ere long to console him. 
 But he waited in vain. The doors opened and shut. At 
 last the music began to play, and Tom knew the com- 
 pany had all arrived. He imagined Bertie flitting among 
 them and enjoying herself to the best of her ability. 
 And she deserves it, thought Tom in his humility. Just 
 then he raised his eyes and encountered those of Mrs. 
 Clifford, Tom's mother. 
 
 "Oh, Tom," she said, sorrowfully, "I am so sorry 
 Alice forbade you to come to the parlors !" 
 
 Tom frowned. Mrs. Clifford noticed it, and said, 
 gently, "But perhaps you need this punishment, Tom, 
 to cure your carelessness. But I promised Alice to re- 
 turn with the cakes, so I must go." And Mrs. Clifford 
 left the room, stooping first to imprint a kiss on Tom's 
 brow. 
 
 Mrs. Clifford had scarcely gone when Bertie came 
 dancing in, bearing a tray filled with dainties. 
 
 "Oh, Tom," she said, while her face was dimpling 
 with satisfaction, "you cannot imagine what a hard time 
 [ had coaxing Alice to let me bring you these. She was 
 so determined that you should not have them, but I con- 
 quered, as I always do; don't I, Tom?" And, carrying 
 the empty tray, Bertie flitted from the room. 
 
 Tom vvatcbt;il her with admiration in his honest brown 
 eyes. "I think Bertie is the prettiest little girl I ever 
 knew," he said, with a sigh. 
 
 The evening was very long to Tom, as he stood watch- 
 ing' tlie rain turning so rapidly to snow. Meanwhile 
 Bertie was enjoying herself nicely, and if Tom had been 
 there her happiness would have been complete. 
 
 Alice was real sorry that she had forbidden Tom to 
 come to the parlors, but was far too proud to apologize. 
 The evening passed pleasantly away. Next to Alice, no 
 one could help following with the eye the graceful figure 
 
 3* 
 
TOM'S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE. 
 
 of Bertie, as she flitted around, conversing with the 
 guests. Altogether, she formed a charming little hostess. 
 After the parlors were deserted, Alice, feeling sorry for 
 Tom, went into the drawing-room where he was standing 
 so disconsolately. 
 
 "Tom," she said, softly, going to his side, "are you 
 angry with me?" 
 
 "No; oh, no!" replied he, hastily; "and, Alice," he 
 continued, "1 am real sovry I broke that ear-ring." 
 
 "Never mind that now, Tom," Alice said, kindly; 
 "but mamma is calling, and it is time to retire." 
 
 While Alice was talking with Tom, Bertie and her 
 mamma were in earnest consultation. " Mamma," asked 
 Bertie, after a few minutes' silence, " when does Tom's 
 birthday come?" 
 
 " The nth of January," Mrs. Clifford replied, looking 
 up in surprise. 
 
 " Oh, mamma," Bertie said, clasping her arms around 
 Mrs. Clifford's neck, "on that day may we not have a 
 birthday surprise for Tom, — dear old Tom ?" And Bertie 
 looked up anxiously into her mamma's face. 
 
 "Why, yes, darling," replied Mrs. Clifford; "that 
 will be splendid, and Tom will know nothing about it. 
 You can write to your aunt Laura this week, inviting your 
 cousins down. But come, now for bed, Birtie, and 
 pleasant dreams." And Mrs. Clifford touched Bertie's 
 cheek playfully, and Bertie ran along the hall laughing 
 merrily, and was soon f;ist asleep, dreaming of Tom's 
 joy on his birthday. 
 
 Next morning Tom was up with the sun and down- 
 stairs. Everything was cosey and delightful in-doors, 
 while outside the cold was intense. 
 
 "Mamma," Tom asked, after moving rather uneasily 
 several times, " may I take a walk with papa this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Yes, Tom, if you do not think it is too cold," re- 
 plied Mrs. Clifford, glancing out at the snowy streets. 
 
 For answer Tom put on his overcoat, and he and Mr. 
 Clifford were soon enjoying the keen morning air. When 
 they returned Tom's eyes were clear and bright, and his 
 cheeks were flushed as he stepped forward and, with a 
 
TOM'S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE. ^i 
 
 very happy face, placed a small box in Alice's hand. 
 She started, opened it, and looked at him incredulously. 
 
 " Oh, Tom !" she exclaimed, but her voice quivered. 
 
 In the box lay a pearl ear-ring and bracelet to match. 
 
 "I am very much pleased with Tom," Mr. Clifford 
 said, kindly, " for he used the money which I know he 
 had been saving for some much-cherished object." 
 
 Tom glanced up in surprise at his fatlier guessing his 
 secret. 
 
 Mr. Clifford said, laughingly, " Boys don't save their 
 money for nothing, Tom ; but I think you have done 
 perfectly right, my boy." 
 
 Tom was getting embarrassed, when Bertie suddenly 
 asked, " Papa, are you not rather hungry after your 
 walk?" 
 
 " Yes, Bertie, I am," was Mr. Clifford's reply. " Alice, 
 suppose you ring the bell, and we will adjourn to the 
 breakfast-room." 
 
 A few evenings after, the family were seated in the 
 drawing-room (not dark and dreary as when Tom was 
 imprisoned there that rainy night) beside a glowing fire, 
 while the wind blew and snow fell without. Bertie had 
 just finished her letter to her aunt Laura, and was anxi- 
 ous for it to go the next day. 
 
 " Papa," Bertie asked, after a few minutes' silence, 
 *' are you going out to-night ?" 
 
 "Well, I declare, child," said Mr. Clifford, starting 
 from his chair, "I have an important message to deliver 
 to-night, and if you had not spoken I would have for- 
 gotten it entirely, for this hot fire was fast luring me to 
 sleep." 
 
 " Oh, I am sorry you have to go out on such a stormy 
 night, papa," said Alice, looking up sympathetically. 
 
 " Suppose you take it, then, Allie," said Mr. Clifford, 
 laughing. 
 
 Alice blushed. Tom looked up. 
 
 "I will take it for you, papa," he said. 
 
 " No, my boy, I promised to take it myself; but, be- 
 sides, I would not let you go out in the storm." Then, 
 turning to Bertie, who was unusually silent, he asked, 
 playfully, " Puss, won't you take it ?" 
 
32 
 
 TOM'S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE. 
 
 " No, indeed, papa," said Bertie, saucily, " I will not ; 
 but I want you to take a letter for me." 
 
 "And to whom is the letter written, Pussie?" he 
 asked, mischievously. 
 
 "To Aunt Laura, papa." 
 
 " Very well, I will take it." And Mr. Clifford stowed 
 it away in his overcoat pocket. 
 
 He soon returned, bringing with him candy and nuts, 
 and a very merry evening was spent roasting nuts over a 
 glowing fire. 
 
 Next morning, when Bertie went into her mamma's 
 room, the first question she asked was, "Do you think 
 my letter has reached Aunt Laura yet ?" 
 
 " No," was her mamma's reply ; " but I think she will 
 receive it about school-time." 
 
 Meanwhile the little letter which Bertie was so anxious 
 about travelled on through the winter morning until it 
 reached an elegant house in the country. As a sweet- 
 faced lady took the letter three eager children crowded 
 around her, but said not a word until she had perused its 
 contents. 
 
 " Mamma, whom is it from?" asked Ella, the oldest of 
 the group. 
 
 "From your cousin Bertie, Ella," replied Mrs. Grant. 
 
 " Are they coming to see us, mamma ?" asked ten-year- 
 old Daisy. 
 
 "No, indeed," her mamma replied, smiling; but, 
 seeing a disappointed look cross the children's faces, she 
 added, " But I think you will see them soon. But now, 
 children, you must get ready for school, and ask no more 
 questions." 
 
 A merry trio they were, closely packed in one sleigh, 
 with Baby Dot throwing kisses from the nursery window. 
 
 "What a dear little pet Dot is!" said Daisy, as the 
 sleigh passed from sight. 
 
 Harry tossed his head scornfully. "You girls," he 
 said, "would rather stay in with Dot than have a real 
 jolly sledding-time. Girls are nuisances, anyhow." And, 
 to give vent to his feelings, Harry threw his cap up in the 
 air, and, instead of it alighting in that worthy school- 
 boy's hand, it fell directly in a snow-drift. 
 
TOM'S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE. 
 
 33 
 
 The children laughed merrily at that, and the ride 
 progressed with a great deal of enjoyment. Harry made 
 a wry face when they reached the school-house, and de- 
 clared he hated study, and yet he was the most studious 
 boy in school. 
 
 That night, after the lights were brought in, Mrs. 
 Grant read Bertie's letter. How delighted the children 
 were when they heard it 1 Harry could not keep still, 
 and they were soon all engaged in a merry game of romps, 
 when Mrs. Grant espied Dot gravely sitting with her 
 head resting on one dimpled hand. Afte'r glancing at 
 the clock ticking away on a bracket and finding it was 
 past Dot's bedtime, Mrs. Grant carried the unresisting 
 little girl up to the nursery, where she was soon fast asleep 
 in her crib. 
 
 Meanwhile preparations were going on at Tom's home, 
 and he had not the least idea of anything of the kind. 
 Boy-like, when not in school he would be out sledding, 
 and many a pleasant walk he and Bertie took through 
 the woods in search of evergreen and scarlet berries to 
 adorn the nursery and play-room. One cold morning, 
 Tom had just seated himself before a blazing fire in the 
 library with a book in his hand when, from the bottom 
 of the staircase, came Bertie's pleasant voice : 
 
 "Tom, Tom, where are you?" 
 
 " Coming, Bertie," he called in return. And, snatching 
 his hat from the rack, he ran down-stairs and stood before 
 her, bowing gallantly. 
 
 " Oh, Tom, take me out sledding, won't you?" And 
 Bertie coaxingly put her arms around his neck. 
 
 "Come, then, little tease," he said, imitating her 
 pleading voice. 
 
 So they went off together, Tom pulling Bertie on his 
 spacious sled. The children enjoyed themselves very 
 much, and were sorry when the time arrived for them to 
 go home. 
 
 " I want to ask you something, Tom, before we go." 
 And Bertie raised her clear eyes to his face. 
 
 "Very well," said Tom, good-naturedly; "ask as 
 many questions as you wish, so you don't ask anything 
 impossible." 
 
34 
 
 TOM'S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE. 
 
 " I won't ; but, Tom, what was it that you were going 
 to buy when you spent the money for AUie's ear-ring?" 
 
 Tom started. Bertie laid her hand over his lips. 
 
 "You promised, Tom," she said. 
 
 "Will you never tell Alice, Bertie?" he asked, seri- 
 ously. 
 
 " No, I never will," she replied. 
 
 Then Tom said, slowly, and the color deepened in his 
 cheek, " I wanted to buy a pony." 
 
 Bertie drew a long breath. " And you gave your pony 
 up without a'word," she said, admiringly. "I think I 
 should have wanted some one to comfort me." And she 
 laughed a low, pleasant laugh. 
 
 "Come," said Tom, playfully, "get on the sled now, 
 and I will take you home." 
 
 Bertie did as she was bidden, and the sled went rapidly 
 over the crisp, frozen snow. Tom deposited his burden 
 at the gate, and they both went into the house. As they 
 entered the drawing-room Alice was placing some article 
 in the secretary. 
 
 " There is another present for Tom," thought Bertie. 
 And she gave him a shy glance, while her face was all 
 dimples. 
 
 Meanwhile the party was progressing finely under Alice's 
 superintendence. The invitations were written. Bertie 
 was to deliver them. 
 
 "Tom, will you go with me while I visit a few of my 
 schoolmates to-day?" Bertie asked, one cold Saturday, 
 three days before Tom's birthday. 
 
 It was a blustering morning in January, and not at all 
 pleasant to make calls, but Tom would always gratify 
 Bertie's whims. 
 
 "Yes, I will go," he replied, pleasantly. 
 
 Bertie managed very adroitly to deliver the invitations 
 that same morning, and the basket-carriage contained a 
 very happy little girl as it turned into the drive at dinner. 
 
 Two days after, Bertie and Tom received tlieir cousins, 
 Ella, Daisy, and Harry Grant, and Baby Dot was not 
 forgotten. 
 
 " Oh, we will have so much fun !" Bertie said, dancing 
 with delight. 
 
TOM'S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE. 
 
 35 
 
 "Hush! here comes Tom," Ella said, raising her 
 finger warningly. 
 
 That afternoon the large sleigh was brought out, and, 
 Tom acting as coachman, they all went for evergreens. 
 It was nothing unusual to have the rooms trimmed with 
 evergreens, so Tom never dreamed that these were for 
 any particular occasion. 
 
 "You need not expect us back soon, mamma," Alice 
 said, laughingly, at starting, "as these children are very 
 unmanageable, and no knowing how they may act. But 
 we will put implicit faith in our coachman." And so 
 saying, the merry party started. 
 
 When they reached the woods, so engrossed were they 
 that the sun sank unnoticed, and it was Tom who first 
 proposed going home. Once in the sleigh they were soon 
 there, and only too ready for a good supper. When their 
 hunger was appeased, the tired children were only too 
 glad to retire. 
 
 The next morning the children were up early, running 
 from room to room in their glee, shouting "A happy 
 birthday !" 
 
 " Oh, Tom, look here !" exclaimed Bertie, holding up 
 a handsomely-bound volume of adventure, marked, "For 
 Tom. From Alice." 
 
 After Tom had sufficiently admired the book, they all 
 descended to breakfast. Running around in the cold had 
 increased their appetites, and the hot rolls disappeared 
 with astonishing rapidity. After breakfast they all went 
 out into the snow which had fallen the previous evening, 
 and enjoyed themselves in various ways. Snow-balling, 
 sledding, and skating were the order of the day. Baby 
 Dot stood sobbing in the bay-window because she could 
 not join the children, until Daisy, taking compassion on 
 the lonely little girl, came in to comfort her, and Dot's 
 face was soon all over smiles, as usual. 
 
 Towards evening, the children, growing tired, all as- 
 sembled in the drawing-room. The curtains were drawn, 
 and the fire was burning brightly. Nurse had dressed the 
 children in their prettiest suits, on pretence of company 
 being expected. Dot looked "so cunning," as Daisy 
 said, in a pretty little blue-and-white suit and blue slip- 
 
36 TOM'S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE. 
 
 pers, which contrasted prettily with her golden hair and 
 blue eyes. 
 
 "Oh, mamma, please tell us a story," begged Daisy. 
 And Mrs. Grant complied, telling of two little children 
 who were lost in the snow. The children were rather 
 subdued when she had finished, and Alice, rising, played 
 a pretty piece on the organ. 
 
 Just as she rose from the stool, the clock struck seven. 
 "Tom, come in here," she said, throwing wide the 
 parlor doors. 
 
 The children pressed forward. Bertie looked anxiously 
 at Tom. Did he like it ? Just then the door-bell rang, 
 and fifty children were ushered in. The surprise was 
 complete. For a short time the children were embar- 
 rassed, but soon the merriment began. The room was 
 trimmed with evergreens, and the girls and boys, standing 
 under the mistletoe, sang that beautiful piece, " Under 
 the Mistletoe Bough." Laughter and music were heard 
 at intervals. Each boy and girl wished Tom many happy 
 returns of the day, and none were more happy than the 
 children that night. Alice went to the organ and played 
 a merry strain, while the girls and boys joined hands and 
 danced around Tom. Various games were proposed, and 
 at last " Hide and Go Seek" was chosen. Bertie was the 
 one chosen to hide her eyes. 
 
 "Can we go anywhere at all, Bertie?" asked Nettie Reed. 
 
 "Yes, anywhere," responded Bertie. 
 
 "Tom," said Alice, in a low voice, "come with me; 
 I have something to show you." And she led him down 
 the gravel sweep to the stables, where a beautiful pony 
 stood impatiently pawing the ground. It certainly was a 
 magnificent one, — coal-black, with long, flowing mane. 
 
 "This is papa's present, Tom," Alice said, smoothing 
 the glossy coat. " Get on and take a ride." 
 
 Tom sprang fearlessly upon the pony and rode up to 
 the piazza, where a low whistle brought all the girls and 
 boys out upon the porch, Mr. Clifford among them, and 
 watching Tom proudly as he cantered all over the grounds 
 and came back flushed with the exercise. 
 
 Tom, alighting from the pony, urged Bertie to take a 
 ride ; but she was timid and demurred. 
 
TOM'S BIRTHDAY SURPRISE. 
 
 37 
 
 After the boys and girls had admired Tom's pet to his 
 satisfaction, they all returned to the parlor, where Mr. 
 Clifford's merry, handsome face was soon thrust in at the 
 door. 
 
 "Get on your wraps, children," he said, gayly, ''and 
 we will take a glorious sleigh-ride." 
 
 Twenty minutes after, six sleighs started from the Clif- 
 ford mansion, containing the happiest children in the 
 city. It was nine o'clock when the sleigh ride began, 
 and half-past ten ere the children dispersed to their 
 homes. 
 
 For several days after, the girls and boys who were at 
 the Cliffords' that night could think of nothing but the 
 fun they had, and the merry ending to Tom's birthday 
 surprise. 
 
 February, 1880. 
 
THE LOST RING. 
 
 It was one of those rare days in May. The SKy was a 
 cloudless blue, and there was a delightful breeze stirring 
 the leaves. The air was filled with the odor of flowers. 
 Altogether it was a day to sit on the soft green turf and 
 gaze up through the net-work of branches at the summer 
 sky. At least so Belle Irving seemed to think, as she sat 
 beneath a large tree, with a look on her face as if she was 
 enjoying keenly this beautiful day. 
 
 Belle was the only child of Squire Irving, the richest 
 man in the village of Irving, and thus rather inclined to 
 be spoiled ; but, in spite of over-indulgence, Belle had a 
 warm little heart which could easily be controlled. But 
 on this particular day Belle was thinking. Through the 
 trees, as she lay, she could see the top of the school-house, 
 and in imagination the scholars, with their heads bowed 
 low over their books. 
 
 Naughty Belle, That very morning she had thrown 
 her arms around her papa's neck and coaxed him to allow 
 her to spend the day at home, and Squire Irving had 
 consented ; and now here she was, enjoying this stolen 
 holiday. And this was what Belle was thinking about. 
 Thinking what a kind papa she had, and how generously 
 he consented to all her wild projects. But she was also 
 thinking of a not far distant day when she would be 
 twelve years old, and in her busy little brain was re- 
 volving how to spend it. Suddenly she sprang from 
 her soft green bed, and, clapping her hands delightedly, 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 " I have it! A birthday party! I will coax papa to 
 let me have a birthday party." 
 
 To think was to act with Belle, so away she sped across 
 the lawn toward the conservatory, where she supposed her 
 papa was ; but it was empty. Then she started toward 
 38 
 
THE LOST RING. 39 
 
 the house, when some one caught her in his arms, and 
 her papa's voice said, — 
 
 "Where now, my fairy?" 
 
 "Oh, papa, it was your precious self I was hunting," 
 laughed Belle, struggling to be released. 
 
 " So it was I you wanted, little Belle," said Mr. Irving. 
 "Well, come into my study, where it is nice and cool, 
 and you shall have me all the afternoon, if you wish." 
 
 When they reached the study, Mr. Irving seated him- 
 self in an easy-chair, while Belle drew an ottoman to his 
 feet. 
 
 "Now, little girl, begin," he said, amused by the 
 earnest expression of her face. 
 
 "Yes, I will; only first, papa, I want you to promise 
 to say yes." 
 
 "No, no. Belle; I cannot do that," Mr. Irving de- 
 cidedly said ; but seeing a disappointed look on Belle's 
 face, he continued, "But tell me what it is you wish. 
 Belle, so that I can judge." 
 
 "Well, then, papa," said Belle, dropping her face in 
 both hands and resting them on his knee, "I want a 
 birthday party. The loth of July is my birthday, and I 
 want to have a party. May I, papa?" 
 
 But there was no need to ask, for Belle read that in her 
 papa's face which she knew meant no refusal. 
 
 "I suppose 1 will have to acquiesce this time," Mr. 
 Irving said, playfully, sealing his promise with a kiss. 
 
 "Oh, tlianks, you dear, kind papa!" Belle said, clasp- 
 ing her hands in delight. 
 
 "I wonder if I would have been a 'dear, kind papa' 
 had I refused?" Mr. Irving said, with a quizzical look at 
 Belle. 
 
 She laughed, and said, archly, "I don't know, papa; 
 but now I am going down to tell Lillie the good news." 
 And away she tripped, with a broad hat shading her fair 
 curls. 
 
 Lillie was Belle's cousin, and they were the best of 
 friends. Belle having no sisters or brothers, and Lillie 
 the same, they made up the difference by being very fond 
 of each other. I^Uie lived in a charming cottage not far 
 from Belle's home, and thus they were together very 
 
40 
 
 THE LOST RING. 
 
 frequently. But today Belle did not wend her way 
 toward the cottage, but the school-house, Lillie being at 
 school. As Belle reached the school-house, the children 
 were separating to their various homes. Lillie was among 
 the number, chatting gayly, but she soon espied Belle 
 and ran forward to meet her. 
 
 "Oh, Belle!" she exclaimed, when she reached her 
 cousin, " you may be glad you stayed at home to-day." 
 
 "Why?" asked Belle, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Walton was dreadful cross, and we had an 
 unpleasant afternoon altogether." 
 
 "I wish you had stayed at home, Lillie," said Belle, 
 dubiously. 
 
 Lillie laughed. Then suddenly, as if recollecting 
 something, she said, "Oh, Belle, a new scholar arrived 
 to-day, and her name is May Leslie. She is not near as 
 pretty as her name, — real plain, with great brown eyes." 
 
 Lillie was talking so rapidly, and Belle listening so 
 intently, that they reached Lillie's home before either 
 was aware of it. Lillie's mamma was sitting on the 
 porch, and Belle ran eagerly to her side. Mrs. Irving 
 embraced her fondly, for she loved the motherless child ; 
 for Belle had no mother. 
 
 "You have come to stay for tea, have you not?" she 
 asked, as Lillie ran to put away her books. 
 
 "No, indeed, Aunt Bessie," Belle said ; "but I want 
 to take Lillie home with me. Papa will be so pleased to 
 see her." 
 
 " Very well, dear," Mrs. Irving said, kindly; and as 
 just then Lillie returned, the children went off together. 
 
 "It is so splendid here," said Lillie, as they reached 
 Belle's home. 
 
 "Yes, papa likes everything nice," answered Belle, 
 simply. 
 
 Both children went directly to nurse, to have their 
 hair smoothed, and then started to the swing ; but they 
 had scarcely reached it when the tea-bell rang, calling 
 them in. After tea, Mr. Irving, Lillie, and Belle all 
 played croquet until eight o'clock, when nurse called her 
 little charges to bed. 
 
 One week after, Lillie, Belle, and May Leslie (for May 
 
THE LOST RING. 41 
 
 had become quite a favorite with Belle) were walking in 
 the school-yard talking together, the subject under dis- 
 cussion being Belle's birthday party. 
 
 "I suppose I will get a birthday gift," Belle said. 
 "Lillie, what do you think would be nice?" 
 
 Lillie said a chain had been something she long had 
 coveted. 
 
 Belle shook her head. " I have one chain," she said ; 
 then, turning to May, she asked, "What do you think 
 would be nice, May?" 
 
 May's face lighted up as she answered, shyly, "A ring 
 is what I would choose." 
 
 "Yes," said Belle, thoughtfully, "I think I shall ask 
 papa for a pretty amethyst ring." 
 
 That evening, when Belle went out riding with her 
 papa, she told him how she would like a ring for a birth- 
 day gift ; but as Mr. Irving said nothing, she was left in 
 doubt whether she would receive it or not. 
 
 The thought of Belle's party created great excitement 
 among many children, and longing for the much-wished- 
 for day, which at last arrived. 
 
 The loth of July dawned clear and beautiful, crowning 
 Belle twelve years old, and making her a very happy little 
 girl indeed, for on that morning she received a lovely 
 ring, a birthday present from her papa. 
 
 As she was tripping down-stairs, her father caught her 
 in his arms, and said, — 
 
 "Many happy returns of the day, little fairy. How 
 do you like your ring?" 
 
 " Oh, papa, it is lovely I" And Belle gazed admiringly 
 at the jewel. 
 
 " Belle, you must enjoy this birthday as much as you 
 can, little girl; so suppose we take a ride." And Mr. 
 Irving looked inquiringly at Belle. 
 
 " Oh, yes, papa, please do ; and we will stop for Lillie, 
 take a lunch, and slay in the glen until dinner." 
 
 " Run away, then, Belle, and tell nurse to dress my pet 
 in her pink lawn." And Mr. Irving smoothed Belle's hair 
 fondly. 
 
 Belle was the owner of a milk-white pony, named 
 " Daisy," and she long had been wishing for a phaeton ; 
 
 4* 
 
42 THE LOST RING. 
 
 so what was her surprise, when nurse had arrayed her in 
 her favorite dress and she ran away to meet her papa, to 
 find him standing by her pet, Daisy, harnessed to a dainty 
 pony-carriage. 
 
 "Oh, papa," she exclaimed, her voice trembling with 
 delight, " how kind you were to buy me this lovely 
 phaeton !" 
 
 Mr. Irving smiled at Belle's enthusiasm, and merely 
 said, "I am glad you like it. Belle; jump in, and we will 
 go now for Lillie." 
 
 When they reached the cottage, Lillie was sitting on 
 the porch, in her little rocking-chair, reading. Mr. Ir- 
 ving left the children together, while he went into the cot- 
 tage for a few minutes. Lillie was delighted with Belle's 
 phaeton, and thought her ring also was very beautiful. 
 Belle told Lillie why they had come for her, and Lillie 
 exclaimed, eagerly, — 
 
 "Oh, Belle, it will be grand to spend the morning in 
 the glen." 
 
 The glen was a beautiful spot in the woods, carpeted 
 with the greenest of moss and waving grass. There 
 ferns grew in luxuriance, brooks babbled, and tiny cas- 
 cades leaped over rocks. It was a lovely spot for rusticat- 
 ing on a hot summer morning, and the little pony trotted 
 along as if he knew they would leave the dusty roads soon 
 and enter the woods. When the glen was reached, Mr. 
 Irving seated himself on a large rock, lazily reclining 
 there and availing himself of the opportunity to read a 
 magazine, leaving Belle and Lillie to tlieir own resources. 
 But they did not -need him, for, once in the glen, there 
 was everything to amuse them. Niches where the moss 
 grew in plenty, and cool places by the water, where the 
 ferns waved in the wind. Belle and Lillie wandered 
 around enjoying everything, and just as they were about 
 to start after some wild-flowers, Mr. Irving called them to 
 prepare luncli. 
 
 The basket was brought from the pony-carriage, and a 
 large rock selected for the table. This was a novel way 
 of preparing lunch to Belle and Lillie, but none the less 
 enjoyed. When it was finished. Belle proudly surveyed 
 the artistic little table, with its neat, white cloth and deli- 
 
THE LOST RING. 
 
 43 
 
 cate eatables, with a bouquet of flowers and ferns arranged 
 in the centre of the table as a crowning effect. Lillie 
 now ran to call her uncle. As they came in siglit of the 
 table, with Belle sitting near by, Mr. Irving exclaimed 
 that it was a pretty sight. And, indeed, they all formed 
 a picturesque little group, when once seated around the 
 rock, — the sun through the tall trees glinting Belle's 
 golden hair, the water rippling over the rocks with a mu- 
 sical murmur, and the leaves stirring softly in the wind. 
 
 "Papa, is not this a nice day for a picnic?" asked 
 Belle, glancing at him with a pair of merry brown eyes. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," Mr. Irving replied ; " but be careful. 
 Belle ; you are trying to spill lemonade on Lillie's white 
 dress." 
 
 After lunch, the children wandered farther up into the 
 glen, wliile Mr. Irving resumed his magazine. After a 
 while Belle and Lillie, laden with ferns, returned and 
 seated themselves beside Mr. Irving, while he read them 
 a short story. When it was ended, Mr. Irving said, look- 
 ing at his watch, — 
 
 " Come, children, get your hats and ferns, while I har- 
 ness Daisy, and we will start for home, as it is almost two 
 o'clock." 
 
 " Oh, papa, stay a little longer!" pleaded Belle. 
 
 But Mr. Irving said, decidedly, "No, Belle, you are 
 already tired; and when you reach home you and Lillie 
 will need to rest. You forget," he said, half reprov- 
 ingly, " that you are expecting your little friends at four 
 o'clock." 
 
 Belle said no more, and they soon left the glen, reach- 
 ing Mr. Irving's residence in a short time. The children 
 lay down to rest, and it was almost four o'clock when 
 they awoke. 
 
 " So late?" exclaimed Belle, springing from her couch. 
 " Oh, Lillie, the guests will be here at four, and we not 
 dressed yet !" 
 
 "There, now. Miss Belle," said nurs&, soothingly, 
 " there is no need for alarm, as I can have you both dressed 
 ere your little guests arrive." And nurse's words, true to 
 her promise, proved right, as Belle and Lillie, arrayed for 
 the party, were on the porch ere the clock struck four. 
 
44 
 
 THE LOST RING. 
 
 A few minutes after, little girls in white dresses could 
 be seen fluttering between the tall trees on Mr. Irving's 
 smooth lawn. Every convenience had been fitted up 
 for the children's amusement. Croquet, swings, archery, 
 everything that could contribute to the general enjoyment 
 was there. At present the girls were engaged in an excit- 
 ing game of croquet, while the boys were trying their 
 skill at the bow and arrow. Shy May Leslie and Lillie 
 Irving retired to the seclusion of a boat-swing, where they 
 watched the others at their leisure. The game was won 
 by Belle, who was very expert at croquet. 
 
 At six o'clock the children partook of a light supper. 
 After tea the children selected the game of Hide-and-Seek, 
 and Belle and Lillie, knowing of a roomy old closet in 
 the attic where they could hide, sped away. The closet 
 was filled with chests containing old-fashioned dresses. 
 The chests were full of cracks, and, as Belle was leaning 
 heavily against one of these and resting her hand on the 
 edge, the ring, her papa's birthday gift, yielding under 
 the pressure, slipped gradually from her hand into the 
 chest and found a resting-place in the pocket of an old 
 striped silk. 
 
 " Lillie, let us go down now," Belle said ; and, all un- 
 conscious of her loss. Belle followed Lillie down the oaken 
 staircase and out to the lawn. At nine o'clock a long 
 table was set out upon the lawn, and the children enjoyed 
 a supper of strawberries, cake, and ice cream, Lillie's 
 mother presiding, — having come up to Belle's party for 
 that express purpose. An hour later, the merry children 
 separated to their various homes. 
 
 That night, as Belle and Lillie were disrobing for bed, 
 the former lifted her ring-box from its customary place to 
 put her ring away, when she suddenly exclaimed, with a 
 very white face, — 
 
 "Oh, Lillie, Lillie ! my ring is lost! See!" holding 
 up the little white hand on which the ring had last been 
 seen. 
 
 "Lost!" exclaimed Lillie, starting from the posture in 
 which she had been sitting. "Lost! Oh, Belle!" in- 
 credulously. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Belle, earnestly, bursting into tears. 
 
THE LOST RING. 
 
 45 
 
 "Don't cry, Belle," said Lillie, sympathetically. 
 
 "But what shall I do?" asked Belle, piteously. 
 
 " What is the matter here?" asked nurse, appearing on 
 the scene. 
 
 "Oh, nurse, my ring is lost," said Belle, helplessly, 
 looking up through her tears. 
 
 "Well, don't cry about it," said nurse, kindly, "but 
 tell me when you missed it." 
 
 "Just now," sobbed Belle. 
 
 " Probably it is in here, then," said nurse ; but a thor- 
 ough search of the room revealed no ring. 
 
 Belle sobbed afresh, and nurse said, decidedly, " Chil- 
 dren, you must both go to bed. Mr. Irving would be 
 very much displeased if he knew you were up yet." 
 
 Belle and Lillie obeyed, and nurse said, as she left the 
 room, "I will tell your papa about it. Miss Belle, and he 
 will have the grounds searched, and your pretty ring will 
 be found." 
 
 These words comforted Belle somewhat, and it was not 
 long ere the tired little girls were fast asleep. Nurse 
 meanwhile had informed Mr. Irving of Belle's loss, and 
 the grounds were thoroughly searched, but still the ring 
 was not found. 
 
 When Belle awoke next morning, she dressed hurriedly 
 and ran down-stairs. Mr. Irving was sitting on the porch. 
 
 "Come here, Belle," he said, gravely, "and tell me 
 how you were so careless as to lose your ring." 
 
 Belle was almost crying, but she said, bravely, " Indeed, 
 papa, I did not miss it until night, and I cannot imagine 
 how I could have lost it." 
 
 "Well," Mr. Irving said, slowly, "I will have the 
 grounds searched once more, and then, if it cannot be 
 found, it is certainly lost; but there, do not cry. Belle, 
 my child ; perhaps it will be found." 
 
 But the second search proved as fruitless as the first. 
 Later in the day, Belle and Lillie were out under the 
 trees, talking about the ring. 
 
 " Well, it is strange," Lillie said, thoughtfully; " if it 
 was lost, it would certainly be found. Belle," and Lillie 
 leaned nearer her cousin, "do you think any one could 
 have taken it ?" 
 
46 THE LOST RING. 
 
 Belle started guiltily. "Oh, Lillie," she said, "I 
 know it is wrong, but I was just thinking that May- 
 Leslie might have taken it off my finger when we were 
 playing that last game, just before the children went 
 liome." And Belle looked up with a troubled face. 
 
 "Yes, Belle," said Lillie, impressively; "and do you 
 remember that day at school, when we were talking of 
 your birthday gift, how May said she would like to have 
 a ring? And you know. Belle," continued Lillie, " May 
 is so poor that she might have been tempted." 
 
 "Yes," said Belle, sadly, "and I liked May so much; 
 but I am sure no one could have taken it but her." 
 
 Weeks passed on, and as the ring still remained lost, 
 the suspicions of Belle and Lillie were strengthened, 
 and May Leslie received nothing but cold looks, which 
 wounded her sensitive heart, for she had thought a great 
 deal of Belle, and rumor had circulated the news that she 
 was suspected of taking the lost ring. 
 
 Vacation was almost over. One rainy Thursday, Belle 
 stood at the nursery window, with a frown on her usually 
 merry face. The reason was this : That day Belle was 
 expecting her aunt Grace and four cousins to visit her, 
 and she was now frowning because the weather proved 
 unfavorable to their playing out of doors, as the rain was 
 coming down in a steady pour. Lillie was also coming 
 up to spend the day, and Belle stood there pouting until 
 she suddenly espied Lillie plodding along in the rain. 
 Belle laughed heartily at the forlorn figure, and ran down- 
 stairs to meet her, and when she reached the porch, all 
 her frowns were chased away, and Belle was her merry 
 self. 
 
 "Oh, Belle," Lillie said, dubiously, when once within 
 shelter, " I did not think it was going to rain, or I should 
 have come in the carriage." 
 
 While the children were talking, the sound of carriage- 
 wheels was heard coming up' the drive, and Belle ran 
 along the hall just in time to welcome her city cousins. 
 When they were all comfortably installed in the play-room, 
 the question arose, what should they do? 
 
 Belle looked at the pouring rain, and then suddenly 
 
THE LOST RING. 
 
 47 
 
 exclaimed, "I have it!" and darted away in the direc- 
 tion of her papa's study. 
 
 In a minute she returned, sayings " Oh, girls, papa says 
 we may have a grand romp in the attic." 
 
 The children hailed this news rapturously, for a big, 
 roomy attic, holds many attractions for children on a rainy 
 day. When they reached the attic they were soon all 
 busily engaged. 
 
 " Oh, Lillie," Belle said, " let us dress up in some of 
 these queer-looking silks in this closet." And Belle dived 
 into an old chest and brought out that self-same silk in 
 the pocket of which the lost ring lay. 
 
 After arraying herself in this odd costume. Belle, with 
 a childish curiosity, slipped her hand in the pocket and 
 drew forth the long-missing ring, as unharmed as if it had 
 been resting all the time in her own little ring-box instead 
 of the pocket of one of her grandmother's silks. 
 
 For one moment Belle stood transfixed with surprise, 
 while her cousins, who had long since heard the story 
 of the missing ring, crowded joyfully around. Then, re- 
 gardless of her dress, she darted across the attic, down 
 the stairs, never stopping until she reached her papa's 
 study. 
 
 "Why, Belle, is that you?" Mr. Irving asked, gazing 
 at the grotesque figure in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes, papa, it is I," Belle answered; "and I have 
 found my ring." And Belle quickly explained where she 
 had found it. 
 
 " Have you? I am very glad," Mr. Irving said, draw- 
 ing Belle to his side ; " glad that the ring is found, and 
 also tliat May Leslie did not take it. You must go this 
 afternoon. Belle, and ask her to forgive you for being so 
 unjust ; and, to partly atone, invite her to spend a week 
 with you and your cousins. Now run away. Belle, and 
 dress for dinner." 
 
 Belle, with a very light heart, obeyed. That afternoon, 
 as May Leslie was sitting at the window of her home, 
 looking wistfully at the wet grass, a phaeton drove up to 
 the door, and Belle Irving alighted, and, entering the 
 room, flung her arms around May's neck, exclainling, — 
 
 " Oh, May, I have found my ring, and am so sorry I 
 
48 
 
 THE LOST RING. 
 
 accused you of taking it !" And, after this outburst, the 
 impetuous little girl narrated when and where she had 
 found the missing jewel. 
 
 May was overjoyed that the ring was found, and eagerly 
 accepted the invitation to spend a week at Belle's elegant 
 home. 
 
 May was soon ready, and, when once seated in the 
 phaeton, quick-footed Daisy soon had them at Mr. Irving's 
 door. Belle's cousins were on the porch awaiting her 
 arrival, and the warm greeting extended to May soon 
 placed the embarrassed little girl entirely at her ease ; and 
 in a short time they were all engaged in merry play. 
 
 At the end of her visit, when May was returning home, 
 she was made the happy possessor of a pretty ring, given 
 her by Mr. Irving, to atone for their unjust suspicions. 
 From that day the children were the best of friends, for 
 Belle felt as if she could never atone for accusing May 
 Leslie of taking "the lost ring." 
 
 February, 1880. 
 
MINNIE'S CROSS DAY. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! I can never get this verb conjugated, 
 never, and I don't intend to try." With these words 
 Minnie Raymond flung her grammar with unnecessary 
 force upon the window-ledge, at the same time indulging 
 in an angry burst of tears. 
 
 Minnie had arisen that morning with a headache, and 
 tliough naturally good-tempered, as her merry brother 
 Bertram said, " Minnie with a headache was no pleasant 
 thing to contend witli." 
 
 On this particular day everything seemed combined to 
 make Minnie cross. In the first place, she slept in a cosey 
 little room next to the nursery, where on cold winter 
 nights a fire was kept burning, thus keeping her room 
 delightfully warm. 
 
 This season, though it was only the early part of No- 
 vember, winter had already begun, — one of those old- 
 fashioned winters, beginning early in the fall and extend- 
 ing late into the next spring. It had been an unusually 
 cold night, the sky hanging leaden overhead, and threaten- 
 ing a fall of snow. 
 
 When Minnie awoke, the nursery fire was out, and the 
 warm blankets looked so inviting that, although she knew 
 it was time to arise (the nursery clock had just struck 
 seven), she was tempted to take another short nap. 
 
 So Minnie crept down among the snug blankets ; but as 
 it happened, she slept longer than she intended, not 
 waking until nurse had given her repeated shakings, at the 
 same time saying that she would be late for school. After 
 that had been continued tor several minutes, Minnie aj)- 
 ])arently still fast asleep, nurse growing tired left the room. 
 The door had scarcely closed on her when perverse Min- 
 nie sprang from her resting-place, exclaiming, " Tiresome 
 old thing ! I was not going to give her the satisfaction of 
 c d 5 49 
 
50 
 
 MINNIE'S CROSS DAY. 
 
 knowing that she had to awaken me, for I would never 
 have heard the last of it." With these words Minnie 
 began to brush her hair vigorously, when it suddenly- 
 occurred to her that her grammar lesson was not prepared. 
 She had been to a children's party Saturday evening, 
 and had spent all the afternoon getting ready, tliinking 
 that she could study her lessons Monday morning. As 
 this thought flashed across her mind it noways lightened 
 the frown on her brow ; and with brush in one hand and 
 comb in the other she prepared to study, but with the 
 result foreseen. 
 
 The tears had their way for a few minutes, and then 
 she arose and resolutely began to comb out her thick, 
 luxuriant hair, Minnie's great pride. "I will have my 
 hair curled," she said, giving the brush a twinge, "if 
 I miss every word of my grammar. Besides," in a louder 
 tone, as nurse passed through the room with Minnie's 
 baby sister in her arms, " I don't think I'm quite a young 
 lady yet, that nurse should dress the twins every morn- 
 ing and never so much as lend a helping hand to me. 
 I am sure there is not so much difference between seven 
 and thirteen." 
 
 "You forget, Miss Minnie," nurse answered, quietly, 
 "that it was at Mrs. Raymond's request that you should 
 dress yourself, as you are getting quite large enough to 
 learn the lesson of self-reliance." 
 
 Minnie made no reply, but, as her hair was brushed, 
 left the room with a very injured look, not even deigning 
 to kiss baby, who held out iier little hands winningly. 
 
 Minnie entered the breaktast-room with the same 
 clouded face. Mrs. Raymond was sitting at the window 
 when she came slowly in. The twins. Rose and Violet, 
 were sitting on footstools at her feet, while Bertram was 
 standing by her side, one of Mrs. Raymond's arms 
 thrown lightly around him. 
 
 "You are late this morning, Minnie," Mrs. Raymond 
 said, as she entered the room ; and Minnie thought she 
 detected a shade of reproof in her mother's tone, and 
 her jealous little heart rebelled at the thought of her 
 mother reproving her while caressing Bertram, who was 
 two years her senior. 
 
MINNIE'S CROSS DAY. 
 
 5' 
 
 However, she comforted herself with the thought that 
 if mamma cared more for Bertram and the twins, her 
 papa cared more for her, for did he not always call her 
 his "comfort" and his "sunbeam" ? 
 
 Thus Minnie indulged her naughty thoughts and 
 brooded over lier wrongs; and when mamma's next 
 words were spoken so gently and kindly, inquiring if she 
 had one of "those troublesome headaches again," and 
 asking if she would like to stay at home to-day, Minnie 
 answered sulkily that it made no difference, 
 
 "Very well, then, my child; if it makes no difference 
 it would be better for you to go to school, as I do not 
 want you to miss your lessons. Here come nurse and 
 baby, and now we will have breakfast, as it is very near 
 school-time." 
 
 After breakfast, as Minnie was putting on her wrap- 
 pings, Mrs. Raymond entered the room, and said, " Min- 
 nie, you and Bertram will have to walk to school to-day. 
 Your papa is using the carriage, and, unless" — here 
 she hesitated, and then continued, — "unless your head 
 aches too bad for you to walk this stormy day. If it 
 does, Minnie, you can ride with the twins, for they are 
 going down in Mr. Archer's flour-wagon, as lie goes to 
 the mill. Rob will be along," she said, with a slight 
 smile. 
 
 Rob Archer and Minnie Raymond were rivals. Rob 
 was slow but sure, and generally Minnie would be so 
 confident that she would be perfect in her lessons, and 
 would go to her class with such a self-satisfied air, that 
 mischievous Rob would make her laugh. This would 
 cause her to be severely reprimanded, and sometimes 
 would secure Rob as head of the class. 
 
 When Minnie was in good spirits she and Rob were 
 the best of friends ; but, as Mrs. Raymond well knew, 
 when she was in a bad temper, Mr. Archer's wagon, 
 with Rob in it, was not the best place for Minnie. So 
 Mrs. Raymond felt quite relieved when she answered that 
 she would prefer walking to riding with that horrid Rob 
 Archer; "and besides," she added, with her head turned 
 resolutely from her mother, "the twins are very trouble- 
 some, and it will be pleasanter to walk." 
 
52 
 
 MINNIE'S CROSS DAY. 
 
 "I am sorry Rose and Vi are troublesome, and I will 
 tell Bertram that he must not allow them to annoy you 
 when you are feeling so badly, my child. Now I will 
 bring your luncheon." And Mrs. Raymond left the room, 
 only to return with a basket well packed. 
 
 This she gave to Bertie, and then kissing the children, 
 she opened the door, adding as a parting injunction, 
 " Be careful of Minnie, Bertram, as she has one of those 
 dreadful headaches." 
 
 With these words ringing in her ears and her mamma's 
 kiss still warm upon her lips, Minnie felt ashamed of her 
 conduct, and was half inclined to turn back, but pride 
 conquered, and, feeling very miserable, she walked on 
 beside her brother. 
 
 The twins were already in Mr. Archer's wagon, within 
 calling distance, and now and then Rob's merry voice 
 could be heard saying some teasing thing to Minnie. 
 
 Now it was, " I say, Minnie, you may be head to-day ; 
 I don't mind." And then, as Minnie kept persistent 
 silence, his boyish laugh rang out, accompanied by the 
 words, "Her majesty is offended ; but our pleasant dis- 
 course must end here, as we are going to turn. Sorry 
 you were not in the mood to ride. Adieu." And Rob's 
 brown hand was waved mockingly to Minnie. 
 
 " I think Rob Archer is a hateful boy !" she exclaimed, 
 wrathfully, when the provoking boy was out of sight. 
 
 "Take care, Minnie, what you are saying," Bertram 
 retorted. " Rob's only fault is love of fun, and you have 
 more than that." 
 
 Minnie made no reply, but a suspicious moisture dimmed 
 her eyes, and she felt more aggrieved toward Rob than 
 ever. Her pride rose up at arms, and she opened her 
 grammar, studying all the way to school. 
 
 By the time they were there she knew it tolerably well. 
 "If Miss Eustace would only call the third grade first." 
 But circumstances were against her. The first thing after 
 prayers Minnie's grade was called. 
 
 A look of dismay crossed her face, and involuntarily 
 she gazed toward Rob, and, as if he had defined her 
 thoughts, he was also looking at her with an amused smile. 
 
 Minnie colored angrily and walked to her class witii 
 
MINNIE'S CROSS DAY. 53 
 
 Studied indifference, hoping above hope that she would 
 be perfect. It was not to be, for her lesson proved a 
 failure. 
 
 When Miss Eustace reproved her for bad lessons, Min- 
 nie tried to look an indifference that she did not feel, and 
 walked to her seat haughtily. This was to Rob vastly 
 amusing. His idea of Minnie when she was in a good 
 humor was, that "she was a jolly good girl, — almost as 
 good as a boy to play with." This was the highest com- 
 pliment he could pay her, as he held girls in rather a low 
 estimation. 
 
 About noon tlie weather cleared up nicely, and Rob 
 whispered to Minnie as they were passing in from recess, 
 " If your temper clears up like the weather, we will have 
 some jolly skating on the ice to-night." Minnie deigned 
 him no reply. 
 
 When the children were all seated, Miss Eustace tapped 
 the bell for order, and when silence reigned in the school- 
 room she addressed a few words to them, saying simply 
 that she did not wish them to try the ice to-night, as 
 she did not consider it safe. Then, feeling sure that she 
 would be obeyed (for so great was the affection for the 
 teacher that no scholar had ever acted in open defiance 
 to her will), lessons were resumed. 
 
 The scliool was dismissed at four o'clock, but Minnie, 
 who was kept in for lessons, was not released till half-past. 
 As she was coming out, and thinking of the dreary, lonely 
 walk before her (for Bertram and the twins had gone), 
 who sliould she see standing on the steps but Rob. Coining 
 up to her, he took her books with such a matter-of-fact 
 air that Minnie was provoked. 
 
 When Rob said he had been waiting for her, thinking 
 she would be lonely, her stiffness relaxed somewhat. When 
 they were nearing the pond, which was a short distance 
 from Minnie's home, Rob said it would be a pretty daring 
 boy that would try the ice to-night in opposition to Miss 
 Eustace's wishes. 
 
 Minnie's lips curled. " Well, I would," she said, scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 " You would?" said Rob, laughing. "Why, I would 
 not, and you are only di girl." 
 
 5* 
 
54 
 
 MINNIE'S CROSS DAY. 
 
 The emphasis which he laid on the last word angered 
 Minnie. " Well, I would, Rob Archer, if I am a girl, if 
 I only had skates." 
 
 "Mine always fitted you," Rob said, coolly. "You 
 know last winter we used often to exchange. Here they 
 are. Now, I dare you." And Rob handed her a skate, 
 just to see what she would do. 
 
 Minnie, hardly thinking what she was doing, strapped 
 the skates on her little feet and struggled on to the ice. 
 Rob watched her with increasing interest, when suddenly 
 he heard a slight scream. The ice had given way, but for- 
 tunately in a shallow place. 
 
 Rob soon had her, more frightened than hurt, on firm 
 ground ; and without saying a word, except when Minnie 
 said, " What will mamma say?" Rob replied, "It was 
 all my fault." 
 
 When they reached Minnie's gate, Rob said, persist- 
 ently, "You are not angry now, are you, Minnie?" She 
 answered "No, indeed." And this was how they were 
 reconciled. 
 
 Just before Rob started for home he whispered in Min- 
 nie's ear, "You have done one good thing to-day : you 
 have raised girls in my estimation." 
 
 That night when Minnie nestled up to her mother, of 
 whose love she was now fully assured, she whispered, 
 timidly, " Mamma, I will always remember what happened 
 the last time when I am tempted to spoil another day by 
 being ' cross.' " 
 
 September i, 1880. 
 
DOT'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 " Thanksgiving at grandma's ! Oh, nie, ain't I glad ?" 
 And Dot Raymond jumped up and down on the old wood- 
 pile, with a look on her girlish face that showed she was 
 really and truly glad. 
 
 "Thanksgiving at grandma's, and a whole week yet ! 
 Oh, dear, how can I ever wait?" 
 
 " I guess you can wait well enough, Dot, with this to 
 spend." And two strong arms were around Dot's waist, 
 and two warm lips pressed to her little red cheeks. 
 
 "Ten dollars! Oh, papa! thank you. I'm ever so 
 glad ; but," with a puzzled look, " how can I ever spend 
 so much money ?" 
 
 "Never fear, girlie; you'll soon find plenty of ways 
 when Brownie trots you into the city to-morrow for a 
 whole day of shopping and pleasure. Don't you think 
 so?" 
 
 "To-morrow, papa? Are we going to-morrow?" 
 
 "Yes, to-morrow," said Mr. Raymond, smiling ; "but 
 there, run into the house now. I hear mamma calling." 
 
 "Here I come, mamma; thank you ever so much for 
 the money, papa." And Dot pranced gayly toward the 
 snug farm-house in a way that showed, although she was 
 in her teens, she had not forgotten how to leap and run. 
 
 " Mamma, mamma, just guess what papa gave me to 
 spend to-morrow, — ^just as I please, too !" cried Dot, as 
 she sprang breathlessly into the large, airy kitchen, where 
 an odor of good things showed what mamma's nimble 
 fingers were preparing. 
 
 "Why, Dot, I don't suppose I ever could guess; it 
 must be something wonderful from the way you act. Sup- 
 pose you tell me, daughter." 
 
 "Now, mamma, you are teasing me, I see; but I will 
 tell you. Papa has given me ten dollars to spend just as 
 
 55 
 
56 
 
 DOTS THANKSGIVING. 
 
 I please. Now, isn't that nice, mamma?" with a triumph- 
 ant smile. 
 
 " Well, I declare, Dot," laughed Mrs. Raymond, " how 
 are you ever going to spend ten whole dollars?" 
 
 " Now, mamma, don't tease, but tell me what you called 
 me for ; please do." 
 
 " Well, darling, I will be ever so much pleased if you 
 will set the tea-table. Maggie has a bad headache, so I 
 told her she might go and lie down. Be sure and make 
 the coffee just as papa likes it. Dot; and light the gas, 
 daughter; it is getting very dark." 
 
 Dot very demurely obeyed. First she lit the gas, 
 thereby making the cosey, cheery room look still cheerier. 
 Then she laid the snowy cloth, and placed the dishes on it 
 in a way that made you want to eat off of them for the sake 
 of the dear little fingers that placed them there. At last 
 Dot, with her head tossed to one side, like a little bird, 
 viewed the table to see that nothing was missing. 
 
 They were all there: the two golden rows of butter, 
 the snowy bread, the golden cheese, the odd little jar of 
 pickles, the tempting egg and ham, the jar of rich cream, 
 the smoking rolls, and the fruit-cake peeping from under 
 the dainty cloth. Only one thing forgotten : the steam- 
 ing coffee-urn was placed on the table, and then Dot, with 
 a sigh of satisfaction, sprang up-stairs chanting a little lay. 
 The soiled apron was soon exchanged for a snowy one, 
 the golden hair brushed neatly, and then Dot tripped 
 down-stairs, and was soon seated at the tea-table enjoying 
 her supper as only a happy, obedient little girl could. 
 
 The next morning Dot awoke with the thought upper- 
 most in her mind that something pleasant was going to 
 hajjpen. And so it was, for at ten o'clock Brownie, the 
 grave, steady little horse, was carrying them rapidly to 
 the city, while one thought filled Dot's mind, — what to 
 buy for Grandma and Grandpa Raymond and all the little 
 Raymonds who filled the gay old place at Linwood. 
 
 Once in the city, as her papa had said, she found 
 plenty of ways to spend the wonderful ten dollars, and 
 at nightfall it was a very tired but pleased little girl that 
 Brownie carried homeward. Long ere the gleaming 
 lights of the farm-house came in view Dot had fallen 
 
DOT'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 57 
 
 asleep on her mother's arm, one hand lightly clasping the 
 empty purse, and the other encircled round the beloved 
 bundles. 
 
 " Well, Dot," queried Mr. Raymond at the dinner- 
 table, the day after the visit to the city, "did you find it 
 very hard to spend your money?" 
 
 Dot looked up, and, meeting the amused twinkle in 
 her father's eyes, burst into a merry laugh. 
 
 "Why, no, papa, I did not find it so very hard after 
 all, as you may judge by my bundles and purse. Oh, I 
 got ever so many things, papa ; among them the tiniest 
 doll you ever laid eyes on, for my sweet darling little 
 pet Helen, and the sweetest tea-set, papa, for Grace, 
 and a book for Ethel, and a sled painted beautifully 
 for Hal, and just a darling little rattle for Baby Minnie, 
 and " 
 
 " For mercy sake, child, stop ! I can't begin to remem- 
 ber all this at once, — tea-sets, sleds, and a thousand other 
 et cceteras. And pray what did you get for yourself, Miss 
 Spendthrift?" 
 
 " Why, nothing, papa. Mamma bought me all I 
 wanted. Oh, papa, I must show you my furs and dress !" 
 And Dot sprang from the table, soon returning with 
 various bundles, among them material for a plaid dress, 
 a sweet .pair of boots, as Dot would have said, and a 
 charming tea-set. 
 
 "Well, I must say you are a spoiled child. Dot. Let 
 us hope you won't break me up entirely. And pray what 
 pay am I to get for all this spending?" 
 
 Dot laughed, and, climbing on her papa's knee, she 
 almost smothered him in kisses and hugs, never stopping 
 until Mr. Raymond declared he was well paid. 
 
 Between studies, and going to the dressmaker, and help- 
 ing Maggie and mamma, the week flew rapidly away, and 
 Thanksgiving-eve dawned quickly enough. 
 
 Even the weather proved to be just what Dot wanted, 
 for she crept between the blankets with the thought that 
 the heavy clouds predicted snow ; and indeed it was too 
 true, for the next morning Dot awoke to find the hard 
 wintry ground covered with a pure white mantle. 
 
 They were soon all placed away in the big sleigh 
 
DOT'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 together, and gliding swiftly over the ground toward 
 grandma's. 
 
 Ever since Dot was a mere baby this system of keep- 
 ing Thanksgiving at grandma's had been celebrated, and 
 now, since Uncle George Raymond had died, Aunt Bessie 
 and all the little Raymonds had come to live in the 
 pleasant old fartii at Linwood, thus making Thanksgiving 
 to our little Dot doubly pleasant. 
 
 At last Linwood Place came in view ; then slower and 
 slower went Brownie, and the next thing Dot knew she 
 was surrounded by a merry lot of children, bewildering 
 her by cries of "How do you do. Dot? Oh, you dar- 
 ling Dot !" and lots of other merry epithets. Then 
 hugs and kisses followed. Then Aunt Bessie's gentle 
 greeting, then grandma's long, loving embrace, and sweet 
 whisper of " My precious nestling !" and grandpa's tell- 
 ing her how she had grown. 
 
 Dot was soon relieved of her wrappings, and, regardless 
 of the new plaid dress and fine boots, sat right down in 
 the middle of the floor and laughed over Baby Minnie, 
 half out of love for baby and half from pure happi- 
 ness. 
 
 It was so delightful to think she was at grandma's, 
 surrounded by her happy cousins, and with a long day 
 of pleasure before her. Outside, the white snow lay in 
 delightful drifts. Dot was not long allowed to sit and 
 weep, even if it was with sheer happiness, for Baby Min- 
 nie was soon taken off to the nursery. Grandma seeing 
 to the real Thanksgiving dinner, Aunt Bessie and Dot's 
 mamma in pleasant converse, and Grandpa Raymond 
 talking of everything, telling his son of things since he 
 was a boy, romping round the good old home at Lin- 
 wood. 
 
 The children, eager to claim Dot, proposed a sled-ride. 
 And soon a merry bevy of children were riding at break- 
 neck speed down the same hill where Dot's father had 
 often coasted. 
 
 There was no merrier one in the party than our little 
 Dot. You would never have recognized in the rosy- 
 cheeked, excited little romp the quiet, demure child that 
 had set the tea-table for mamma scarce one week ago. 
 
DOT'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 59 
 
 "Where is my little Dot?" asked Mr. Raymond of 
 grandma, when he came in from the barn. 
 
 " There is the little Amazon," said Grandma Raymond, 
 smiling, as she nodded toward the hill-side, where Dot, 
 looking like a little snow-queen, was riding the hills. 
 
 " I declare, that child's merriment is infectious," said 
 Mr. Raymond. " I've a good notion to try that hill 
 myself. What do you say, Nell?" turning toward his 
 wife. 
 
 " Go, by all means," said Mrs. Raymond. And Mr. 
 Raymond took this advice. 
 
 "Papa! here comes papa!" exclaimed Dot, excitedly, 
 as a tall form was seen coming up the hill dragging a 
 large sled. 
 
 "Uncle Fred," said Hal, "with grandpa's sled; oh, 
 how splendid !" 
 
 "Here we come, Dot; clear the way!" cried Mr. 
 Raymond, leaping like a boy over all obstacles. " Here 
 we come; now for some sled-riding. Get in, little 
 daughter. Jump on, girls." 
 
 When they all went in to get warmed about an hour 
 before dinner, Dot had the satisfaction of hearing sundry 
 exclamations, • such as, " Spendid, ain't her, Ned?" 
 " Dot's so nice !" " Sweet little puss !" 
 
 Thanksgiving dinner at grandma's, and such a dinner ! 
 The long table was set in the polished hall. The fire was 
 blazing away right merrily in the big fireplace, seeming to 
 say to the happy children, who indeed felt like dancing, 
 " Dance away. I'm in with you." 
 
 And such a dinner ! First it took the united forces of 
 Kate, grandma, and Aunt Bessie to get it on the table, 
 and then grandma declared that all did not eat as hearty 
 as Baby Minnie. 
 
 Oh, the turkey, the bread, the pickles, the cheese, the 
 biscuits, the doughnuts, and last of all grandma's real 
 Thanksgiving plum-pudding and mince-pies ! 
 
 Dot was never so happy in her life. After dinner 
 games were played, dolls dressed, garret visited by the 
 boys, and lastly by the girls, who spent the rest of that 
 long, delightful Thanksgiving afternoon in playing "old 
 times" in the attic. Then Aunt Bessie's gentle voice 
 
6o DOT'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 called them to prepare for supper. Rough heads were 
 smoothed, black hands made clean, little faces made to 
 shine, and then they all marched down to supper. But 
 it was a queer marching: such a scrambling and running 
 and jumping and laughing, till even grandma, patient 
 grandma, covered her ears ; but then Thanksgiving only 
 came once a year. 
 
 After supper, when the big table was rolled away, they 
 all drew near the fire, while grandma told her stories, 
 and the children ate almonds, and raisins, and nuts till 
 you would have thought the dears would have been sick \ 
 but, bless you, they wouldn't grow sick on Thanksgiving, 
 — not they. And such stories as grandma told ! Baby 
 Minnie was taken away at ten, but the old clock that 
 had stood in that veritable corner for a hundred years or 
 more had struck the hour of twelve ere any one thought 
 of stirring. Such an offence would have been unpar- 
 donable at Linwood Place at any other time. 
 
 At last the happy party separated. Dot lay down in 
 her snug little bed, with the half-murmured thought 
 trembling on her lips, " I never had such a splendid time 
 in my life before. It is the best Thanksgiving I ever 
 spent at grandma's." But then Dot thought that every 
 time. 
 
 At last all was quiet at Linwood. The big clock ticked 
 away, very solemnly, one, two, three minutes towards 
 bringing next Thanksgiving at grandma's nearer. The 
 fire leaps cheerily, the lights gradually die away, and 
 Dot slumbers on, while the shadows glow on the wall, 
 and all is still and quiet within as well as without at Lin- 
 wood Place, and Dot's Thanksgiving is over. 
 1880. 
 
BIRDIE'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Patter, patter, went Birdie's little feet over hall and 
 stair all that long, eventful day before Christmas. Sing- 
 ing snatches of song, gazing out into the snowy streets, 
 and wondering what Santa Claus would place in the pretty 
 red stocking that she intended to hang by the mantel as 
 a receptacle for all the wonderful presents for which he 
 was noted. This comprised the day, and Birdie thought 
 it not half short enough. What little girl of six, with 
 loving parents and a happy home, is not in a fever of 
 expectancy on the day before mentioned? Birdie was 
 an only child, so there were no kind brothers or sisters 
 to share in the general expectancy. Nay, did I say no 
 brothers or sisters ? How grieved Birdie would have been 
 if she had known that I forgot to mention little Snowball, 
 who was on that self-same day reposing among dainty- 
 frilled pillows and coverlets in the nursery ! Little Snow- 
 ball was an adopted child just one year old. One short 
 month before a much-loved aunt of Birdie's died, leaving 
 little Snowball, now an orphan, to the care of her only 
 sister, Birdie's mamma. The little one's name was really 
 Nellie, but Birdie had given her the pet name on account 
 of it being a very snowy day when little Nellie had first 
 come to Fernbank, looking, as Birdie said, like a snow- 
 ball in her coat, which was covered with the white down. 
 Hence the pet name still clung to little Nellie. Birdie 
 would have been hurt and offended if she had known that 
 I excluded the household pet from the family list. All 
 that long day Birdie had been dancing from the lower 
 hall to the upper, reminding cook of the dainties that 
 were browning in the oven for her and Nell, then skip- 
 ping up the stairs to see if the little one was awake, and 
 at last, wearied with watching for papa and waiting for 
 Nell to unclose her sleepy blue eyes, she went to sleep her- 
 
 6 6i 
 
62 BIRDIE'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 self on the broad window-sill. The gas was lit, and Mr. 
 Dean's voice was heard in the hall asking for his chick 
 ere she awoke. Jumping from her resting-place, she ran 
 down-stairs and into her papa's outstretched arms. If 
 Birdie had not been so absorbed, she would have seen the 
 mysterious bundles which Mrs. Dean was conveying to 
 the parlor. But she was too intent listening to what her 
 papa was saying to heed anything else. 
 
 " Well, Birdie," he said, " how has the day gone ?" 
 
 " Oh, papa, it has been drefful long !" You see Birdie 
 could not pronounce her words quite plainly yet. 
 
 " ' Drefful long,' has it? Well, I am sure it has been 
 very short to me. But here comes Nell," as the wee girl 
 came in sight. "Well, little girlie, how are you?" lifting 
 her in his arms as he spoke, and tossing her up in the 
 air. 
 
 But his playful words were cut short, for the tea-bell 
 rang, and Mr. Dean, with Nellie in his arms and Birdie 
 laughingly following, trying to keep up with her papa's 
 long strides, entered the dining-room, where a cosey tea 
 was set. After Mr. Dean had asked a blessing Birdie 
 began to chatter, looking as wide awake as if she had no 
 intention of going to sleep that night. Soon after supper 
 was over, Mrs. Dean, who wished Birdie to get a refresh- 
 ing night's slumber, informed the little maiden that 'twas 
 time to go to bed. 
 
 "Oh, mamma," pleaded Birdie, "let me stay a wee 
 bit longer with papa." 
 
 " No, Birdie," said Mr. Dean, lifting her from his knee, 
 "go to bed now with mamma, like my good little girl." 
 And Birdie, putting up her red lips for the good-night kiss, 
 reluctantly obeyed. 
 
 Little Nell was already fast asleep in her little bed. After 
 Birdie was arrayed in a neat white slip, she knelt at her 
 mamma's knee. When her simple prayer was finished 
 and she was tucked in among the warm blankets, Mrs. 
 Dean seated herself in the rocking-chair and told the 
 little girl pleasant stories until the white lids closed over 
 Birdie's blue eyes; then she arose, and, imprinting a kiss 
 on the round, rosy cheek, softly left the room. 
 
 The next morning, when Birdie awoke, the sun was 
 
BIRDIE'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 63 
 
 streaming into the room, making curious shadows on the 
 wall. Nurse soon had the little girl dressed, and with a 
 light step she bounded down-stairs, Mrs. Dean and Nellie 
 following more slowly. 
 
 "A merry Christmas, papa !" she cried, gayly springing 
 into Mr. Dean's arms. 
 
 " A merry Christmas, Birdie, — a merry Christmas, 
 Nell." And Mr. Dean kissed Birdie, and then lifted Nell 
 up and placed a kiss on either baby cheek. Breakfast 
 was now ready, but Birdie could hardly eat, so anxious 
 was she to see her stocking. 
 
 Breakfast at last over, — for all tedious, as well as happy, 
 times must end, — Mr. Dean took Snowball in his arms. 
 Birdie following in her usual gay manner, and passed 
 through the hall toward the parlor. A slight hush fell 
 upon Birdie as the door was being opened, then 'twas 
 thrown back, and Birdie clapped her hands with delight 
 as a tree loaded with toys met her view. 
 
 "Oh, papa, it is lovely !" said Birdie, with a thrill of 
 happiness in her voice, while Nell showed her delight by 
 trying to pull the toys off the tree. Birdie was skipping 
 round the tree admiring everything, when her papa said, 
 archly, — 
 
 *' I guess I will have to give that wonderful stocking 
 that Santa Claus filled to some other little girl." 
 
 " Oh, no, papa !" and Birdie sprang to the mantel ; but 
 the stocking was a little too high for those wee fingers, so 
 Mr. Dean took it and held it teasingly above her head, 
 at last dropping it into the pink palms. Little Nell, from 
 Mr. Dean's arms, watched the proceedings with wide-open 
 eyes. The stocking was filled with candy and nuts, and 
 Birdie was just beginning to think she had seen the end, 
 when she drew out a small box ; lifting the lid she peeped 
 cautiously in, and there among the pink cotton lay a tiny 
 ring. Birdie was delighted, for a ring seemed a great 
 event to her. Nell received a pretty dress and bonnet 
 and numerous other things which delighted her baby heart. 
 As for Birdie, she was supremely happy. 
 
 About ten o'clock, as Birdie was examining the ward- 
 robe of a handsome wax doll, her papa entered the room 
 with his hat and overcoat on. 
 
64 BIRDIE'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 "Oh, papa," she exclaimed, in a tone of disappoint- 
 ment, "are you going out?" 
 
 "Yes," Mr. Dean replied ; "I am going sleigh-riding. 
 I wonder if a certain little girl would go too?" 
 
 "Me, papa! me! Oh, mamma, get my hat and furs 
 quick!" And Birdie ran excitedly about. At last 
 equipped, she was safely in the sleigh by her papa. 
 
 " Good-by, mamma; take care of Snowball," she said. 
 And away flew the ponies over the crisp snow. 
 
 "Why, papa," she exclaimed, as they were nearing a 
 hill, " you are going to the station ! Oh, there's the 
 whistle, and here comes the train !" as the steaming and 
 puffing engine came in sight. Slower and slower moved 
 the train, and at last stopped, the passengers beginning to 
 alight. 
 
 "Oh, papa," and Birdie gave a little scream of delight 
 as a lady, with four pretty children, stepped from a car, 
 "there is Aunt Laura and Mabel!" And Birdie began 
 to kiss her hand to her cousins, the people smiling at the 
 excited little girl with the pretty face and sunny hair. 
 At last Birdie had her aunt and four cousins — for she had 
 not observed the other three in her excitement — safely 
 stowed in the large sleigh, while the ponies carried them 
 swiftly toward home. This at last reached, Birdie carried 
 her cousins to the parlor, where, after their wrappings were 
 laid aside, the tree was duly admired, the exclamations 
 of " Beautiful !" " Splendid !" delighting Birdie's heart. 
 Little Nell also came in for her share of praise and petting. 
 
 After they had tired of in-doors, Mrs. Dean took Nell, 
 and Birdie and her cousins went out into the snow, where 
 they sledded until dinner. And such a dinner ! Such 
 a turkey and other delicacies ! But it is impossible to 
 describe the fun those five had that day. 
 
 That night when Birdie's cousins were speeding home 
 on the train, and she herself was safely stowed in bed, 
 Mrs. Dean asked, " Has my little girl had a pleasant Christ- 
 mas?" and Birdie answered, sleepily, " Oh, so pleasant, 
 mamma !" but even then the tired lids drooped over 
 Birdie's blue eyes, and she was fast asleep, in her dreams 
 enjoying again the pleasures of that happy Christmas-day. 
 
 December, 1880. 
 
MISTAKEN. 
 
 "Who would have thought it? It is too ridiculous 
 to think seriously about. Oh, dear!" And Dot Leslie's 
 mirthful laughter soared out on the summer air, and the 
 breeze carried it above the tree-tops, unceremoniously 
 wafting it to the startled ears of a listener who was 
 stationed behind a large oak, entirely concealing the fine 
 form of' both horse and rider. 
 
 Dot Leslie was a mere child, scarcely seventeen, and a 
 sensible one at that, yet on that self-same day Dot had re- 
 ceived a proposal from rich, good-looking Roy Warren, 
 who had just passed his twenty-first summer, and who was 
 the listener behind the oak. 
 
 Dot was only a poor doctor's child, and many a girl so 
 young would have been immensely flattered to receive an 
 offer of marriage from Judge Warren's only son, who was 
 both handsome and rich. 
 
 But, as I said before. Dot was a very matter-of-fact 
 little maiden, and instead of being elated at this, her first 
 proposal, with a girl's quick sense of the humorous saw 
 not the sentimental, but the ludicrous side of the question. 
 
 With a girl's forethought she confided the news to her 
 mother, asking her advice. Mrs. Leslie, not noticing the 
 demure look on Dot's face, had answered, "Dot, my 
 child, this is too good a chance to cast away. Think of 
 the position you would attain by marrying Roy." And 
 the gentle mother, who had all her life battled with poverty 
 (never complaining except when the thought of Dot dis- 
 turbed her slightly, for in the fond mother's eyes Dot was 
 no ordinary child, in beauty at least), sank into a gentle 
 revery, only aroused by Dot saying, with startling abrupt- 
 ness, "But, mamma, you have never asked me whether I 
 love him or not," pathetically. 
 
 " Love him!" the little woman exclaimed, rousing her- 
 e 6* 65 
 
66 MISTAKEN. 
 
 self, — " love him ! How can you help it, Dot ? Why, my 
 child, he is fully as handsome and noble as your papa." 
 
 Dot's laughter rang out pleasantly. " I see, little 
 mamma," she said, " you who have always loved papa so 
 dearly cannot understand how I feel ; but as you say, 
 mamma, I will think about it, as Roy is not expecting a 
 settled answer for some time." 
 
 So that afternoon Dot, who was given to thinking her 
 thoughts aloud, sought the old weeping willow which 
 bordered the road, and, seating herself in the little wicker 
 chair, Roy's own handiwork, gave vent to the aforemen- 
 tioned exclamation and musical laugliter. 
 
 "Only seventeen!" she exclaimed, quite unconscious 
 of Roy Warren's near vicinity. " Only seventeen, and 
 had a proposal ; it is too absurd ! But," she suddenly ex- 
 claimed, springing from her chair, "I know what to do. 
 Of course Roy will see some one he likes better in a {q'n 
 months, as his infatuation is only a mere boyish fancy, and 
 if he should not tire of me then we will be already en- 
 gaged, and 'twill save lots of trouble. Anyhow, I will 
 engage myself, and 'twill all come right in the end." Thus 
 planned eccentric Dot; and, seemingly well pleased with 
 her plan, she left her seat and waltzed toward the house, 
 leaving Roy Warren standing on the opposite side of the 
 road, where he had planned to meet a friend, with a 
 curious look on his fine face. 
 
 " Little witch !" he exclaimed, striking the ground im- 
 patiently with his riding-whip, — " little witch ! Humph ! 
 a mere boyish fancy that I will outgrow. Well, I will go 
 according to promise next week, and we will see how the 
 fates manage it." And with these .words he sprang upon 
 the horse, who was impatiently champing the ground, 
 riding to meet his comrade, who was seen appearing over 
 the distant hi 11- top. 
 
 It was a glorious evening three months after the event- 
 ful chapter in which I introduced my hero and heroine. 
 Roy Warren and Dot Leslie were engaged. Though Dot's 
 heart would throb whenever Roy's well-known horse would 
 rein in at the little white gate, yet she would not own, 
 even to herself, that she loved him. On this particular 
 
MISTAKEN. 67 
 
 evening Dot was walking impatiently up and down the 
 gravel-walk. A very pretty picture she formed as she 
 stood in the dusk in her white dress, with no ornament in 
 her soft brown hair except two moss-rosebuds. A small 
 bouquet was in her nervous little fingers, destined for Roy, 
 for that was whom she was expecting. 
 
 Every now and then she would stop at the gate, and, 
 shading her face with her hand, on which glistened an 
 amethyst ring, the seal of the engagement, would exclaim, 
 impetuously, "Not coming yet!" and then resume her 
 pacing. At last her watching was rewarded, and Roy 
 reined in at the gate. He took her bouquet, kissing it 
 gallantly, and then drawing her arm within his own, with 
 the air of ownership, asked, " Is tliere any news to-night, 
 Dot? you seem so excited." 
 
 "Yes, Roy, there is," Dot answered, eagerly; "my 
 friend and schoolmate, Natalie Ross, is coming to stay 
 three whole months with me. Won't that be grand?" 
 Dot looked delighted. 
 
 "Yes," Roy answered, slowly ; " but is it not strange. 
 Dot, my cousin, Hal Mortimer, is also coming down to 
 stay a longer period ? He has been ill, and wrote to-day 
 asking mamma's consent if he might recruit his health 
 at the hall. He will be here one week from to-day." 
 
 There was none of the pleasure exhibited in Roy's tone 
 as there was in Dot's at the mention of Natalie, 
 
 "You can't help liking her, Roy," she said, archly; 
 and, laughing lightly, " You don't know what may happen 
 between this and the expiration of Natalie's visit." How 
 these words occurred to Dot several weeks later ! 
 
 One week later Natalie arrived at the doctor's home, 
 and, as Roy's cousin was already at the hall, there followed 
 a roundelay of pleasant visits between Dot's home and 
 the hall. Natalie (who was tall and stately, forming a 
 great contrast to \.\\q petite little Dot) came in for a large 
 share of Roy Warren's attention, and Dot, piqued at 
 Roy's seeming devotion to Natalie, gave herself up to 
 the watching of languid handsome Hal's presence, trying 
 to still the throbbing of her wilful little heart. And what 
 was Roy thinking of this? He also had no doubt in his 
 manly heart but that Dot was in love with gay, handsome 
 
68 MISTAKEN. 
 
 Hal, and in angry bitterness tried to forget the dainty 
 little Dot, who in reality was only longing for one word 
 from Roy to go penitently to him, but instead, they 
 drifted apart. 
 
 Thus things were going in this mistaken way, when one 
 day Dot and Natalie were sitting in the former's room, a 
 charming apartment filled with pretty little knicknacks, 
 Roy's presents. Natalie was sitting gracefully by the 
 window in a large easy-chair, chatting with Dot, who 
 was sitting on a footstool at her feet, when suddenly two 
 figures strolled by. 
 
 " There goes Roy Warren and his cousin," Natalie said. 
 And a dainty blush rose to her cheek as she inclined her 
 head gracefully to the gentlemen's salutation. 
 
 "Is not Roy handsome, Natalie?" asked Dot, watch- 
 ing her friend closely as she spoke. Natalie nodded 
 dreamily, and Dot, with passionate blindness, attributed 
 it to her love for Roy, her lover. 
 
 The next day, in a picnic at the hall, Dot, who had 
 fully resolved to free Roy from his engagement, and 
 make two people happy even if it was at the expense of 
 her own unhappiness, contrived to free herself from her 
 admirers and gain Roy's side. "Roy," she said, her 
 voice trembling as she spoke, "may I speak with you in 
 the summer-house for a moment, if your engagements are 
 not too pressing?" glancing at Natalie. 
 
 "Certainly," Roy answered, with unusual light-heart- 
 edness. "Who has a better right. Dot? certainly not 
 Natalie," following with an amused glance the direction 
 of Dot's eyes. 
 
 Dot blushed angrily. " I am glad you mentioned 
 Natalie," she answered, bravely, her whole fiice flushing 
 rosily and looking prettier than she ever did before, 
 " because — because I come to free you from your engage- 
 ment ; for I know, Roy, that you love Natalie." 
 
 It was out at last, and Dot raised her eyes to Roy's, 
 meeting there a look of sincere amusement which so 
 angered and surprised her that she burst into tears and 
 would have escaped from the door had not Roy caught 
 her in his arms. 
 
 "Don't be angry. Dot," he said, pleadingly, "fori 
 
MISTAKEN. 69 
 
 know that you love me as much as I love you. Why, 
 Dot, have you not seen the little by-play going on ? 
 Natalie and Hal are engaged. There was a time when 
 I believed \\\dX you loved Hal, but last night Hal confided 
 to me the news that he and Natalie were engaged, and 
 gave me a delicate hint that a certain little bird was 
 pining for me ; and tiiough at first I had believed that 
 you loved Cousin Hal, surmising from those willow-tree 
 confidences, — yes," he continued, seeing Dot's look of 
 surprise, " I heard every word you said, Dot, that first 
 day I asked you to be my little wife, and as I know that 
 you love me, 'twill save heaps of trouble, will it not, 
 Dot?" And Dot with crimson cheek assented. 
 
 One year later a double wedding was performed at the 
 hall, and Roy whispered to his blushing bride, " It all 
 ended happily, did it not. Dot? although at first two 
 lives were threatened to be made miserable by being 
 mistaken." 
 
 1880. 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 A LOVE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MADELINE. 
 
 "What a lovely face!" The speaker was a richly- 
 dressed lady, leaning back in an open barouche, and 
 following with animation in her usually listless face the 
 figure of a child. And well might she exclaim, " What 
 a lovely face !" for the little girl, though simply dressed, 
 was strangely beautiful. At one glance the lady in the 
 barouche had noted all the features of the childish face; 
 clad in a simple plaid and hood, she looked very winning. 
 Skin of a dazzling purity, hair of golden brown, eyes 
 deep and dark as wells ; all this Lady Vernon had seen 
 momentarily, and in her breast a sudden interest was 
 awakened. 
 
 " Whose child is she, Grace ?" the lady asked, turning 
 to her companion. " I am sure among all the children I 
 ever knew I have never seen such a faultless face." 
 
 "Excluding my own child, Mabel," laughed the lady 
 addressed ; " but seriously, that beautiful apparition, as 
 you persist in calling her, is Madeline Lee. That is not 
 her real name, for she is no relation to old Mrs. Lee, 
 whose cottage we shortly passed. The little girl is appa- 
 rently twelve years of age, and was brought here just 
 nine years ago. At least so I have learned from the vil- 
 lagers, for if you recollect, Mabel, I was not living here 
 then." 
 
 "I remember." And Lady Vernon subsided into her 
 70 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 71 
 
 usual graceful ease. " But really, Grace, I wonder of 
 what origin the little beauty is?" 
 
 "I do not know; but here we are at the Oaks, and I 
 am real glad, as this keen wind was beginning to pene- 
 trate even my warm furs. See, Mabel, there is Daisy at 
 the window, — little pet." And the fond mother, followed 
 by Lady Vernon, alighted from the barouche and entered 
 tiie warm parlor of the mansion, where a wee nymph of 
 three claimed mamma's and Aunt Mabel's attention. 
 
 Once seated in an easy arm-chair beside the glowing 
 grate, and listening to her little niece Daisy's prattle. 
 Lady Vernon for the time being forgot the little girl who 
 had claimed such a large share of her thoughts. Mean- 
 while Madeline Lee was sitting in a cosey little room at 
 the feet of a sweet-faced old lady. "Grandma," and 
 Madeline raised her dark eyes to the aged fi.ice, "whom 
 do you think I saw to-day.-*" 
 
 " I do not know, my darling, unless it was your Lady 
 Grace," Mrs. Lee replied. 
 
 " You are right, grandma," answered Madeline; "it 
 was Lady Grace, and beside her in the barouche was a 
 proud, haughty-looking lady, dressed in wine-colored 
 velvet and handsome furs, and she was very, very beau- 
 tiful although her face was so cold," continued Madeline, 
 dreamily; " but, grandma, I am forgetting your tea." 
 And the little girl sprang from her seat and proceeded to 
 get their simple meal. After the supper was over and the 
 room in perfect order, Madeline reseated herself by the 
 fire. 
 
 The evening passed pleasantly away, and at nine 
 o'clock, her regular bedtime, Madeline kissed the old 
 lady good-night and went up into her little bedroom, 
 where the fire-light was making weird shadows on the 
 wall. She was strangely restless to-night, and to calm 
 herself she threw up the window and let the cokl air 
 blow in upon her face. Looking up at the stars, an un- 
 definable longing swept over her, and in passionate 
 tones she exclaimed, " Oh, I wish that everything was 
 different ! I am so discontented and unhappy." And 
 with these words followed a burst of weeping. This re- 
 lieved her childish trouble, and, with longings she had 
 
72 
 
 RECLAIMED. 
 
 never felt before, Madeline closed the window and, 
 thoroughly tired, was soon sleeping the dreamless slumber 
 of wearied childhood. 
 
 CHAPTER 11, 
 
 LADY Vernon's decision. 
 
 A BRIGHT fire was burning in the library of Lord Austin's 
 home, and beside the warm blaze sat two ladies conversing. 
 "But, Mabel," the mistress of the Oaks was saying, "I 
 will not give you any hope of gaining this desire." 
 
 "Grace," and Lady Vernon rose excitedly from her 
 chair, " is it possible that you mean to intimate that 
 Madeline Lee, the nameless child, would refuse such a 
 position as I offer her?" 
 
 There were bright roses in Grace Austin's cheeks as she 
 answered, "It is possible, Mabel, for you, who do not 
 know Madeline as I know her, have no idea of the tenacity 
 with which she clings to Mrs. Lee." 
 
 Lady Vernon for a moment was silent ; then she said, 
 haughtily, " 'Tis no use to dispute longer, Grace, as I 
 have made up my mind to have Madeline Lee for my 
 adopted daughter. As to refusing, that is not at all 
 likely; but if she should, all well and good. My only 
 request is to have the barouche ready at eleven to-morrow 
 morning to take me to Mrs. Lee's cottage." And with 
 these words Lady Vernon swept angrily from the room. 
 
 Grace Austin and Mabel Vernon were sisters. When 
 Grace had married the wealthy Lord Austin, Mabel Ver- 
 non was a widow with one handsome, self-willed son, the 
 pride of her heart. Charles, a merry boy of sixteen, was 
 now away at school, and his mother, growing dissatisfied 
 in her stately home, decided to visit the Oaks. Lady 
 Vernon had been the mother of a blue-eyed child, who 
 had lived to see her twelfth summer and tlien faded away. 
 She had been strangely moved at the sight of Madeline, 
 and in her heart fostered a pet scheme, in which Made- 
 
RECLAIMED. 73 
 
 line bad a large share, to adopt the lovely girl and edu- 
 cate her as her own daughter. But chief among these 
 thoughts was Madeline, queenly, stately, the bride of 
 handsome Charley. Therefore, when Lady Grace had 
 intimated that the child might refuse the offer, she had 
 grown angry and cold ; but in her heart she was doubly 
 anxious that the little girl should become her adopted 
 daughter. 
 
 The next morning at eleven o'clock the barouche stood 
 at the door of the Oaks to convey Lady Grace and Lady 
 Vernon to Madeline's simple home. "Oh, mamma, 
 please take me !" pleaded wee Daisy, and the fond mother 
 could hardly repulse the little one. But a call from the 
 barouche reminded her that Lady Vernon was waiting, 
 and, hastily kissing the child, she was soon seated by her 
 sister and riding swiftly toward Mrs. Lee's. 
 
 When they reached the cottage, Madeline, looking even 
 prettier than before, was sitting at the window in a thought- 
 ful attitude, her golden-brown hair showering around her 
 shoulders and looking as if it had caught and held the 
 dancing sunbeams. As the prancing ponies dashed up to 
 the little gate Madeline started, and, seeing the ladies 
 in the barouche, came to the door looking prettily em- 
 barrassed. 
 
 "Good-morning, little girl," said Lady Grace, gayly, 
 putting out her small gloved hand. "I have brought 
 company to see Mrs. Lee." 
 
 Madeline made a pretty little bow, and led the ladies 
 
 into the cosey room, where a bright fire was burning. 
 
 After the usual salutations were exchanged. Lady Vernon 
 
 said a few words in a low tone to Mrs. Lee. " Madeline, 
 
 my dear," the old lady said, turning to the little girl, 
 
 who was standing by the window, " put on your cloak 
 
 and take a run in the fresh air." Madeline obeyed and 
 
 advanced toward the door, when by some impulse she 
 
 glanced at Lady Vernon. Their eyes met ; a thrill passed 
 
 through her slender frame, while a rosy blush mounted up 
 
 to the white forehead. 
 
 ****** * * * 
 
 It was all over. Madeline knew that Lady Vernon 
 wished to adopt her, and she also knew what that implied. 
 
 D 7 
 
74 RECLAIMED. 
 
 She had often heard Lady Grace speak of her sister's 
 beautiful home, — of the stately brown stone mansion called 
 the Cedars, tastefully laid out grounds and well-filled 
 stables, of the richly-carpeted house, handsome library, 
 and luxury and wealth that attended all its inmates. And 
 of this she had been offered a share. Pictures of riding 
 through the park on her pony, and listening to merry 
 anecdotes of Charley's school- life, floated through her 
 mind, for Lady Vernon had told her she should have 
 everything that wealth could procure, and to a child of 
 Madeline's temperament this was no small temptation. 
 Ever since she could remember her heart was filled with 
 longings for something higher, and now it was all within 
 her grasp. The petted child of luxury, admired, loved 
 as Lady Vernon's adopted daughter, perhaps travelling 
 through the beautiful places of the world. This was one 
 picture. The other one: living in the same humble cot- 
 tage, her love for literature unfed, her craving for travel- 
 ling unsatisfied, living day after day with her grandmother, 
 with the same weary routine of work. As all this rose up 
 before her is it any wonder that Madeline had almost 
 written the little word " yes"? (for Lady Vernon was to 
 be answered in a note). But as her pen was suspended in 
 the air another scene rose, — that of Mrs. Lee, poor and 
 old, living alone, while her only relative was travelling 
 perhaps in every beautiful place of the world. No more 
 was needed, and, fearing she might waver, Madeline wrote 
 a decided No, and with beating heart carried it herself to 
 the mail. That night when Madeline crept up to her 
 little bed she was happier with her grandmother's kiss 
 still warm on her brow than if it had been a band of 
 pearls sent from Lady Vernon's royal home. 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 75 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Madeline's new home. 
 
 The winter passed away with few changes. Lady Ver- 
 non, since Madeline's refusal, had grown more distant 
 than ever, and had taken her handsome son and gone 
 travelling. Madeline's life grew more weary in routine 
 than ever, yet she never regretted her decision, for ere 
 the spring was one week old Mrs. Lee peacefully sank to 
 rest. Perhaps never had the wisdom of her course in- 
 truded with such force on her mind as when she was left 
 weary and homeless on that March day. And yet there 
 was a silver lining even to her cloud, for Lady Grace 
 opened her home to the wearied child. Companion to 
 little Daisy, treated like a daughter, Madeline's heart be- 
 gan to unfold in this fairy bower. Her love for music 
 amounted to a passion, and when she was not romping 
 with Daisy she was seated at the piano, dreamily bringing 
 forth sounds which echoed, sometimes mournfully, some- 
 times gleefully, through the mansion. And thus the 
 spring rolled away, fraught with more happiness than 
 Madeline had ever known. 
 
 "I am eight years old to-day, Madeline, and mamma 
 says I may have a party. Oh, I am so happy !" And lit- 
 tle Daisy Austin skipped gayly up and down the flowery 
 path of the Oaks. Madeline gazed down at the childish 
 face, while a shadow flitted over her own. But Daisy did 
 not notice it, and with innocent abandon continued her 
 prattle. " Mamma says that I may have as many little girls 
 as I want to take tea on the lawn ; but I won't have a sin- 
 gle one unless you promise to play the music for us when we 
 go to the parlor. Won't you, please, Madeline?" Who 
 could resist the pleading voice? Certainly not the young 
 girl. And nodding for answer, she wended her way to her 
 room, while Daisy skipped away in an opposite direction 
 to tell mamma. 
 
76 
 
 RECLAIMED. 
 
 It was not long ere the tea-bell rang, and, bathing her 
 face, Madeline descended to the dining-room. When tea 
 was over, she and Daisy went up to the dressing-room, 
 where for a half-hour there were lively sounds of merri- 
 ment, so infectious that Lord Austin smiled over his mag- 
 azine. At the end of the time feet were heard in the 
 hall, the study door flew open, and Daisy stood before 
 him, looking like a fairy in her airy attire. Thin white 
 muslin the pretty dress was made of, while around the 
 slender waist was fastened a pink-tinted sash, and the 
 sunny hair was ornamented by two half-open roses. To 
 crown all, the little feet were encased in pink kid slippers. 
 
 " What a charming birthday fairy you are, Daisy ! 
 Come, while I congratulate Madeline on her perfect 
 taste," said Lord Austin, taking the little girl's hand, for 
 he had caught sight of a slender form at the bottom of 
 the staircase. But when they reached the hall the figure 
 was gone, and did not appear again until it was time for 
 her to play " magic music" for the children. 
 
 The party over, Madeline, after wishing Daisy many 
 such happy birthdays, walked with bent head and thought- 
 ful mien through the upper hall, when her eyes, full of a 
 tender mist, glanced at a newspaper lying on the carpet. 
 Mechanically she stooped to pick up the paper (which she 
 little dreamed was to decide her fate), when an under- 
 lined clause met her view. It ran as follows: 
 
 " A young lady, talented and prepossessing, of seventeen or eighteen 
 years, is wanted as governess to a child of fifteen. Any one fully com- 
 petent of filling the position, please call at Gray & Booth's stationery 
 store, Thursday, June 5th, between the hours of nine and ten." 
 
 A warm flush swept over Madeline's cheek as she read 
 the notice, and, clasping her hands in a transport of long- 
 ing, she exclaimed, "Oh, that I might be the fortunate 
 one ! I cannot live with Lord Austin any longer; kindly 
 as I am treated, I am not his child." And the ruby lips 
 curled proudly. " But I will try among the others ; they 
 can do nothing more than to refuse." And with these 
 words Madeline's weary head sank low on the pillow. 
 
 The next morning a closely-veiled figure entered an om- 
 nibus, and a slender form sank restlessly down on the 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 77 
 
 shabby seat. Now and then a close observer might have 
 seen a slight tremor shake the black-robed figure, but no 
 person made any comment, except, as Madeline was hurry- 
 ing from her confinement, a young man in the farthest 
 corner observed lazily that "she was a pretty little girl," 
 which speech only made her speed on more swiftly. As 
 she reached the dreaded place her rosy cheek paled, but 
 she entered, and waited with a beating heart for the one 
 little word which was to settle her fate. In a few min- 
 utes the door swung back, and a tall, gray-haired man 
 entered the room ; he glanced around, and, meeting the 
 gaze of Madeline, walked toward her, his keen eyes sur- 
 veying her from head to foot, while without the least 
 ceremony he asked, gruffly, "And so you wish to be 
 governess to my little granddaughter, eh?" 
 
 Madeline arose and, throwing back her veil, answered, 
 simply, " I do, sir." 
 
 " Do you know you are nothing but a child yourself?" 
 continued the old man ; but without giving her time to 
 reply he asked, abruptly, " Sure you can play music well? 
 But come, try this." And he led her into another room 
 where an instrument was standing. Madeline seated her- 
 self and played a pretty, touching piece. "You'll do," 
 he said, as she arose from the piano. " My girl needs a 
 companion as well as teacher, and I will pay you liberally." 
 The old man said this brusquely, to hide the emotion 
 which showed itself in his eyes; and when, after simply 
 thanking him, the little dark-robed form sped away, the 
 stern man paced up and down the store, murmuring in 
 intense accents, " She reminds me of my dead daughter. 
 The same eyes, the same hair. Oh, Edith ! Edith !" 
 
 When Madeline reached Lord Austin's, Lady Grace 
 was entertaining company in the reception-room, and as 
 Daisy was with her mamma, she wandered aimlessly 
 around the grounds, wondering if in her new home she. 
 would see the gray-haired old man. As she was musing. 
 Lady Grace called her, and with a rapid step she neared 
 the piazza. 
 
 "Madeline," Lady Grace said, in playful reproach, 
 and, laying her white hand on the girl's shoulder, she 
 looked laughingly down, "you were a naughty child not 
 
 7* 
 
78 
 
 RECLAIMED. 
 
 to come into the reception-room. There were several 
 ladies and gentlemen there really longing for a glimpse 
 of this lovely face." And Lady Grace pinched the cheek, 
 which reddened at her words. 
 
 " Did they really think I was pretty, Lady Grace?" 
 And Madeline looked up earnestly. 
 
 " Pretty ! Certainly, child. Why, Charley Vernon in 
 his last letter called you a Madonna; what think you of 
 that? And it was only your portrait he saw, and the 
 original is twice as lovely ; but, since you wish to talk 
 with me, I will go and get my shawl." And Lady Grace, 
 to relieve the embarrassed girl, tripped away, looking 
 almost too young to be the mother of the little fairy of 
 eight standing by her side. When she returned, with 
 her usual tact she bade Daisy gather a bouquet for 
 "Auntie Madeline," and then taking the young girl's 
 arm, she led her to a secluded spot, where the green leaves 
 made a perfect little bower. 
 
 " Come now, Madeline," said I^ady Grace, turning 
 and caressing the bent head, "tell me your trouble. 
 You know you are my adopted sister." And she gazed 
 tenderly into the misty eyes. 
 
 Madeline felt strangely loath to begin, for never in her 
 life had she felt so grieved at leaving the sweet-faced lady 
 at her side. So for a moment there was silence; then 
 she said, gravely, " It is not sorrow. Lady Grace, but 
 happiness, of which I wish to tell you. Ever since I was 
 left homeless on that dreary March day you have seemed 
 indeed like a sister ; but much as I love you, I do not 
 wish to be dependent on your bounty." And Madeline 
 told all her little plot, and how it had ended. When she 
 had finished, she looked up, saying, pleadingly, " Oh ! 
 Lady Grace, please don't say I was wrong !" 
 
 "My darling, you have done nobly. I never loved 
 you so much as now. I understand how you feel, Made- 
 line, and would not have it otherwise," said Lady Grace, 
 clasping the slender form to her bosom and imprinting 
 kiss after kiss on the white brow, "provided you have a 
 happy home. I would not say you nay, for I know you 
 would be miserable ; but, Madeline, remember my home 
 is yours always, and if you are in trouble you must 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 79 
 
 always come to me. But here comes Daisy with her 
 flowers. Do not tell her yet, Madeline; she is so happy, 
 and she will be grieved enough, poor child, when the 
 time comes." And with little Daisy between them, 
 binding the thread of love closer, they wended their way 
 toward the house; Madeline holding tenderly the little 
 bouquet, which, when she reached her room, was care- 
 fully placed among other remembrances that were ready 
 to send to her second home, Riverview. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 RIVERVIEW. 
 
 Drearily the rain pattered on the handsome grounds 
 of Riverview, and a pretty, childish face gazed fretfully 
 out on the damp, grassy plots, with a pout on the fresh 
 red lips. 
 
 " Papa, is it not. time for the carriage to come?" And 
 Edith Warren looked up to receive the answer to the 
 question, asked for the fifth time. A handsome gentle- 
 man seated by the fire shrugged his shoulders slightly. 
 
 " Come here, Edith, you bundle of impatience." And 
 Mr. Warren lifted her on his knee. 
 
 " Papa, I am 'most fifteen." And the little girl tried to 
 look angry at the insult offered to her age, but laughed a 
 merry laugh instead. 
 
 "Who can read when you are about. Golden-hair?" 
 And Mr. Warren, with a comical look of resignation, 
 placed his book upon the table. 
 
 "Just what I wanted, papa," said Edith, clapping her 
 hands. "Now you can tell me a story ; and, oh, papa, 
 please tell me about little Madeline." 
 
 " Little Madeline?" said Mr. Warren, dreamily ; "she 
 would not have been little to-day. You consider your- 
 self old with the weight of your fifteen years, and she 
 would have been almost seventeen." Mr. Warren bowed 
 his head low on his hands, and Edith gazed into the 
 
So RECLAIMED. 
 
 ruddy blaze, wishing that a slender form was standing 
 there, and longing for some one to confide her little girl- 
 ish secrets and follies to ; for, although the father had 
 her unbounded confidence, yet he was not exactly the 
 friend morbid Edith needed, — for he would often sink 
 into reveries, leaving his little daughter standing yearn- 
 ingly on the border; and thus Edith often longed for a 
 girl friend, and, although she did not know it, the hour 
 was near at hand. A sound of wheels on the gravel 
 aroused her father, and caused Edith to spring to the 
 window to peep from the folds of the lace curtains, for 
 a lonely life with her papa and grandpa had made the 
 little girl very shy of strangers. 
 
 The carriage-door was thrown open and the elder Mr. 
 Warren alighted, and, giving Madeline his hand, cour- 
 teously helped her out. She was slightly pale, but that 
 only enhanced her beauty. Drawing her heavy cloak 
 more closely around her (for it was a chilly day in Octo- 
 ber), she followed with dignity the stately old man. 
 
 " Come, Edith, you must do the honors of the house," 
 and Mr. Warren playfully pinched the rosy cheek; "you 
 know you are the only lady." A few moments of sus- 
 l^ense, during which Edith's heart fluttered audibly, then 
 the door was thrown back and the old gentleman escorted 
 Madeline in. Edith would have sprung to her grandpa's 
 side had not Mr. Warren restrained her, saying, in a low 
 tone, "Let your governess be introduced first, my child." 
 
 Edith's " governess" looked very stately as she stood 
 there with her damp, dripping curls and sweet, half-proud, 
 half-shy face. It all depended on her the reception she 
 met, so, when the elder Mr. Warren introduced her to 
 his son, she bowed with graceful ease; and when young 
 Lord Warren turned and said, "This is my daughter," 
 she took the little cold hand in hers. Something in the 
 wistful violet eyes made her follow an irresistible impulse, 
 and, bending, she placed a warm kiss on the rosy lij)s, as 
 she said, simply, " I am sure I shall love my pupil." Then 
 turning to the little girl with a wistful look in her own 
 eyes, she said "And 1 hope she will soon learn to love 
 me." 
 
 "I love you now. Miss Lee," Edith replied, quickly. 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 The formal introduction being over, the elder Mr. 
 Warren held out his arms, and said, " Come to me, my 
 Sunshine." And Edith ran willingly into them, for next 
 to her father Edith loved the old man, who almost idol- 
 ized her for the sake of his golden-haired daughter; for, 
 having no daughters of his own, his son's wife had been 
 his idol. " I am sure, Miss Lee," the father said, turning 
 to Madeline, "you must have some magic power about 
 you, as my Edith has never been fascinated by any of her 
 teachers as she seems to be with you. Where lies the 
 spell, my Edith?" he asked, turning to his little daugh- 
 ter, who, looking merrier than she had been for some 
 time, replied, archly, "Oh, that would be betrayment, 
 papa, for me to tell ; the secret lies between Miss Lee and 
 myself. But, papa, tea will soon be ready ; shall I take Miss 
 Lee to her room?" And Edith raised her eyes inquiringly. 
 
 "Yes, Golden-hair," said Mr. Warren, glancing at his 
 watch. 
 
 And the little girl, taking hold of Madeline's hand, 
 led her through a long corridor, up a flight of richly car- 
 peted stairs, and turning to the left, flung wide a door, 
 displaying a charming apartment; pretty light carpet on 
 the floor ; easy-chairs, lounges, and statues were scattered 
 around, while on the wall was a handsome glass book- 
 case, for it was one of Mr. Warren's rules that his child's 
 governess should have every convenience. Edith's room 
 adjoined hers, which was a pleasant surprise to Madeline, 
 as the little girl had won her heart already. 
 
 "Do you like it. Miss Lee?" Edith asked, anxiously; 
 and Madeline replied, "It is very pretty; so home-like; 
 and these bouquets show that some one thought of Miss 
 Lee." And Madeline's eyes filled with tears as she thought 
 of the little bouquet in the trunk and Daisy's tearful good- 
 byes. 
 
 Edith was gazing out of the window, and had become 
 absorbed in the scenery, when Madeline's clear voice said, 
 "All ready, little pupil." Edith turned, and her quick 
 eye detected the grace with which Madeline had attired 
 herself. A very simple suit of gray, with roses in her 
 hair, that was all ; but Madeline looked as pretty in her 
 simple gown as many a duchess might in her silks. 
 / 
 
82 RECLAIMED. 
 
 " How charming you look, Miss Lee !" Edith said ; and 
 Madeline evaded the compliment by saying, naively, — 
 
 "I see a very pretty picture before me in the shape of 
 a little girl with sunny hair and blue eyes." 
 
 "I know who you mean, Miss Lee ; it is \, for every 
 one says I am pretty." And Edith looked so innocent that 
 Madeline knew by her frank avowal there was no vanity 
 in her young mind. 
 
 When they reached the drawing-room. Lord Warren 
 smiled pleasantly at the sight of the two young girls to- 
 gether; Edith looking merrier than for some time. After 
 tea, Madeline glanced over Edith's lessons, although both 
 were to have a holiday for one week. At the little girl's 
 request she played a few ballads on the piano, and then, 
 bidding good-night, retired. As she had done five years 
 ago, she leaned her head on the window-ledge and gazed 
 up at the stars. But to-night no feeling of restlessness 
 pervaded her being ; nay, she was happy, for even then a 
 foreshadowing of future joy crept over her, and thus 
 ended her first day at Riverview. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE PARTY. 
 
 "I AM sixteen to-night, Madeline, and am going to a 
 party ; papa positively forbids me to ride alone, even with 
 the groom, and, as I have no escort, I want you to go with 
 me ; won't you, please?" A year has passed away, bring- 
 ing few changes, except that Madeline has grown dearer 
 to the inmates of Riverview, and that Edith has dropped 
 the formidable "Miss Lee" for "friend Madeline." It 
 is a lovely June night, and the two are in Edith's dressing- 
 room. Edith is very little changed. As she stands be- 
 fore the mirror, twisting a garland of roses in her hair, 
 you can detect the same winning smile, the lovely violet 
 eyes, the same sunny hair, unless it be a trifle sunnier, and 
 altogether you can see the same impetuous child Edith of 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 83 
 
 a year ago. Just now she is glancing at Madeline (stately 
 Madeline, who is not at all changed, unless she is more 
 beautiful) with a troubled face as she repeats her question. 
 
 " Me, Edith ? Impossible !" And Madeline shrank back 
 as if the idea was repulsive. 
 
 " Now, Madeline, please go. You know how inexorable 
 papa is ; and it is only a child's party, for I don't consider 
 myself grown up at the age of sixteen." And Edith smiled 
 merrily. 
 
 "I should think not, Edie; you are only standing 
 
 ' Where the brook and river meet, 
 Womanhood and childhood sweet.' 
 
 But stop, I will not spoil your pleasure." And with fleet 
 footsteps the young girl descended the oaken staircase, 
 returning with the tidings that Lord Warren would see 
 Edith to the party himself. 
 
 "Oh, thanks, Madeline; you can do anything with 
 papa. You seem to have charmed him as you did me 
 on that autumn day. I am half jealous. Good-night." 
 And with these playful words Edith tripped away. 
 
 " Papa, I must tell you what I heard to-night ; it made 
 me so angry." And Edith leaned her dimpled chin on her 
 hand and looked with flashing eyes at Lord Warren, who 
 was smoking his cigar in his favorite bower, the one 
 beneath Madeline's window. 
 
 "Tell on, Golden-hair; whom was this startling news 
 about, — Madeline, you, or my worthy self?" 
 
 "You, papa, and Madeline; I was not concerned." 
 And Edith looked up swiftly as a slight flush crossed her 
 father's face. "I was standing behind a pillar," con- 
 tinued Edith, " waiting for one of the boys to bring me an 
 ice, when I heard voices. One of these was apparently 
 answering a question, for she said, ' Oh, that little fairy in 
 white is Lord Warren's daughter ; but beautiful as she is, 
 she cannot surpass her companion or governess, Madeline 
 Lee. But I have my suspicions that Lord Warren's at- 
 tention is tending that way, to judge from his admiration ; 
 and I think she would not be averse to being called the 
 lady of Riverview.' Just then the music began, and the 
 
84 
 
 RECLAIMED. 
 
 'little fairy in white,' papa, was tried almost beyond 
 endurance." And Edith looked up with a quiver of her 
 red lips. " Papa, I know you have no such intentions, 
 but would Madeline " 
 
 Edith did not finish the sentence, for her father inter- 
 rupted her rather sternly, "Madeline is as innocent as 
 you, my child ; but would you be very angry, my Edith, 
 if I told you that I really want Madeline as my " 
 
 The little white hands on the window above suddenly re- 
 laxed their hold, and Madeline, who had heard every word 
 of the conversation beneath her room, lay unconscious on 
 the floor, stunned by the sentence she so wrongly inter- 
 preted, for the last word was " daughter," not " wife." 
 
 The cold moonlight was streaming pitifully into the room 
 when she arose and sank wearily on the bed, repeating, " I 
 was so happy ; but they must never know why I leave 
 beautiful Riverview." And with these words she fell into 
 a troubled slumber. Poor Madeline ! 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE PORTRAITS. 
 
 Oh, for the wings, the wings of a dove, 
 Far away, far away, would I rove ; 
 In the wilderness build me a nest, 
 And remain there, forever at rest. 
 
 Thus sang Madeline one week after the events narrated 
 in the last chapter. Edith and Lord Warren never sus- 
 pected that Madeline had heard their secret conversation, 
 and when she told them they must engage another gover- 
 ness for Edith, as she was going to sail for Italy, they did 
 not attribute it to that ; they were taking a walk, the three, 
 one pleasant June morning, when Madeline told them the 
 startling fact. 
 
 "You don't mean it, Madeline?" said Edith, anxiously. 
 ** Why, we are going to have company, — the distinguished 
 Lady Vernon and her son, Sir Charles." 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 "I can't help that, Edie dear. I must go, and, to 
 confirm the fact, I am engaged as companion to Lady 
 Morton, and am to sail in one week in the steamer." 
 
 "So soon! Oh, Madeline, how can I do without 
 you?" And Edith looked up pitifully. 
 
 "You will soon learn to do without me, girlie," said 
 Madeline, striving to speak gayly, although her heart was 
 heavy. " Come, cheer up, and take a walk through the 
 l)icture-gallery, where the portraits of your ancestors 
 hang." 
 
 "May I go too?" asked Lord Warren, courteously; 
 but Madeline shook her head playfully, and, seeing the 
 two girls wanted to be alone, he strolled away toward his 
 study. As they were passing through the gallery, Edith 
 paused and gazed with reverent awe at the portrait of a 
 golden-haired, dark-eyed lady and a wee girl with the 
 same sunny hair and earnest eyes. Madeline also gazed 
 at the pictures with a subdued countenance, longing for 
 the story of the dead wife and child, and yet with too 
 much delicate tact to inquire into the family affairs. 
 Perhaps Edith discerned the longing in the sweet, wistful 
 face, for, looking up with her clear violet eyes, she asked, 
 "Would you like to hear the story of my baby sister?" 
 Madeline nodded assent, and Edith drew a chair for 
 Madeline and an ottoman for herself, so she could watch 
 the portrait while she was talking. Artist never painted 
 a lovelier or more touching scene than that of the two 
 young girls sitting there in the dim, grand old hall, with 
 the sunshine touching lightly each reverently bowed 
 head ; so near to one another by sweet, holy ties, and yet 
 neither knowing it ; so soon to have the cold water rush- 
 ing between the two, who should have always been to- 
 gether. After a short silence, in which both felt the spell 
 of tiie moment, Edith began the touching story. 
 
 " It was a fairy yacht, the ' Sea Bird,' in which mamma 
 and papa took that eventful voyage. The spring was an 
 intensely warm one, and mamma had just packed the 
 trunks ready for the mountains, when Uncle Hal, mam- 
 ma's uncle, a gray-bearded seaman, came along, saying 
 that he was going to sail a pleasure-yacht, the ' Sea Bird,' 
 over the waters, and that mamma and baby, and papa too, 
 
86 RECLAIMED. 
 
 if he could, must go along. It was a novel proposal, and 
 suited mamma; to take a delightful trip round the water 
 among her friends, who were also going to take passage ; 
 and with such a trustworthy seaman as Uncle Hal, and 
 then to land at Sunny Dell for several weeks of camping 
 out ; that would be altogether delightful. And so it was 
 settled they all would go, and on May 15th they took pas- 
 sage on the 'Sea Bird.' For several weeks sailing was 
 delightful ; mamma had plenty of lady friends, who petted 
 baby enough to suit even a mother's proud heart; then 
 there was papa and Uncle Hal to amuse them with sea 
 stories, and last but not least the prospect of camping out 
 at Sunny Dell. But that prospect was never to come : 
 the fifth week the clouds began to look lowering and 
 the sailors predicted a storm. Uncle Hal was papa's 
 weather-glass, and as long as he kept jolly there was 
 notliing to fear; but the fourth day Uncle Hal began to 
 order the sailors to watch the ship closely, for he con- 
 fided to papa if his fifty years of sea-life had not deceived 
 him there was a furious storm coming. 'You see,' he 
 said, ' we have had such balmy weather that I should not 
 wonder if this would be an unusual one ; but do not alarm 
 the ladies yet.' 
 
 " * Is it too late to bear down for Sunny Dell?' papa 
 asked, anxiously, and Uncle Hal replied decidedly that it 
 was. That night papa was awakened by the rolling of the 
 ship, and fearing that mamma would be frightened, he hur- 
 riedly dressed and entered her apartments. She was up with 
 baby. ' Do not get nervous, Edith,' he said, cheerfully ; 
 ' there is !-«othing to fear yet : the " Sea Bird" is a sturdy 
 little craft.' And with these comforting words papa went 
 on deck to take observations with Uncle Hal. The sea 
 was fearfully high, and Uncle Hal turned to papa and 
 said, ' If tliese ladies were not in my charge I would be 
 better satisfied.' For three days the storm raged ; the 
 third the 'Sea Bird' sprang aleak. Mamma was ill, the 
 ladies excited, and the prospect of being wrecked was far 
 nearer than Sunny Dell. At last the only alternative was 
 to lower boats ; this was done : a boatful of ladies put out 
 into the surging waters, among them papa to take care of 
 baby, for mamma was not able ; but the little boat could 
 
RECLAIMED. 87 
 
 not live in such a sea, and ere long a large white-capped 
 wave swept and overturned it with great ease. That was 
 all papa could remember: the next was, he was lying in 
 a small, clean room, and stout, anxious fisherwomen were 
 bending over him. It was not long ere he was able to sit 
 up, and then with a dreadful fear at his heart he asked for 
 mamma. The women told him there was a lady in the 
 house, and as soon as his strength would permit he hurried 
 to the room pointed out ; a slender form was reclining on 
 the bed, who turned wearily at his entrance, In another 
 minute papa had her in his arms, only too thankful to 
 have her restored, although he knew that never again 
 would he fondle his little daughter, for the cold waters 
 had closed over the wee form. It was many days ere 
 mamma could bear the shock, that all her friends and 
 brave, noble Uncle Hal were gone, and last of all her 
 precious baby ; but she bore it nobly, and when a steamer 
 came along she and papa sailed, leaving memories of 
 them in the shape of stoutly-filled purses, which the poor 
 fisherwomen were only too glad to receive. Mamma was 
 ailing for a long time, and papa said that the first real 
 sunshiny smile that ever lit her face after the storm was 
 when I was laid, a wee bundle, in her arms. After that, 
 papa said, the house began to grow cheery again and 
 mamma grew happy ; but such joy was brief, for when I 
 was but one year old dear mamma died. Then grandpa 
 came to live with us, for after mamma's death he clung 
 to me, her child." 
 
 When Edith had finished the narrative, Madeline gazed 
 with tearful eyes at the fair mother and child: and did 
 no thought intrude that she was the baby grown into the 
 girl ? How could it, when she had always thought Mrs. Lee 
 her grandmother, and had never known she was an adopted 
 waif? On that weary March day Mrs. Lee had given her 
 a little box, requesting her not to open it for six years. 
 Madeline had kept the promise, thinking it contained her 
 grandmother's old-fashioned jewelry ; and now, as the six 
 years were about finished, she intended to open the little 
 box on her voyage over the water and solve the mystery. 
 
 The week passed away, and Madeline, on the loth of 
 June, set sail for Italy. Edith, who was sincerely attached 
 
88 RECLAIMED. 
 
 to Madeline, felt as if some of the sunshine had left 
 Riverview with the fair, sweet girl. 
 
 Eight bells had struck on the water, and pacing the 
 deck was a fair young girl, evidently musing deeply. 
 "To think," she kept repeating, "that of all my posses- 
 sions I should leave it there. It is too provoking. But 
 if I am not too much engrossed, when I reach Italy, with 
 nature's beauties, I will write and tell Edith to send on 
 the box that .she thinks so 'mysterious.' Ah well, the 
 fates have decreed it so, and I must be patient." For 
 one hour she paced the deck gazing at the stars, quite un- 
 conscious of the admiring glances of the sailors and of one 
 handsome young man in particular, who was leaning back 
 in a camp-chair and rapidly sketching the beautiful night 
 scene. Long ere Madeline had retired to her berth the 
 little sketch was finished, but it would be years ere the 
 artist who sketched the sky that night could place on 
 ]:)aper the varying expressions of Madeline's beautiful 
 
 face. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS BOX. 
 
 Carriage after carriage rolled up the stately avenue 
 of Riverview, and from every window of the handsome 
 old mansion gleamed lights, dancing, sparkling, and 
 glowing as if eagerly welcoming the guests to their little 
 mistress's fairy ball. For it was Edith Warren's seven- 
 teenth birthday, and the 'little lady was being made 
 famous by a party, given by her indulgent father. In 
 the dressing-room were a merry band of ladies, teasing 
 their little hostess on her pale face and abstracted man- 
 ner. "It is Sir Charles that is causing his lady to be so 
 distrait ; he has not arrived yet, you know," said a gay 
 little blonde, nodding at a stately brunette who was 
 standing before the long mirror admiring the effect of 
 the pearls in her raven hair; but the young girls were 
 
RECLAIMED. g^ 
 
 mistaken, for it was not tlie absence of her betrothed 
 that had stolen the roses from lier dimpled cheeks. Feel- 
 ing unusually happy and gay, Edith by some strange freak 
 had taken herself to Madeline's apartment (for it was 
 Madeline's still). All dressed to receive her guests, and 
 it being too early for them to arrive, she had slipped away 
 to think of her happiness in the silent room. Could they 
 have peeped into it as the silver moon did, they would 
 have seen as strange a picture as he : on the floor by the 
 window crouched a slender form, in the same attitude as 
 the figure which had knelt there June a year ago, listen- 
 ing to the tale in flie arbor below, yet different from 
 Madeline. On Edith's silken robe lay a small box of 
 white polished wood ; to a careless observer it would 
 have been "only a box," but to Edith it was more 
 l)recious than the cold gold, gleaming on her wrists, 
 would have been to a miser. To-night in her happiness 
 she had come to take a glimpse of the face she loved so 
 well, for the portrait of Madeline was in the room which 
 had been the young girl's ; and here she had come to 
 whisper to the picture her tender happiness ; for one 
 short week ago Charley Vernon had told her he loved 
 her, — he loved\\tx\ and the world seemed more beautiful 
 to Edith, for although she did not love with such inten- 
 sity as Madeline, yet she gave her lover a tender, wistful 
 little heart. As she opened the drawer to bring forth 
 the much-loved picture there was a crash, and from a 
 secret recess there fell a little box of fine polished wood, 
 that from its harsh fall lay broken in atoms. As Edith 
 stooped to replace the contents a cry broke from her 
 pretty red lips, for on a pink rose-bud in the carpet lay 
 a small chain and locket, and from the open locket 
 smiled a baby face, the exact counterpart of the life-sized 
 one in the gallery, by the portrait of her fair mother. 
 Edith stood bewildered ; she knew the box was Made- 
 line's, she knew that Madeline had never opened it, and 
 she also knew that the young girl had intended to solve 
 the mystery either on her voyage or in Italy ; and how 
 came the picture of pa]m's lost darling in this box? 
 Edith's eyes mutely asked the question of the moon, but 
 as he could not answer and the ormolu clock on the 
 
9° 
 
 RECLAIMED. 
 
 mantel warned her that it was nearing the time for the 
 guests to arrive, she shook off the lethargy which was 
 stealing over her, and, picking up the shattered box, sped 
 swiftly along the hall. As her soft foot-fall fell on the 
 velvet carpet, her father looked up and, meeting her 
 friglitened gaze, asked involuntarily, — 
 
 " Wliat is it, my darling?" 
 
 For answer she placed in his hand the open locket. 
 His cheek blanched white as he asked, in a gasping 
 voice, " How came j'f?// by this, Edith?" touching the 
 little photograph. 
 
 Editii told her story, her father flushing and growing 
 pale alternately, 
 
 "Papa, what does it mean?" she asked, when the re- 
 cital was finished. 
 
 "I cannot tell," Lord Warren replied, "unless — un- 
 less she might be our long-lost darling ; but, Oh ! Edith, 
 that would be too blissful to be true, after these long years 
 of waiting. But here is a letter; read it, my child, — 'we 
 are privileged, and it may explain the mystery." 
 
 Edith, with white, trembling lips, obeyed; it ran as 
 follows : 
 
 " January 5. 
 " Little Madeline, — You may not be little when you read this note, 
 but to me you will always be my faithful little Madeline. To-night I 
 feel as if I must tell you what I know of the mystery of your birth, but 
 it might only make you discontented and unhappy, and so I am willing 
 to pen the lines for you to read when you are older, perhaps a wealthy 
 and distinguished young lady. It was at my request that the villagers 
 never told you that you were no relative of mine. It is the day that you 
 wrote your reply to Lady Vernon that I am writing these words. To 
 think that you ever made such a sacrifice for me has endeared you in my 
 eyes more than I can ever tell ; but I can only say, may you be ever 
 blessed, my noble Madeiiae ! But I am not telling you, my child, how 
 you ever came to call me ' Grandma.' My only son, Harry, was a fish- 
 erman, and was as much at home upon the waves as a inerman. On the 
 day of which I speak my boy, looking bright and handsome, sailed away 
 in his dory, promising that he would bring me a fine new shawl from the 
 place where he was going. It was a little voyage of a week, and, know- 
 ing that he was an e.xcellent sailor, I was not at all afraid, although an 
 old weather-beaten fisherman prophesied darkly there would be a heavy 
 storm. The second day the storm, as the old man had prophesied, began, 
 and lasted four days, although the third was the worst ; the wind roared 
 and the sea beat against the shore with terrific violence. The old sailors 
 shook their heads and said a boat could not live in such a sea, but still I 
 had great hope of my sailor-boy coming home all right ; and the fourth 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 91 
 
 day he sailed in harbor looking bonnier than ever. You may be sure I 
 hurried to embrace him. He came walking toward me with a bundle in 
 his arms. ' There, mother !' he cried, gayly, ' there is your shawl ; and it 
 came of good use you may be sure.' He placed it in my arms, and 
 opening it, a childish face looked up into mine, saying, in broken accents, 
 ' Mamma!' When we reached the house, and you toddled around, my 
 boy told me how you were found floating on a raft and almost dead with 
 cold. I was amused at his boyish account of how he soothed you and 
 warmed you, and how you soon fell asleep looking like a wee cherub. 
 Little did I dream then that you, bereft of your parents, were sent to 
 comfort me, for my boy grew ill, and ere two weeks had passed away I 
 was childless. Then you comforted me with your innocent prattle ; but 
 I was very lonely, and ere another fortnight passed I was living in this 
 little cottage which is your home ; for I could not stay where I was re- 
 minded of my boy in every nook and corner. When you were brought 
 to me, Harry gave me a wee gold locket and chain, the only thing that 
 could be saved, except a lace handkerchief pinned around your neck. 
 These I place in the box with my note. That the locket and chain, with 
 the little lace handkerchief, may be the key which will unlock the mystery 
 of your birth and crown you famous is the prayer of your loving 
 
 " Grandma." 
 
 The little note which had fallen so opportunely into 
 Edith's hands had been written by Mrs. Lee two months 
 before she died. When Edith had finished the note, her 
 father, with hands trembling like a leaf, turned to the lace 
 handkerchief, where, in a corner, were the initials worked 
 by Mrs. Warren, "M.W." — Madeline Warren. 
 
 "Edith! Edith! my darling! she is my child and 
 your own sister. I never dreamed that such happiness 
 could be mine : this little handkerchief tells the tale, as 
 those letters were done by your mamma's own hand. Oh, 
 Edith ! we have all proof; and this is why all the sun- 
 shine seemed to leave the house when she sailed over the 
 waves. I wanted to adopt my own child." And Lord 
 Warren leaned back in his chair overcome with emotion. 
 
 " Dear papa, it is delightful, and I am so happy. I 
 will write to my precious sister soon. How very nice it 
 seems to have a real sister ! But I must go, papa dear, and 
 do the honors of hostess, and tell Ciiarles." And with a 
 swift blush and a kiss Edith left the room, leaving her 
 father to dream over his new-found daughter, and to kiss 
 the portrait of her who was the living image of his sainted 
 wife. 
 
92 RECLAIMED. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Edith's letter, 
 
 ' " June i8. 
 
 " Darling Madeline, — I have such a budget of news 
 that I know not where to begin. It is such a lovely day, 
 and I am so happy, that I feel in my exuberance of joy 
 that I must fly, actually fly, to Venice and tell you all ; 
 but as I cannot do that, I must be content with settling 
 down in the sunny bay-window of your room and writing 
 a long, prosy letter, as a staid engaged lady should do. 
 To begin with, I am engaged, and you need not open 
 those starry eyes, as papa calls them, and say, as you said 
 of Grace Vane, when you were my governess, ' That little 
 girl engaged !' for little girl as I am, I expect to settle 
 down ere long and Liake him a model wife. Now, my 
 dear Madeline, I have been keeping you in suspense as to 
 who this modern Adonis is, so that you may have a perfect 
 surprise. You remember, just before you sailed, I told you 
 the Vernons were coming to spend a month at River- 
 view. They did come, and lengthened their month into 
 a year, as they are still here; not at Riverview exactly, 
 for they live in a charming cottage not far from here, 
 and I see tliem almost every day. Well, I am coming to 
 my engagement. It was one of those delightful hazy days 
 tliat papa asked me to take a row, but a little fairy elf 
 whispered in my ear to refuse, so, after watching the boat 
 glide gracefully out into the cool water, I took some 
 dainty lace and retired to the arbor, to dream. I was 
 singing the ' Banks of Bonnie Dundee' when I heard a 
 tread on the gravel. I knew it was Charles Vernon, and 
 since I felt the need of company I had no objection to 
 its being he. You see I had consulted my mirror before 
 I came down-stairs, and knew I looked unusually pretty. 
 I wore that pink tarletan, with white roses in my hair; 
 and papa called me his ' bonnie rose-bud.' So knowing 
 all this, your ' little girl' felt unusually elegant, and offered 
 Charles a rustic chair without the least embarrassment. 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 93 
 
 Of course I had stopped singing at his entrance, but he 
 begged me so earnestly to sing it once more I complied. 
 Well, I cannot tell exactly how it came about, but I was 
 examining a rose-bud and I held it up for his inspection, 
 asking if he did not think it beautiful. 'Yes, very beau- 
 tiful,' he said; 'may I have it for my own?' 'Yes,' I 
 said, blushing, for he looked so earnest. Then he just 
 bent down and asked, ' May I have your heart too, Edith? 
 I am very selfish, and would like to have both this dainty 
 rose-bud and its girlish owner.' He said it so quietly 
 that I would have thought he was only amusing himself 
 if, glancing up, I had not met such a thoughtful, earnest 
 gaze from his dark eyes. I grew shy and confused, anci 
 the next moment he had me in his arms calling me his 
 * bonnie rose-bud.' It was not one bit romantic some peo- 
 ple would think, but it was just the romance I wanted. 
 Was it not foolish ? but I thought of ' love's young dream' 
 all that day. Papa and Charles have been petting me so 
 much that I am really getting spoiled ; even Lady Vernon 
 pets me and calls me Rose-bud ; and one day she actually 
 told me she approved of her son's choice. She is the 
 same cold, stately woman of whom you told me, Madeline, 
 and I wished the other night (was it very wrong?) that 
 sweet little Daisy's mother were Charley's; but Lady Austin 
 will be my aunt. Do not think I like Charley less because 
 Lady Vernon does not seem like dear mamma would have 
 been; do not think that, for I am perfectly happy, and, 
 as I said before, getting spoiled, which you had better 
 come home and prevent, for when the stately rose blooms 
 at Riverview the little Rose-bud will be crushed out of 
 sight. I know, dear Madeline, that you will not get tired 
 of your Edie's confidence, but nevertheless I intend to 
 stop talking about myself and happiness and transfer my 
 words to your own. A little bird has alighted on the 
 window-sill, as if trying to help me frame my thoughts in 
 words; but the burst of melody that swells his little throat 
 and floats off on the summer breeze as he flies swiftly over 
 the cool water makes me wish that you could as easily 
 warble a farewell song to sunny Italy and soar homeward 
 to Riverview; but, Madeline, I must leave the unreal and 
 return to the real. My seventeenth birthday was the hap- 
 
94 
 
 RECLAIMED. 
 
 piest day of my life, for on it I really found a sister; yes, 
 a real sister, and I could sing for joy. I was so happy 
 that night that I went up into the room I always call yours 
 to confide my happiness to you. As I was opening the 
 drawer there was a crash, and from a secret recess there fell 
 a little box, so heavily it was broken into many pieces. 
 There was a little gold locket and chain on the carpet, 
 and from the open locket smiled a baby face, the exact 
 counterpart of my baby sister ; I took it down to papa, 
 and there in the folds of a tiny lace handkerchief was a 
 note ; it told all about you, Madeline, how you were lost 
 at sea, and found by a son of the old lady with whom 
 you lived. But I shall not tell you the letter; you are 
 to come home and read it for yourself. In the corner 
 of the lace handkerchief were your initials, 'M.W.' for 
 Madeline Warren. Papa looked for them as soon as I 
 read the letter, for he knew mamma had embroidered it 
 for you when you were one year old. There was more 
 than enough proof, and dear papa was so happy. I am 
 both proud and glad to think I really have such a precious 
 sister, and can scarcely wait until the good ship brings 
 home my consoler and comforter. Papa says he cannot 
 wait for his daughter's return any longer, and that you 
 must sail as soon as you receive this. He is waiting for 
 his Madeline, to receive her with open arms. Charles 
 sends love to 'sister Madeline,' and Lady Vernon is wait- 
 ing to see Lord Warren's new-found daughter, the little 
 girl that she wished to adopt. But I must really close. 
 I am so glad, Madeline, that you are not engaged, that no 
 one has any claim upon you except papa and myself. 
 Papa is at the door waiting for this letter; he is going to 
 drive with it to the mail himself. I would go with him 
 if it were not for Charley. I will close by saying that 
 everything and every person at Riverview is waiting for 
 the new-found daughter and heiress. 
 
 " Your loving sister, 
 
 "Edie. 
 '•■ P.S. — Papa will be at the shore, waiting for you, every 
 time a ship comes in. 
 
 "Edie." 
 
RECLAIMED. 95 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WEDDING-BELLS. 
 
 Under the sunny skies of Italy the old, old story was 
 being told again. Madeline Lee, with dainty crimson 
 cheeks, was listening to the flood of passion which told 
 her that Roy Thornton's heart was hers, and when the 
 earnest eyes of the artist sought hers with such a depth 
 of love and longing in them, she answered "yes" as 
 simply and readily as any child. Her nature was too 
 frank and loving to toy with such passion as Roy Thorn- 
 ton's. For one hour the new-made lovers paced the old- 
 fashioned portico of Madeline's hotel, and then the artist, 
 with a few words of love which inspired even the little 
 songsters, left the young girl to her happiness. For weeks 
 Madeline had known she loved Roy Thornton, tlie artist, 
 whose praise was ringing over Europe, but not until to- 
 day did she know that it was returned, and so with a 
 light heart and elastic step she tripped up-stairs, feeling 
 that all the world was happy since she was. Many a 
 night Madeline had kneeled by the window longing for 
 some one to love and love her. For although she loved 
 Edith dearly, she longed for a home, and now the long- 
 ing was about to be fulfilled, and Madeline was happy ; 
 and yet if it were possible, a greater happiness lay in 
 Edith's little letter, which was awaiting her as she tripped 
 up the stairs to her own little room. 
 
 On the threshold she paused, but stepped forward 
 with a cry of joy, for the letter on the table bore the 
 mark of Riverview, and she clasped it to her bosom like 
 a hungry child, for she had been longing for a letter from 
 " little Edith." And now it had come ; and, sinking into 
 an easy-chair, she composed lierself to read this crowning 
 joy to the happiest day of her life. And yet she little 
 dreamed as she broke the seal what real true happiness 
 was written there. We will not follow the flight of 
 Madeline's dark eyes down the letter. Smiles and tears 
 followed the first part, it was so precious to have such 
 confidence. At the latter part the dark eyes illumined 
 
q6 reclaimed. 
 
 with joy, the little hands clasped nervously, and Made- 
 line sank down at the window, breathing a heart-felt 
 prayer of thanksgiving for this great joy, the greatest she 
 had known in her lifetime. For to Madeline, to be of 
 good birth, and have a father who loved her and a sister 
 to whom she could confide her troubles (for despite her 
 petting Eiiith could be confided in), was a very precious 
 thing. It was so deliglitful to have a home ; so precious 
 to have some one to care for you. Edith's life had been 
 all sunshine, Madeline's all shadow; but now the sun 
 began to shine with a brilliancy which could never shine 
 on Edith, for she was a child of sunshine, while Madeline's 
 nature was too deep and thoughtful to glide through 
 life, for when she was happy, she was intensely happy, 
 and when miserable, intensely so. 
 
 That night a few happy tears watered Madeline's 
 pillow, for she was no longer homeless, but a daughter 
 and betrothed. One week from the time she received 
 the dear home letter she sailed from sunny Italy with 
 her face turned toward Riverview, with a promise from 
 Roy that when the picture of Madeline in his studio was 
 entirely completed he would come and be more than a 
 lover, and be married in the grand old church where she 
 and Edith had often worshipped. 
 
 "A carriage, papa, a carriage ! Yes, there is John ; it 
 is ours, and Madeline must be in it." These words 
 were spoken impetuously by Edith Warren as she stood 
 at the large French window and watched a carriage slowly 
 winding up the drive. It was a hot day in August, and 
 the playful wind from the trees came in through the silken 
 curtains, and, dancing up to Edith, cooled the hot roses 
 on her cheeks. Everything was delightful and fairy-like 
 in the drawing-room at Riverview : the large easy-chairs 
 looked cool and inviting ; the dainty perfume of flowers 
 was wafted from the tall vases, while the river winding 
 away in the distance completed the dreamy charm. It 
 indeed was one of those midsummer days when unseen 
 fairies are about, scattering dreamy, peaceful seed every- 
 where, even to the river where the boats rocked lazily on 
 the waves. Everything seemed full of a quiet joy at the 
 arrival of the new-found daui^hter and heiress. A slender 
 
DECLAIMED. 
 
 97 
 
 form stepped from the cushioned carriage, and in another 
 moment Edith was in the loving arms of her sister. 
 
 " Now my sliare," said a deep, quiet voice, after the 
 girlish greeting was over, and Lord Warren, opening his 
 arms, received Madeline with such love and tenderness 
 that she lay on his breast like a trusting child. The 
 father drew Edith to him and held them both in a close 
 embrace. It was a pretty tableau, — the wind softly stir- 
 ring the leaves, the river gleaming in the distance, and 
 the two young girls in their father's arms. When the 
 first tenderness of the meeting was over they began to 
 talk, there was so much to tell that had transpired. That 
 night they took a walk by the river, the proud father 
 walking between his two daughters, listening to their 
 little secrets and happy talk. At last they reached a 
 large tree where the wind played with the branches, and 
 the moon shone through with a tender, pitying light ; 
 here Madeline laid her head on her father's breast and 
 told all her little romance, and how Roy was to come 
 and claim her in a year if the picture was finished ; and 
 there in the moonlight they talked of Italy, sunny Italy, 
 and of the artist who was working so patiently to earn 
 his bride; and the time sped rapidly until ten o'clock, 
 when the two young girls bade their father good-night 
 and tripped away to their room. 
 
 That night, when Edith was sleeping, Madeline arose, 
 and, kneeling by the window, watched the gleaming 
 river, and listened to the rippling of the waves with a 
 sweet sense of home peace, while the moon bathed the 
 kneeling figure in a flood of silvery light. 
 
 Wedding-bells ! how they rang out in the clear starry 
 summer night ! merrily telling the tale of the lover who 
 had come to claim his bride. To-night the young girl 
 standing and looking down the long vista of wedded life, 
 is yet willing to accept the brave young man for weal 
 or woe. And now the wedding-bells ring clearer than 
 ever, sweet and low, clear and loud, pealing merry music 
 for the young girl who was reclaimed as a daughter and 
 claimed as a bride. 
 
 January 29, 18S1. 
 E (/ 9 
 
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 " What a glorious day !" And pretty Meb Pemberton 
 luxuriously sniffed the fresh May air as she swung to and 
 fro in the grand old swing up in the pear-tree. A pretty 
 little being was Mabel Pemberton, or Meb, as she was 
 generally called, with silky hair of nut color and merry 
 brown eyes; a farmer's daughter, innocent and sweet; 
 almost too dainty to be the daughter of burly Farmer 
 Pemberton, who almost idolized his only child ; perhaps 
 slightly wilful from constant petting, but always loved and 
 beloved by everybody. Up in the pear-tree, swinging to 
 and fro, she looked like a little brown bird with her 
 showering hair and ripe red lips. 
 
 Mabel's style of beauty would not have suited some 
 people, for she was not of the ethereal type. But in the 
 eyes of the handsome young man strolling toward her 
 Mabel was a " lady fair." 
 
 "Yes, 'tis a perfect day," continued Meb, swinging 
 softly among the branches, " a day of wondrous sunshine. 
 I wonder if it will be so delightful the day of our picnic? 
 Oh, well, I don't care. 1 will enjoy the sunshine and 
 wait for the shadow." 
 
 "A very pretty sentiment, Meb; just suits me." And 
 Dean Carlisle threw himself on the turf below and glanced 
 up with wistful eyes at the bright little being. 
 
 One tiny slipper peeped from the folds of the muslin 
 skirt, and Meb's eyes looked down merrily at the young 
 man, as she said, gayly, " I think it is : it always was my 
 standard to enjoy the sunshine and not think of the 
 shadow?" 
 
 "But if it come?" asked Dean, glancing away over 
 the hills, — " but if it come?" 
 
SC/NS///JVE AND SHADOW. 
 
 99 
 
 " Bear it bravely." And Meb's tone was rather sad as 
 she threw down some green leaves on the reposing 
 "Apollo." 
 
 Pretty Meb Pemberton had lived seventeen happy 
 years in the old brown farm-house, with only girl com- 
 panions, and never known her loss until six months before, 
 when the stylish mansion on the hill was bought and re- 
 furnished by the Carlisles; then she knew Dean, and for 
 six months was perfectly happy, enjoying innocent sports. 
 
 Mabel and Dean enjoyed them with united pleasure ; 
 Mabel with a keen girlish sense of joy, and Dean with the 
 knowledge that a pair of laughing brown eyes were steal- 
 ing his heart. So one pleasant day when taking a ramble 
 he had told her, but Mabel with perfect frankness had ac- 
 knowledged that she liked him as a friend, nothing more ; 
 and he knew it was true. 
 
 Dean Carlisle knew it was perfectly useless for him to 
 think of winning Meb, at least just then, for she was in 
 one of her wilful moods ; so he took her own counsel, 
 enjoying the present sunshine, and trying to forget the 
 shadow. 
 
 "Come up here. Dean; it is delicious." And Meb 
 moved over in the spacious swing, leaving room for the 
 tall young man. Dean glanced up at the coquettish 
 little maiden, and for a moment was inclined to refuse. 
 
 " Forget the shadow, enjoy the sunshine." 
 
 "I will, Meb; here I come." And the young man 
 swung himself up in the grand old swing. "Now talk 
 to me, Meb." And he leaned lazily back watching the 
 fair, saucy girl. 
 
 " What care I how fair she be, 
 If she be not fair for me ?" 
 
 thought Dean ; but he did care, as he showed a kw 
 minutes later. 
 
 " I will tell you what I am going to do for the winter. 
 Will you listen ?" 
 
 " Certainly. What new freak now, — going out as 
 governess?" And Dean looked up with something of his 
 old good humor. 
 
 " In December," and Meb swung herself out gleefully, 
 "I am going up to Aunt Mabel's in the city. Oh, I am 
 
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 going to have such iww, — rides and sleigh-rides and 
 parties. I expect I will come back loaded with pro- 
 posals, but I will only take the right one and be happy." 
 And Mabel glanced saucily at Dean. " Dear me, there 
 goes the dinner-bell ; I must go." And Meb prepared to 
 descend, for something in Dean's eyes told her that she 
 was the " one woman" to him. 
 
 "Mabel, stop one moment." And Dean looked seri- 
 ously down. " Promise me that wiien you go to this 
 stylish aunt's you will lay siege to no hearts, — that is, do 
 not get engaged; you will not know your own heart." 
 
 " Pray, sir, I do. I will promise nothing of the kind ; 
 I am under no obligation to you." And Meb, with a little 
 bow and a wrathful sparkle in her eyes, sped away. 
 
 CHAPTER ir. 
 
 It was a dark, dull day in December; everything was 
 dreary outside the farm-house, but within a bright fire 
 was crackling and burning, and pretty Meb Pemberton 
 flew busily about, engaged in the occupation of dressing. 
 " Mamma, don't you think the brown trimmed with fur 
 will look the prettiest?" And Meb, with a finger on her 
 lips, looked as if "getting ready" was a very serious 
 matter. 
 
 " You could choose nothing better, Mabel." And Mrs. 
 Pemberton, a slender, graceful woman, looked sadly at 
 the daughter whom she was to lose for two long months. 
 
 " Tlien I will wear it." And Meb was soon attired in 
 the pretty brown suit and a jaunty hat. " Now, mamma, 
 I am ready. Good-by." And Meb threw her arms around 
 her mother's neck in a tender embrace. 
 
 "There, darling, that will do; Dean is waiting." 
 And Mrs. Pemberton led her down to the parlor, where 
 Dean Carlisle stood. " My brown bird is ready, Dean." 
 And Mrs. Pemberton, with another kiss on the fresh brow, 
 saw them roll away toward the station. 
 
 The train already came thundering in, and Meb, with 
 a hasty good-by, was soon seated ; and Dean carried 
 
SUNSHJNE AND SHADOW. 
 
 away the picture of the saucy, smiling maiden waving 
 her hand to him from the car-window. 
 
 The train rolled away, and Meb was soon at her desti- 
 nation, where an easy-cushioned carriage was waiting for 
 her. "Oh, Aunt Mabel!" And Meb was soon in her 
 aunt's loving arms. Mrs. Pemberton smiled at the girl's 
 impetuosity, and led her into the carriage, where they 
 could talk lovingly without being interrupted. When 
 they reached the mansion Meb was soon installed, for 
 she was a favorite, from Kate in the kitchen to the uncle 
 who loved her as a daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The large, handsome parlors of the Pemberton man- 
 sion were ablaze with light. One week more and Meb 
 Pemberton would return to her country home; so a 
 party had been given by her stately aunt. The lace cur- 
 tains were drawn, and among all the gay assembly Mabel 
 was the gayest. Very brilliant she looked as she leaned 
 on Captain Dayton's arm ; he was talking in a low tone. 
 " Miss Pemberton, have you heard of the railway accident ? 
 There were a great many wounded and some killed. I 
 believe there was one young man from your town, VVestly, 
 killed." 
 
 " Did you hear the name ?" asked Mabel, with a quick- 
 drawn breath, for a terrible foreboding swept over her. 
 
 " Carlisle, I believe," was the careless answer, " But, 
 Miss Pemberton, you are pale, very pale ; did you know 
 him? I should not have told you so abruptly." And 
 Captain Dayton caught Mabel's form as she reeled back- 
 ward. 
 
 "Just for one moment I was ill; excuse me, Cajitain 
 Dayton, for I was well acquainted with the young man, 
 if it is the same one. Did you notice the first name?" 
 
 " I have forgotten ; but come into the conservatory : I 
 have the paper in my pocket." And with a pitying 
 glance he led her into the room filled with rare exotics. 
 
 9* 
 
SUA'SBJNE AND SHADOW. 
 
 Only a few lines, but the rosy cheeks of Meb Pem- 
 berton blanched white as she read : 
 
 " Dean Carlisle, a young man of estimable worth from 
 Westly, was killed on the train in the late accident. He 
 was taken to the farm-house of Mrs. Brownly" . . . 
 More was said, but Mabel's pale lips could not frame the 
 words. Captain Dayton watched her in surprise, the gay 
 fairy so suddenly transformed into the pale, stately girl. 
 
 " Will you excuse me from dancing. Captain Dayton ?" 
 And Meb looked up with a weary look in her brown eyes. 
 "I do not feel equal to any more exertion to-night, and 
 shall be only too glad when the evening closes." 
 
 *' How sorry I am that I told you, Miss Pemberton !" 
 And Captain Dayton glanced anxiously at the pale girl. 
 
 " And I thank you very much," said Mabel, in a ringing 
 voice. " We will go into the other room, please." 
 
 The party was over, and Meb was standing wearily back 
 of the lace curtains, when a light footfall sounded on the 
 rich carpet. " My precious little girl, are you ill ? You 
 were so pale all evening." It was Mrs. Pemberton's voice. 
 
 " Not ill, auntie, but so tired." And Meb laid her head 
 on her aunt's shoulder and sobbed bitterly. " Auntie, 
 auntie, you remember Dean Carlisle ? He is dead. Oh, 
 auntie, isn't it dreadful?" And the head was raised, the 
 brown eyes looking unnaturally large. 
 
 " My poor child, is it so?" And the symj^athy was so 
 heartfelt that Meb began to tell some of the trouble that 
 was weighing her down. 
 
 " Oh, auntie, I enjoyed the sunshine so cruelly, leaving 
 him in the shadow; now he has all the sunshine and 1 
 the shadow ; but I deserve it. I might have been happy." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " How beautiful those flowers are ! You are so kind, 
 Mrs. Brownly ; but really go down-stairs, or your dear 
 children will suffer from lack of care." 
 
 " No danger of that, Mr. Dean ; I have a good strong 
 
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 103 
 
 hand and a willing heart. But I must go now. Try and 
 be as comfortable as you can." And good-hearted Mrs. 
 Brown ly bustled from the room. As she passed from one 
 door a lady entered at the other, A tall, graceful lady, 
 with a beautifully- poised head and slender form, that 
 showed she was the young man's mother. 
 
 "Dean, my boy," she said, coming to the bedside, 
 " how are you feeling this morning?" 
 
 "Very well, thanks, mother; plenty able to take a 
 drive." 
 
 "Then you shall go, my dear boy. I will order the 
 carriage." And imprinting a soft kiss on his brow 
 she left the room. 
 
 Dean lay back on the pillows and watched the firelight 
 playing on the wall. But his thoughts were far from the 
 Brownlys and the little farm-house on the hill. They 
 travelled back to the day when Meb Pemberton and he 
 were in the swing. But his face gradually hardened as he 
 thought of her, bewitchingly beautiful, riding through 
 the clear air, among the warm cushions, feeling no pain 
 and caring not that he lay there. 
 
 " She cannot help knowing I am ill. It was even in 
 the papers I was dead, and she came not." And he turned 
 restlessly on his pillow. 
 
 " Dean, you are feverish ; perhaps you will get worse 
 if you go riding this morning, my boy. Are you willing 
 to stay at home?" 
 
 " Perfectly willing, if my lady mother will go." And 
 Dean look up entreatingly. 
 
 "I will go to satisfy you, naughty boy," said Mrs. 
 Carlisle, playfully. 
 
 "By the by, have any letters come for me, mamma?" 
 And the dark eyes were raised full of hope and longing. 
 
 " No, my boy ; none whatever." And the lady mother's 
 voice trembled as she saw the weary look return. 
 
 " Go, mother ; I want to be alone." And Dean waved 
 his hand wi-th a commanding little gesture and smile, and 
 Mrs. Carlisle left the room. 
 
 When the sound of the carriage-wheels died away and 
 Dean knew his mother was out for an hour's ride, as the 
 doctor had prescribed, he rose, and in dressing-gown and 
 
I04 
 
 SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 slippers sank into a large easy-chair with a book of poetry 
 and engravings on his knee ; but the book lay untouched, 
 and, judging from the dreamy look on his face, his thoughts 
 were far away. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Down in the kitchen the good hostess was scolding her 
 little daughter, and Dean through the open door in an 
 indefinite sense heard every word. "Dear, dear," the 
 good woman was saying, " do hurry, Lena. There is Mr. 
 Dean's dinner to get ready; but I am not complaining 
 about that, for the poor dear don't eat enough to keep 
 our little Johnny alive ; but I think it is some young girl 
 that is making him so thin and white, for I saw him kiss 
 a photograph one night when he thought I did not see 
 him. But law, Lena, she was beautiful as an angel, and 
 if she is dead I am thinking he will soon follow her." 
 
 "Dead ! she is worse than dead to me." And Dean 
 Carlisle's lips curled cynically ; but his words were cut 
 short, for he heard a sweet, clear, modulated voice that 
 thrilled him through and through ask, " Can you show 
 me the way to Brownly's farm-house?" 
 
 " Law, miss, and you are at the very door. Sit down, 
 sit down !" And Mrs. Brownly bustled around wondering 
 where she had seen that sweet face and the large earnest 
 eyes. 
 
 "Have you heard of the railroad accident?" Mrs. 
 Brownly asked, as she hurried to get the lady some re- 
 freshment. 
 
 " I have," murmured the sweet voice ; " it is that that 
 brought me here. Not until some days after the accident 
 did 1 hear that a dear friend of mine" (a perceptible quiver 
 in the voice made Dean Carlisle's heart stand almost still) 
 " was killed on the train. A few days later I learned there 
 had been some mistake; several that were reported dead 
 were improving nicely, some even well, and I came to 
 see. I thought that perhaps my friend, Dean Carlisle, 
 might be among the number." 
 
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 105 
 
 "Dean Carlisle? Law, miss, he was getting well long 
 ago." And Mrs. Brownly in her amazement dropped the 
 large wholesome piece of bread she held in her hands 
 and stood staring in dumb surprise at the beautiful appa- 
 rition, Mabel Pemberton, who stood there with her little 
 hands clasped and her eyes bright with joy. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Brownly, is he here? May I see him? I 
 cannot wait any longer. Is he here?" These words, 
 spoken with all Meb's old impetuosity, recalled her house- 
 wifely sense. 
 
 "Law, miss, he is in the room above, reading, I left 
 him. I will go up and tell him. What name shall I give?" 
 
 "Just Meb," answered the girl. And when the words 
 spoken told her she might go up, she hurried away with 
 all her old eagerness. The door was open, and in the 
 arm-chair was Dean, paler and thinner, but her Dean, and 
 in one happy moment she was sobbing in his arras. Suf- 
 fice it to say that in that brief moment, when he asked 
 her to be his bride, she answered simply and readily yes. 
 
 ********** 
 
 " Law, I knew it would be so. I knew the minute I 
 told him she was the angel in the picture ; and after she 
 came wasn't Mr. Dean a changed man? and nowhere 
 they are as happy as can be, Mr. Dean and his pretty 
 bride. Miss Mabel. Who would ever thought I would 
 leave the farm-house on the hill and come to this grand 
 mansion to be housekeeper, and my children learning in 
 the little brown school-house? It is too good to be true, 
 but it is, bless them." 
 
 Another scene. Pretty Mabel Carlisle leaning on her 
 husband's arm and walkmg proudly through the hand- 
 some grove of the Carlisle mansion : happy mistress and 
 wife. 
 
 The sun, a great golden ball, sinks back of the hills and 
 bathes everything in glory, while the shadows creep slowly 
 up among the trees, mingling beautifully the sunshine and 
 the shadow. 
 
LOST IN THE SNOW. 
 
 " Now, Carrie, do be careful. That bay is so spirited." 
 And pretty little Mrs. Lennox leaned anxiously forward, 
 watching her careless flyaway daughter, Carrie, mount 
 the handsome steed which the pompous groom had just 
 brought forward to the side of the imperious little beauty, 
 who was standing on the wide piazza, holding in one 
 small gloved hand her riding-whip, and in the other the 
 skirt of her rich velvet habit. 
 
 " Now, mamma," Carrie replied, carelessly tossing back 
 the wealth of jetty curls hanging in clustering beauty 
 around her face, which was noted for its vivaciousness and 
 sweetness. 
 
 Carrie Lennox was not only the belle of the circle in 
 which she moved, but also the romp. She was invariably 
 styled by her intimate friends as " Flyaway," being noted 
 for her singular daring on all occasions. " Now, mamma," 
 she repeated, "any one who did not know how tenderly 
 careful you are of your flyaway daughter, would think I 
 was always getting into scrapes by your repeated injunc- 
 tions of * Be careful, Carrie,' etc." 
 
 " They would not think far wrong. Miss Carrie," said a 
 mischievous voice at her side. 
 
 Carrie turned to meet her papa's proud, fond glance 
 at his daughter's glowing face. " Oh, well, papa, I have 
 not time to dispute that point, as Lightfoot is getting 
 restive, so ai/ revoir.''^ And Carrie, touching the bay lightly 
 with her silver-mounted riding-whip and kissing the tips 
 of her fingers to her parents, rode rapidly down the 
 avenue of Beechwood, soon passing from sight. 
 
 " Ho, now, old fellow," Carrie exclaimed, after a mile 
 had been traversed, "you must quicken your pace, as 
 those clouds are threatening snow, and 'tis growing bit- 
 terly cold." And with these words she touched Lightfoot 
 1 06 
 
LOST IN THE SNOW. 
 
 107 
 
 with the whip, and the spirited bay plunged forward with 
 such force as to almost unseat his rider. 
 
 The sky grew darker every minute, and just as Carrie 
 reached the ancestral home of the Mortons, whom she 
 was going to visit, the snow came down in a feathery 
 cloud. Two very pretty girls and a handsome youth 
 were standing at the window, evidently expecting her. 
 As she rode up to the piazza, the hall door was thrown 
 open, revealing a perfect bovver of light and beauty, 
 making the night look more cold and drear. Carrie 
 sprung from her iiorse, giving him in charge of the groom, 
 and then followed her friends into the large dining-room, 
 where tea was set for four. 
 
 After Carrie's wrappings had been given to the servant 
 she sank into a large easy-chair, enjoying the light and 
 warmth until she was called to tea. After they had 
 partaken of the repast, they adjourned to the parlor, 
 where music and games were the order of the evening. 
 As Elsie was playing the piano, Carrie drew aside the rich 
 curtains and gazed out into the night. The snow was 
 falling silently, covering the earth with a white mantle. 
 
 "Oh, Lina, Elsie, Roger!" exclaimed Carrie, dancing 
 round the room, " I do believe we are going to have grand 
 sleighing times. Just look how fast 'tis snowing," draw- 
 ing aside the thick curtains and throwing up the sash. 
 A shower of snowdrops fell into the room, at which Carrie 
 laughed gleefully. 
 
 "Really, you are equal to any child, Carrie," said 
 Roger, smiling at her airy movements. " You should act 
 with more decorum." Carrie flushed slightly, and, laugh- 
 ing good-humoredly, subsided into a gait which would not 
 have disgraced a woman of mature age. Roger looked 
 amused, and as Elsie began to play a waltz he managed 
 to beg pardon very gracefully. 
 
 The hall clock had pealed the hour of ten ere the 
 little party separated for the night, for Carrie had come 
 to spend the last week of the old year and the first of the 
 new. Of course after the lights were extinguished they 
 began to talk confidentially, and 'twas in the wee sma' 
 hours of the morning ere the girls were really wrapped 
 in healthful slumber. The next morning Carrie was up 
 
ro8 LOST IN THE SNOW. 
 
 first, and was brushing her hair ere Lina opened her 
 sleepy eyes. "Oh, Lina," Carrie said, "look what 
 good father Time has done in the night !" pointing to 
 the mantle of snow which covered all the defects of the 
 barren ground. " Come, wake up, and put on your 
 riding-habit, and let us take a canter in this bracing 
 air." And Carrie, with her usual exuberance of spirits, 
 danced round the room tapping her little slippered foot 
 impatiently, and infecting Lina with her mirth. 
 
 Soon the two girls descended to the lower hall, where 
 coats and furs were donned. The groom had Lightfoot 
 and Lina's pony saddled and ready, but Lina was miss- 
 ing. Carrie, who had gone to hunt her, found her hunt- 
 ing in the dining-room closet for a box of French bon- 
 bons she had stored there the day before. At last these 
 were found, and fully equipped, they stood ready to 
 mount, when fate in the shape of a horseman came riding 
 up the avenue. 
 
 It was Guy Lawrence, Lina's cousin. 
 
 " Thanks, cousin mine, for having arrived so oppor- 
 tunely. We will have quite a little party now," turning 
 to Carrie. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," answered Carrie, controlling her restive 
 horse with a firm hand. " Really, Mr. Lawrence, it was 
 very kind of you to come so opportunely." 
 
 "Is not Elsie going?" asked Guy, turning to Lina 
 disappointedly. 
 
 " Not to-day, Cousin Guy; my sweet sister prefers her 
 couch to the keen air this cold morning," Lina replied 
 lightly, and as just then the tardy Roger appeared, the 
 mounted party cantered away, Carrie and Roger taking the 
 lead. Lightfoot, after his night's rest, seemed perfectly 
 contented to canter swiftly away without the usual touch 
 of his mistress's whip, and two miles were compassed with 
 great rapidity. Just at the cross-roads which led to Car- 
 rie's home Guy and Lina were seen, and Carrie and Roger 
 drawing rein waited until they joined them, and in com- 
 pany they leisurely rode homeward. 
 
 Guy, finding a pleasant incentive in Elsie's presence, 
 needed small urging to convince him (as gay Carrie said) 
 that it was positively his duty to stay and attend to some 
 
LOST IN THE SNOW. 
 
 109 
 
 of tlie ladies;" and Miss Elsie in particular," she added, 
 
 mischievously, as she flitted away. 
 
 ***** **** 
 
 "It is too provoking, so it is!" And Carrie stamped 
 her foot passionately. " Why must Ernest go and invite 
 any one to Beechwood now, when I am away, then 
 mamma recall me to play hostess? Oh, dear!" And 
 Carrie sank indifferently on the sofa. 
 
 "What is the mattef, Carrie?" asked Lina, as she 
 came tripping into the room; "you look positively dis- 
 heartened." 
 
 " I am," said Carrie, impatiently ; " read that." And 
 Carrie tossed a missive into Lina's outstretched hand. 
 Lina opened it, and read slowly : 
 
 " Dear Carkie, — T am so sorry that you have to leave your friends 
 and return to Beechwood, but it is inevitable, my child, as I just received 
 a note from Ernest stating that he has invited a handsome young doctor, 
 by name Alton, from Islington, — that is near the academy, you know, — to 
 spend New Year's, and lor you to play the role of charming hostess. 
 Carrie dear, I am very sorry to disappoint you in your pleasant plan, 
 but really I feel it beyond my power to entertain a handsome young doc- 
 tor, who only needs my Flyaway to keep him from being a prey to ennui ; 
 so, Carrie, try and be at Beechwood by nightfall, as your guest is ex- 
 pected to-morrow night, and I need you. 
 
 " In haste. Mamma. 
 
 " P.S. — Be sure and have an attendant, as it is threatening snow, and I 
 do not wish you to be caught in the storm. 
 
 " Mamma." 
 
 " Now, isn't that provoking?" said Carrie, glancing 
 at the missive as if it were at fault. 
 
 "Yes, I am so sorry," said Lina; "it will spoil all 
 our plans. But certainly, Carrie, you don't mean to go 
 now." 
 
 "Yes, I must," said Carrie, impatiently. "It is four 
 o'clock now, and I must be home by nightfall." 
 
 " But the gentlemen have all gone hunting, Carrie," 
 said Lina, in dismay. 
 
 "Oh, it does not make any difference," said Carrie. 
 " I am not at all afraid." 
 
 " Then I sliall order the carriage. You are not going 
 to ride Lightfoot to-night unattended," said Lina, firmly. 
 
 "Indeed, Lina, I wouUl rather," said wilful Carrie. 
 
 As just then the groom passed the window, Carrie said, 
 10 
 
LOST IN THE SNOW. 
 
 " Please have Lightfoot ready in precisely a half-hour for 
 me to ride." Then turning to Lina, she said, merrily, 
 " Certainly you have learned by this time, Lina, that 
 
 " When a woman will she will, 
 You may depend on't, 
 And when she won't she won't, 
 And there's an end on't." 
 
 Elsie and Mrs. Morton begged Carrie to wait until the 
 hunters returned, but as Carrie refused, they let her ride 
 away unattended. Wrapped in a thick coat and furs, she 
 did not feel the cold, and Lightfoot cantered swiftly over 
 the snow. The air was keen and the snow drove blindly 
 in Carrie's face, and ere half the distance was traversed 
 darkness closed in on her ; but Carrie's heart was a stranger 
 to fear, and she rather enjoyed being out in the darkness 
 and snow. 
 
 At last she reached the cross-roads, and without any 
 idea of taking the wrong way she whipped Lightfoot up, 
 and cantered swiftly onward. "■ Surely I must be almost 
 home now," she soliloquized, and then she began to won- 
 der what the handsome young doctor would be like ; but 
 her thoughts were diverted from their channel by being 
 plunged precipitately into the snow. " Romantic, this !" 
 she exclaimed, as she gathered up her riding-habit ; but 
 now Lightfoot was missing, and she called the bay im- 
 patiently, out of humor with the world in general and 
 the doctor in particular. 
 
 Just then a manly voice said, "I presume this is the 
 horse you are calling," leading forward Lightfoot. 
 
 "Yes, thanks, it is," said Carrie, feeling rather fright- 
 ened at being alone with a stranger at dusk ; but his next 
 words reassured her, as indeed his courteous voice would 
 have done. 
 
 " Will you please direct me to Beechwood Place? I am 
 come on to spend New Year's day with Ernest Lennox ; 
 but I suppose they must have been mistaken in the day, 
 as there was no one at the station." 
 
 Carrie answered with perfect composure, "I am going 
 to Beechwood. I also lost my way in the snow, but I 
 soon can be righted." 
 
 "Now I will have some fun," thought Carrie; "of 
 
LOST IN THE SNOW. 
 
 course since I have lost my way, he will never dream I 
 am any relation to Ernest or I would not have been lost." 
 So she went on in perfect composure : " Miss Carrie Len- 
 nox and I are great friends; indeed, she is the most inti- 
 mate friend I have. I was visiting the Mortons, but to- 
 night I had occasion to ride over to Beechwood, and 
 have lost my way." As she spoke she turned her horse's 
 head homeward. 
 
 "I do not know Miss Lennox personally," said Dr. 
 Alton, for he was the expected guest, "only through her 
 brother's merit ; but from his description I should judge 
 she was both lovely in personal and mental attainments. " 
 
 "And you will not be disappointed, I am sure," re- 
 turned Carrie ; " but you shall soon judge, as we are here 
 at Beechwood. But to whom am I indebted for the gal- 
 lant rescue of my pony?" 
 
 " Dr, Alton," he returned ; "and you?" But Carrie 
 did not answer, for just then the parlor door was thrown 
 open, and Dr. Alton helped Carrie dismount, and they 
 entered the room together. 
 
 Mrs. Lennox started from her chair by the fire. " Carrie, 
 my dear child ; but really " 
 
 "Mamma, this is Dr. Alton; my mother, doctor, and 
 Miss Carrie Lennox, at your disposal," bowing. 
 
 "Are you disappointed?" Carrie asked, blushing. 
 
 " Not at all," he answered, bending on Carrie a look 
 of admiration, as the gaslight heightened her beauty. 
 
 A bountiful repast was set before the two, and ere the 
 meal was over they were talking like old friends. " Really, 
 Miss Carrie," Dr. Alton said, turning smilingly to Carrie, 
 " you were successful in your little ruse, as I had no idea 
 you were the person." 
 
 The next day Ernest arrived, and New Year's was spent 
 very happily. After Dr. Alton's arrival Carrie lost her 
 sauciness, and became quite shy and reticent. 
 
 Certainly Carrie was a charming hostess, for before Dr. 
 Alton left Beechwood he claimed a promise of Flyaway 
 Carrie for his bride, and Carrie confided to Lina Morton 
 that it was the beginning of her happiness, being "lost 
 in the snow." 
 1881. 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Fitfully blew the cold autumn winds, moaning and 
 sobbing around the warm, comfortable home of Bessie 
 Raymond. 
 
 The large cheery dining-room, well lighted and warm, 
 contained no Bessie. At one end of the room was a tall, 
 handsome man conversing in serious tones with the daintily- 
 formed woman reclining on the lounge. " But, Archie," 
 the little lady was saying in tones of remonstrance, " you 
 know how sensitive our Bessie is, and perhaps being in 
 such a large school would prevent her from becoming the 
 fair, healthy young girl we wish her to be." 
 
 " No danger, Opal," replied the gentleman ; "no dan- 
 ger whatever. It is just what I wish for my little girl : to 
 go among strangers and learn to be the graceful, cultured 
 woman you will want for a companion as you grow older. 
 Rose Lester's boarding-school is the best place for our 
 Bessie just now; are you convinced, Opal?" 
 
 "More than convinced, Archie; perfectly satisfied for 
 our child to go to Miss Lester's school. What day shall 
 we ride to Cedar Grove?" 
 
 " Thursday she is expecting me ; we will leave Bessie 
 at home, or if she wishes she may go to the city to spend 
 the day. But I must go now ; tell Bessie when she comes 
 down-stairs that I wish to speak with her when I return. 
 Good-by, Opal." 
 
 A few minutes before a pretty little girl of twelve 
 years sped up the staircase, after learning enough from 
 the room below to know that it was settled for her to go 
 for one term to Miss Lester's school. 
 
 When Opal Raymond had said Bessie was sensitive she 
 spoke truly. Reared with her father and mother, she had 
 
 112 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL- DA VS. 
 
 113 
 
 lived for twelve years with scarcely any companion except 
 her books, of which she was passionately fond. 
 
 Happily for Archie Raymond, he had not seen the pale 
 cheeks and retiring manner of his little daughter until 
 he had been called to it by a chance word from Bessie's 
 mamma. And to-night in the wide hall Bessie had heard 
 it all, the tale of dread, — boarding-school. 
 
 Speeding up the stairs, she had sunk on tli£ attic floor. 
 It was a low, sloping roof, and the autumn rain beat 
 mournfully on the eaves, making the little girl feel more 
 lonesome and dreary. This sloping room had been fitted 
 up for Bessie; it had two prettily-shaped windows that 
 let in the bright beams of sunlight on pleasant days 
 through the tiny curtains ; bright carpet covered the floor, 
 small chairs and ottomans were scattered about, but the 
 chief article was the bookcase. Here Bessie dreamed 
 away most of her time, re-living again the olden ages, 
 suiting herself to each one, be it knight, maiden, or 
 lover. Here Bessie wept over the " Wide, Wide World," 
 and dreamed mournfully over the many books which com- 
 posed her library. Bessie was a winsome, loving child, 
 morbidly sensitive, and very proud of her parents. 
 
 Opal Raymond, a pretty, thoughtless little mother, 
 knew no more about guiding Bessie's thoughts and ways 
 into the right channel than when she was the idolized 
 child of wealthy parents. To say she did not love Bessie 
 would be untrue, for she loved her pretty fairy-dreaming 
 daughter dearly ; it was merely by accident that she had 
 called Mr. Raymond's attention to Bessie, thus awaken- 
 ing all the father's solicitude, which had sltimbered for 
 twelve years, and was now to help the little girl grow 
 to be the cultured, healthy woman that Opal Raymond 
 dimly wished her child to become. 
 
 Up in the attic Bessie lay sobbing away her strength. 
 To go to the big boarding-school in Bessie's eyes was 
 one of the worst punishments that could befall her. 
 " Oh, dear ! how can I go ?" sobbed the little girl ; " it 
 will be horrid. Oh, I cannot, I cannot ! it will break 
 my heart." 
 
 Do not think Bessie foolish, little readers. She had 
 lived a retired life, and this seemed a direful punishment. 
 h 10* 
 
114 BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 Ill calmer moments of reflection, Bessie thought, " Oh, 
 my dear little mamma ! if I say I cannot go, she will be 
 unhappy; but how can I go?" Bessie was a brave little 
 girl despite her dreaming, and the more she considered 
 the more she thought it would be wrong for her to rebel. 
 " Dear mamma would be so grieved, and I must be brave 
 for her sake." This was Bessie's resolution. 
 
 From her childhood the little girl had always called 
 the pretty woman " little mamma," in an indefinite way 
 believing she should protect and be careful of such frail 
 humanity in her papa's absence; many a night she had 
 helped Mrs. Raymond dress for a party or evening com- 
 pany, standing on her little feet until almost ill, and the 
 foolish little mother would not notice the pale, weary 
 face, but would kiss her and call her "my Bessie" in a 
 way which to Bessie was ample payment. Mrs. Raymond 
 would trip away gay and bright, and the little girl would 
 go up to her library and dream of her little mother. 
 The one wish of her life was to grow to be such a dainty, 
 fairy little woman as Mrs. Raymond. Sometimes Bessie 
 would tell her mother this, and Mrs. Raymond would add, 
 gayly, "And wish that you may have such a sweet, com- 
 fortable, old-fashioned little Bessie as I have." Then 
 the child was perfectly happy, and would go away to 
 dream, repeating those words again and again, and some- 
 times falling asleep with them still trembling on her lips. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Down in the dining-room sat Bessie's " little mamma." 
 She was a slender, graceful woman, fairy-like in stature, 
 and coaxing and winning enough to be veritable " Dora," 
 the child-wife. She had been the daughter of wealthy 
 parents, who had petted and spoiled her until she did not 
 know what adversity means. She had met Archie Ray- 
 mond when only nineteen, and her warm little heart 
 could not be controlled; they were married, and if 
 Archie Raymond, child of adversity, ever found fault with 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 115 
 
 his " child-wife," no rebuke passed his lips. From child- 
 hood he had to seek his own living, and at twenty-five, 
 with a comfortable fortune amassed, he wooed and won 
 the heiress Opal Clifton. Fate settled his life. He 
 loved his pretty clinging child-wife. His money was 
 sufficient, and more than sufficient, to supply all his wants, 
 and his baby girl Bessie was his heart's delight. If 
 Bessie at twelve years old was delicate, it was no fault 
 of Archie Raymond; for although the child read too 
 much, every wish of her heart was granted, for the father 
 had determined his child should never see the bleak, 
 cold world as he had seen it. Perhaps Mrs. Raymond 
 was thinking of this, for the girlish face was unusually 
 sad. 
 
 "Mrs. Raymond, shall I call Miss Bessie? It is 
 most time for tea, and she has been up in the library 
 a long time." 
 
 "Yes, Janet," replied the little lady, turning to the 
 servant ; " send Bessie down immediately. She has been 
 reading too much for her own good, poor child." And 
 with these words, she returned her gaze to the glowing 
 coals. 
 
 A {ew minutes later a light footfall fell softly on the 
 rich carpet, and two small arms were placed lovingly 
 around Mrs. Raymond's neck. It was Bessie ; she was 
 dressed in a pretty, comfortable dress, the golden hair 
 held back by a wide blue ribbon, and the slender waist 
 confined by a sash of the same. 
 
 "Why, Bessie, how you startled me! you came in so 
 softly," exclaimed Mrs. Raymond, as she felt the touch 
 of the clinging arms. 
 
 "Did I, mamma?" and Bessie looked grieved. "I 
 did not intend to startle you. Janet called me to tea. 
 Did papa take his early, or is he going to have it when 
 he returns?" 
 
 "When he returns," replied the mother; "he was 
 called away early and will not be back until late, but he 
 wishes you to wait for him ; he wants to tell you some- 
 thing that I think will please you." 
 
 Bessie's heart sank. " Miss Lester's school, mamma?" 
 asked the little girl, inquiringly. 
 
il6 BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 Mrs. Raymond looked surprised. " How did you 
 hear of it, Bessie?" she asked. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, please forgive me. I was going through 
 the hall and I heard you say, ' Bessie go to school,' and 
 I listened. It was very naughty, I know," looking 
 guilty. 
 
 Mrs. Raymond smiled gayly. " I don't think my lit- 
 tle girl would have done such a naughty thing if she had 
 not heard the word school, would you, dear?" 
 
 "No, mamma," answered Bessie, frankly. 
 
 " Well, I am sure you will like Rose Lester's school ; 
 your papa will tell you all about it. Rose was a friend of 
 his boyhood, and he thinks that no woman could train 
 his little girl as well as Rose Lester, — not even her own 
 mamma," said the little lady, sadly. "But here comes 
 Janet with the eggs, and we will have our tea, as my little 
 girl's cheeks look rather pale." 
 
 When supper was over, Bessie took her station at her 
 mother's feet, as quiet as a little bird, never stirring until 
 Mrs. Raymond, from her couch, requested her to play 
 some music. She could soothe or enliven, and to her 
 lady mother her talent for music was a great pride. Often 
 when the handsome drawing-rooms were full of company 
 Bessie would play, and accompany it with her sweet little 
 voice. She was a great favorite among her mamma's and 
 papa's friends, although so very shy : even the talkative 
 people would praise her, calling her a pretty, winning lit- 
 tle girl. Sometimes when an unusual piece of flattery 
 came to the little girl's ears, she would go away and dream 
 of it, murmuring at the end, "If mamma and papa are 
 only proud of me !" 
 
 To-night the music was unusually gay, misleading the 
 little mother from thinking she was sad. She was playing 
 a soothing piece, when a clear, firm tread was heard in the 
 hall, and Mr. Raymond's manly form darkened the door. 
 He motioned to Bessie's mother to keep silence, and the 
 music went on. At the conclusion, Bessie wheeled round 
 on the stool. "Mamma," she began, but seeing Mr. 
 Raymond, she sprang to him with "Dear papa!" and 
 wound her arms fondly around his neck. " Well done, 
 little daughter," were the pleasant words with which he 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 117 
 
 greeted lier. " Now, if you please, I will lay aside my hat 
 and coat." 
 
 If Bessie was coy with strangers, with her parents she 
 was fearless. After Janet had brought in the tea-things, 
 Mr. Raymond seated himself, Bessie presiding with a 
 womanly little air that pleased her father's watchful eye. 
 
 "Bessie," he said, as he sipped his coffee, "I have 
 something to speak to you about, as your mamma has told 
 you, I suppose." 
 
 "Yes, papa," was the meek reply. 
 
 "Well, Bessie," he continued, "I do not wish to say 
 much ; it is simply this, you are going to boarding-school. 
 Rose Lester, your future teacher, was a much-loved friend 
 of mine in my boyhood, and I would not wish you to ac- 
 quire your education under a nobler or better woman. The 
 school is a handsome building, with a river in the distance, 
 and a grove of cedars, from which it derives its name. The 
 girls' rooms I will know more about to-morrow, as your 
 mamma and I are going to ride to the Grove. You are 
 not going, but if you i)refer may go to the city for the 
 day. Do you like my project, little one?" 
 
 "Oh, papa, I don't like to leave you and mamma; it 
 is so much nicer to live in this dear old home than that 
 big school." 
 
 " Well, well, my child, you will like it better when you 
 have lived some weeks at Cedar Grove. If you do not, you 
 shall return to this dear old home and never leave it again. 
 We will miss you, my darling, your mamma and I, but it 
 is for your own good ; you will love Rose Lester, and have 
 many friends among the scholars. Now, Bessie dear, we 
 will say no more, but as the time has flown and it is my 
 girl's bedtime, you must say good-night, as we want those 
 pale cheeks to get rosy." 
 
 Bessie obeyed, and although, when she reached her 
 room and was snugly ensconced in her own little bed, 
 she thought she would vent her grief in tears, she was 
 soon fast asleep, dreaming happy dreams of school-life 
 and of Rose Lester,. her papa's boyhood friend. 
 
Ii8 BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 In the large school-yard of Cedar Grove were a merry 
 bevy of girls, wandering around in groups through the 
 cool, shady places. In the background was the school- 
 house, a large, cheery stone building, with waving curtains 
 and a refreshing home-like air which was quite delightful. 
 Not far backward sloped the river, the waves shimmering 
 in the sunlight. It was the second week of the Septem- 
 ber term, and the girls were chatting as if they had not 
 seen each other for years. A burst of laughter broke on 
 the air; it echoed from a merry group of girls ranging 
 from twelve to fourteen, — all pretty, winsome children, 
 of which any father might be proud. 
 
 "Ray Bellmont, how can you say such a thing? You 
 know the very name sounds pretty, — Bessie, the idea of 
 a Bessie being hatefully proud !" 
 
 "I don't care," said the wilful Ray, "I am sure this 
 Bessie (Elizabeth very likely) will be a tall, hateful girl, 
 and disagreeably proud. Wouldn't I be proud too if my 
 papa had known Rose Lester in childhood? Yes, indeed 
 I would," with a wilful shake of the dancing curls. 
 
 Ray Bellmont was an only child ; her parents were 
 dead, and she lived with an aunt and uncle, who, though 
 very kind to the child, did not fill the heart of love which 
 merry Ray Bellmont had. Therefore she gave her affec- 
 tion to her school-mates and to her much-loved teacher. 
 Rose Lester. And yet among the scholars, although such 
 a favorite, there was no particular friend whom Ray could 
 choose to place confidence in. Just as the merriment was 
 at its height there was a sound of carriage-wheels, and all 
 the girls turned to catch a glimpse of the new pupil and 
 school-mate. As the carriage passed swiftly, they could 
 just see the tip of the feather which swept Bessie's bonnet ; 
 and Bessie, although she felt timid and frightened as she 
 saw the strange faces at the window, yet she felt as if 
 there was some one among them that would be her 
 friend. 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL- DA VS. 
 
 119 
 
 The large bell, rung by Rose Lester, soon filled the 
 empty school-room to overflowing, and among all the 
 faces Bessie was attracted to none but the saucy, pretty 
 little girl perched on the last seat. 
 
 A few words spoken by the teacher introduced Bessie 
 as a pupil at Cedar Grove. "And now, my dear," the 
 slender, graceful woman said, "you may go and sit by 
 Ray Bellmont. Ray, rise." Ray stood up, and every 
 individual curl on her head danced with delight at the 
 thought of having Bessie under her protection. 
 
 Never did Mrs. Raymond look prettier or more fairy- 
 like than the day when she appeared at Cedar Grove, and 
 never did Bessie feel prouder of her " little mamma." 
 
 At last when all was settled and Bessie really was a 
 boarding-school girl, Mr. and Mrs. Raymond prepared 
 to return home. A few loving words from her papa and 
 a tender embrace from her mamma, and just as the shadows 
 began to creep around Cedar Grove the carriage rolled 
 away, and Bessie stood alone by Miss Lester's side, — her 
 school-days really begun. 
 
 When the last glimpse of the carriage faded away in 
 the distance, Miss Lester turned to Bessie with her win- 
 ning smile, and said, "Now, my dear, we must be great 
 friends, as I knew your papa when he and I were children, 
 and now his child must be my little friend too." 
 
 Rose Lester was a winner of child-hearts, and seeing 
 that Bessie was not in the mood to talk, she adroitly 
 changed the subject. 
 
 "Now, Bessie," she continued, "we will see about 
 your room. Ray, come here," she called to the child, 
 who was dancing around like a will-o'-the-wisp ; "come 
 with us. I will go on, and you and Bessie may follow me 
 to the second floor." 
 
 It does not take children long to get acquainted, and 
 ere they reached the rooms Bessie was laughing merrily at 
 Ray's account of what she thought her room-mate would 
 be like ; " for I know you will be my room-mate," whis- 
 pered Ray. "I heard that horrid Miss Thorne telling 
 Miss Lester that if Bessie Raymond was such a scape- 
 grace as Ray Bellmont she would soon want to change 
 our rooms. Miss Lester is just splendid, and I expect 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DA YS. 
 
 you will be a favorite," said Ray, shaking her head, " but 
 oh ! beware of Miss Thoriie. " 
 
 This was said so solemnly that Bessie was thrown into 
 a fit of merriment, and was still laughing when they 
 reached the dormitory, where they found Miss Lester. 
 " What is the matter, girls?" she asked, pleasantly, notic- 
 ing the smiles. 
 
 " I was only telling Bessie to beware of Miss Thorne," 
 said Ray, coolly seating herself and tapping on the win- 
 dow-pane. 
 
 "Ray," said Miss Lester, reprovingly, "I see if you 
 are three months older you are no better than you were 
 last term. You must not talk about your teachers; leave 
 Bessie to form her own opinions, which I hope will be 
 favorable. Now, Bessie," she said, turning to the little 
 girl, " this in future is your room, and Ray is your room- 
 mate. These three drawers are yours, the rest are Ray's; 
 in short, half of everything is yours, and I hope you and 
 Ray will be good friends," she said, archly. "Ray will 
 explain the rules to you, and although the first day you 
 will have very little to do, yet hereafter I wish everything 
 done as the rest do." 
 
 With these few kind words. Miss Lester told the girls 
 they might go down to the piazza. When they reached 
 the first landing Ray began to skip along, Bessie follow- 
 ing as best she could. They could hear the voices of the 
 girls, when suddenly a door opened and a cold, harsh 
 voice said, "Young ladies, no skipping. Ray Bellmont, 
 I will report you for teaching the scholars to disregard 
 the rules if I do not see better conduct in future." And 
 with these words the door shut. 
 
 " Horrid creature !" said Ray, snapping her fingers at 
 the closed door. " That is Jane Thorne, Bessie, our head 
 teacher next to Miss Lester, and as long as you stay at 
 Cedar Grove you will detest her. Oh, dear!" with a 
 comical change of her tone, "if Lily King hasn't got 
 some of those delightful cream chocolates. Come, Bessie, 
 I will introduce you ; she is sure to divide." 
 
 That night as Bessie sank to rest with Ray's voice still 
 sounding in her ears, she had a vague idea that Lily King 
 and Ray Bellmont were the nicest girls at Cedar Grove. 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The next morning Bessie was awakened by the ring- 
 ing of a large bell that resounded through the school- 
 house. Raising her head from the pillow, she saw Ray 
 sitting on the floor, one plump little foot bare and the 
 other half hidden in a stocking. If Bessie had been in- 
 clined to homesickness it vanished at the sight of Ray, 
 who called gayly, her own face bathed in smiles, " Wake 
 up, wake up, Bessie ; Miss Thorne is coming through the 
 hall with " 
 
 At these words Bessie sprang out of bed, beginning to 
 dress as she asked, anxiously, " With what, Ray?" 
 
 "With her nightcap on," said naughty Ray, tossing 
 back her head and laughing until the tears ran down her 
 cheeks. Just then the door opened and the awful form 
 of Miss Thorne appeared, as in a grim voice she said, " If 
 this noise is not stopped I " 
 
 "Is it against the rules to laugh. Miss Thorne?" inter- 
 posed Ray." I never knew it, indeed," meekly. 
 
 With a dignified look Miss Thorne closed the door 
 heavily, while Ray, rejoiced at this good fortune, danced 
 a polka in honor of the enemy. 
 
 Just as the girls finished dressing the bell sounded again, 
 which Ray informed Bessie was for them to march quietly 
 down to breakfast. 
 
 " Do you know what I am going to do ?" asked the in- 
 corrigible Ray. " Some day I am going to pin green rib- 
 bons all over Miss Thome's nightcaps. Oh, won't that 
 be jolly, and won't she be horrified?" 
 
 " Ray !" exclaimed Bessie. 
 
 " At your service, ma'am," retorted Ray, with one of 
 her meek looks, which almost convulsed Bessie, as they 
 walked down the broad staircase. When they reached 
 the breakfast-room they were soon all seated in order, 
 Miss Lester seeing that every one had plenty of the 
 good, wholesome food of which the tables were full. 
 After breakfast Miss Lester examined Bessie, and after 
 
 F II 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 showing her her classes, sent her out to enjoy the hour 
 of freedom from seven until eight ; and Bessie, kept 
 busy by Ray's merry tongue, had hardly time to think 
 of her " little mamma" and her home. 
 
 Recreation hour over, the girls were sent into the 
 school-room for a half-hour of preparation in their lessons. 
 The other half was their own. At nine o'clock the 
 school-bell rang, and from then until twelve, lessons. 
 
 During school-hours Miss Thorne, whose chief work 
 was to attend to the rooms, to see that the girls had aired 
 them and shook up their beds, which was one of the rules, 
 entered the school-room and said a few words to Miss 
 Lester. Lessons went on just the same, but Ray could 
 tell by the glance directed to their corner that the news 
 concerned Bessie and herself. But although she racked 
 her busy little brain, she could think of nothing done 
 wrong that morning. Perhaps if she had peeped into 
 her room and seen the tumbled bed and unraised win- 
 dows she would have been enlightened. After school 
 came dinner ; after dinner a half-hour of preparation, 
 and then the time was their own until two o'clock. 
 After lesson preparation Miss Lester called Ray, who 
 was chatting with Bessie, to come to her. The little girl 
 obeyed the summons, and followed her teacher into the 
 school-room. The girls, who were all crowded on the 
 piazza when she returned, clamored eagerly to know why 
 she had been closeted with Miss Lester. " Girls, I can- 
 not tell you," said the naughty Ray. "It is of such 
 importance that I could not possibly disclose it to any 
 one." After a good deal of teasing, she was coaxed to 
 tell, and the girls were both disappointed and indignant. 
 
 " Come, Bessie," said Ray, springing up, " let us play 
 some game." And in a few minutes the school-girls were 
 engaged in a merry play, Ray forgetting her grievance 
 and joining with a zest. The moon was just appearing 
 from under a white cloud, when the bell rang for the girls 
 to retire. Precisely at nine Miss Thorne passed around 
 to see that tiie lights were extinguished. There was some 
 merry talking done after Miss Thorne had gone, but long 
 after Ray was in dreamland Bessie lay wide awake, her 
 brown eyes staring into the darkness and her lashes 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 123 
 
 moist with tears. She was thinking of her "little 
 mamma," her pleasant home, and the father whom she 
 loved so dearly. "Oh, dear! I wish I had never come 
 here. It is so much nicer to be at home, up in my dear 
 little library. Ray, I like Ray, but she could come to 
 see me, and I want to see my 'little mamma.' " These 
 words were murmured drowsily, for overcome with long- 
 ing for home and weariness, she was soon fast asleep, her 
 lashes still heavy with tears. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Three weeks had passed away, and Bessie had over- 
 come her homesickness, for in the presence of bright, 
 airy Ray Bellmont it was impossible to be sad. 
 
 It was Saturday morning, and a group of girls were 
 gathered in the school-room. Hats and cloaks donned, 
 and baskets on their arms, showed that they were going 
 to have a frolic, if their bright faces had not. 
 
 " Now, girls, prepare ; here comes Miss Thorne." And 
 Ray sank submissively into a seat just as the door opened 
 to admit their teacher. 
 
 " I have come, girls," she said, " to tell you that Miss 
 Lester is unable to take you to gather nuts, but I am to 
 be her substitute. I will be ready," she said, deliber- 
 ately, drawing out her watch, " in precisely a half-hour." 
 And with these words she passed from the room. 
 
 The girls looked at one another in blank amazement. 
 This picnic in the woods with their loved teacher. Rose 
 Lester, would be delightful ; but now there would be no 
 gay chatting, no fun of boiling water over sticks and a roar- 
 ing blaze, no playing house-keeping, as they set the table 
 with the funny little plates, the spiders running in between, 
 no wandering off with Miss Lester and gathering autumn 
 leaves, and last, but not least, no merry chatting in the 
 dusk as they came homeward laden with nuts.. None 
 of this. Oh ! it was a cruel disappointment, and the 
 blank, grave faces of the school-girls when the an- 
 
124 
 
 BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 nouncement was given were not likely to make the usually 
 grim teacher relax. 
 
 " Girls," said Ray Bellmont, striking a menacing atti- 
 tude, "it is horrid to think of having Miss Thome's 
 watchful eye on us all day ; and, oh, our picnic is spoiled 1" 
 And Ray gave up in despair, when suddenly a bright proj- 
 ect flashed through her head, and jumping up, she ran 
 eagerly from the room. When she returned, in breathless 
 tones she told them they were to have all the privileges to 
 which they had been accustomed, — boiling the kettle in 
 gypsy fashion, setting the table, going after leaves and 
 gathering nuts. This announcement pacified the girls, and 
 they followed in silence the grim form of Miss Thorne. It 
 was one of those lovely autumn Saturdays ; the sun rose 
 hot and brilliant, and the cool shelter of the woods was 
 refreshing. When they reached the picnic ground, even 
 the idea of Miss Thome's being there did not lessen their 
 enjoyment, for swings were put up, croquet set out, and 
 they had a good time in general. Down by the water 
 was a cave, and here the girls played house, Bessie acting 
 the part of mother; and a very funny little mother she 
 was, sometimes overcome by the naughtiness of her oldest 
 child, Ray. At dinner-time they all engaged in helping : 
 Ray boiled the kettle, Bessie made the coffee, Lillie cooked 
 the eggs, and the other girls did the table part. And, 
 strnnge to say, when they all sat around the rustic table, 
 Miss Thorne, neither agreeable nor pleasant, made no 
 objection to the merriment which made the woods ring, 
 although the chief participant was the detested Ray. 
 
 After dinner Bessie and Ray cleared the dishes, Bessie 
 cleaning them in the cool water, and Ray drying them on 
 a dainty little towel. After this was done the children 
 separated, Bessie and Ray securing their sun-hats and go- 
 ing for leaves and nuts, their little baskets swinging on 
 their arms, and the hats more off than on the golden 
 brown heads, for, as Ray said, " the cool air was so deli- 
 cious." At last they reached the place where the ground 
 was covered with nuts, and here securing mossy seats, 
 they lazily gathered the large nuts. Bessie began to tell 
 of a gay time she had once on a nutting expedition, and 
 gradually she began to speak of her home, of her "little 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS.. 125 
 
 mamma," her papa, and the cosey attic library. When 
 she spoke of how she did not want to leave her " little 
 mamma," the tears gathered in Ray's eyes as she said, 
 mournfully, "My mamma is dead;" and then she told 
 how she lived with her rich aunt and uncle, and although 
 they were very kind and gratified every whim, she was not 
 happy, and when she went home in vacation how lone- 
 some she felt. And gradually they told all their little 
 secrets, at the end being greater friends than ever, for 
 Bessie had promised, with her parents' permission, that 
 Ray should go home and spend the Christmas holidays 
 at Meadowbrook. Just as Ray's eyes were filled with 
 pathetic tears a squirrel darted across their path, and the 
 two children started in pursuit; but the little fellow was 
 not to be caught, and climbed a tree, where he sat watch- 
 ing with provoking coolness the children's movements. 
 But they returned to the beech-tree and the confidence 
 which was so saucily interrupted. If the beech-tree had 
 been like the "talking oak" he would have told Miss 
 Thorne, who strayed there after the little girls had left, a 
 few of the secrets which had been disclosed to him. 
 
 The walk home through the dusk was very pleasant, 
 and although they had partaken of a lunch, yet all the 
 girls were willing for the supper which was provided. It 
 had been a pleasant day, as every one owned ; and to 
 Bessie and Ray that sunny Saturday was long remembered, 
 for a friendship sprang up between the two girls which 
 was never quite severed, and the old beech waved its 
 branches, seemingly well pleased. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Tuesday morning dawned clear and beautiful. Bessie 
 was walking by herself in the school-yard, waiting for 
 Ray, and as the chatting little fairy was not with her, her 
 thoughts wandered back to Meadowbrook. She was 
 imagining herself in the cosey little library, dreaming 
 over the delightful books with which it was well filled. 
 
126 BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 She was thinking sadly of the " little mamma," and long- 
 ing to tlirow her arms around that dear neck or to sit at 
 her papa's feet. She was, in fancy, dreamily playing the 
 piano, and soothing away the headache to which her 
 mamma was so often a prey, when Ray suddenly bounded 
 upon her, exclaiming, " Oh, you dear darling girl ! here 
 you are taking a walk just as if nothing had happened. 
 What do you think has come for you, Bessie?" 
 
 Bessie, bewildered by the sudden raid and flow of words, 
 stood still, too much surprised to speak. 
 
 " Can't you guess? something so delightful !" 
 
 " Is it really for me?" asked Bessie, slowly. 
 
 "Yes, yes!" cried the delighted Ray; "can't you 
 really guess? Why, you dear stupid girl, it is a box from 
 home." 
 
 Bessie's face lit up as bright as Ray's as she exclaimed, 
 eagerly, "A box from home! Where is it, Ray?" 
 
 "Come and see it." And the impetuous Ray hurried 
 Bessie toward the wide hall, where the October sunshine 
 was beaming brightly. There in the middle of the hall 
 was a large box, and on the top, marked in big letters, 
 was her name, "Bessie L. Raymond." As Bessie was 
 examining it Miss Thorne passed along the hall. 
 
 "May I have my box taken to my room now, Miss 
 Thorne?" she asked, eagerly ; for she was anxious to hear 
 from her " little mamma" as well as to see the contents. 
 
 " I thought you knew that you are not allowed to have 
 it opened until after school-hours ; Ray should have told 
 you." And with a cold look at the expectant face, Miss 
 Thorne passed on. 
 
 As the school-bell rang, Bessie had no time to think of 
 her box, but Ray's comical looks directed to the clock 
 ticking away demurely served as a reminder all day. 
 
 That night, as soon as study hours were over, Bessie 
 invited the girls to her room, where crowded about they 
 waited eagerly, for it had been a long time since they had 
 received a box from home, and the last one had been for 
 Ray. Bessie with anxious fingers undid the lid, and there 
 beneath was an assortment which would have pleased any 
 school-girl. On top was a note from her papa ; it ran as 
 follows : 
 
BESS/F'S SCHOOL-DA YS. 
 
 127 
 
 " My dear little Bessie, — You cannot know how glad I was when 
 I heard my httle girl was not pining for home, but was growing plump 
 and rosy in the sunshine of this bright little Ray. Miss Lester speaks 
 very highly of both my girls ; for I will tdll you a secret, Bessie, — I have 
 adopted this stray ray of sunsliine, and intend her to be a sister to my 
 Bessie. I mu5t go to the city to-day, and I am just ready to start. Tell 
 Ray to shine on and my Bessie keep brave. 
 
 " Loving Papa. 
 
 " P.S. — I hope you will like the box, and the books at the bottom are 
 choice. 
 
 ' Papa." 
 
 "What a kind papa you have, Bessie !" said Ray, ad- 
 miringly, but bending studiously over the box to hide the 
 tears that would come at the thought of her dead papa. 
 But even this was foigotten as a large and handsome cake 
 was brought to view, then a box of fine cream-chocolates, 
 bonbons, candy, fruit, — bananas, apples, oranges, and 
 lemons, — in fact, every eatable that Bessie cared for. At 
 the bottom were six prettily-bound books, and a long let- 
 ter from her mamma, to which she would have settled her- 
 self at once if the girls had not been there. As it was she 
 was bound to entertain them, and began by distributing 
 lavishly the dainties which had been sent her. When this 
 was done the box was half diminished. After a little chat 
 the bell rang for them to separate for their rooms, and as 
 Ray was gazing out of the window she began to read 
 eagerly the pretty book bound in blue and gold, and the 
 most charming of all, "Little Women." 
 
 But Ray was not dreaming, as Bessie supposed ; her 
 brain was concocting a plan in which they could have a 
 great deal of stolen enjoyment. 
 
 "Bessie!" 
 
 Bessie started as Ray's voice fell on her ears, and 
 raising her head, she asked, absently, " What is it, 
 Ray?" 
 
 " Come here and I will tell you." 
 
 Surprised by the low, mysterious tone in which Ray 
 spoke, Bessie laid aside her book and obeyed, coming and 
 kneeling by the window to listen to naughty, mischiev- 
 ous Ray's plan. 
 
 "But won't it be very naughty?" asked Bessie, open- 
 ing her brown eyes in wonder. 
 
128 BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 "Naughty? why, my dear child, no," said Ray, with 
 an air of patronizing wisdom. " We will only be break- 
 ing one tiny rule, and that has been done many a time 
 in our school-girl pranks. To-morrow I will write to the 
 girls, and we will have a splendid time." 
 
 The next night Miss Thorne passed around promptly 
 at nine to see that all the lights were out, and, satisfied 
 with the result, she returned to her room and to sleep. 
 A half-hour after the tour of inspection by Miss Thorne 
 a light might have been seen in Ray's room, where that 
 little sprite was arranging things for the revel. Bessie 
 was sitting near, half amused and half frightened at Ray's 
 audacity. Her '' little mamma" would never have known 
 her ; her eyes were bright with excitement and merriment 
 as she stifled the laugh at Ray's funny mistakes. She was 
 altogether different from the shy little girl that had come 
 to Cedar Grove six weeks before. 
 
 When Ray had finished, Bessie's bed presented a comi- 
 cal sight. Plates arranged in sideways fashion ; the cream- 
 chocolates and oranges were almost falling off of the 
 dishes, and everything was in a laughable condition ; 
 but what cared Ray and the little friends that came 
 crowding into the room? They had come to have a good 
 time, and they had it. Bessie enjoyed herself remark- 
 ably well, considering the late hour, the stolen light, and 
 the broken rules. 
 
 After a good time of chatting and eating, the children 
 dispersed to their rooms and their beds, to talk in whis- 
 pers of the fun they had, 
 
 Bessie and Ray, after putting away the remains of the 
 feast, crept into bed, too sleepy to talk. Merry Ray was 
 soon fast asleep, and Bessie soon closed her weary eye- 
 lids. Only the moon saw the bonbon which rolled under 
 the bureau, together with a little crushed note which was 
 to disclose the secret revel. 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 129 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Two weeks had passed away, and Ray had congratu- 
 lated herself on the safeness of her exploit. 
 
 " What would Miss Thorne think if she knew the 
 lights were burning until ten o'clock and we girls were 
 having such gay times? Wouldn't her nightcap have 
 been poked into our room?" quickly laughed Ray, as she 
 danced around in her usual restless manner one morning 
 in their cosey room. 
 
 "Don't, Ray," said Bessie, shaking her head reprov- 
 ingly. "I am trying to get this problem solved, but as 
 long as you chat in that manner I can never, never 
 learn." 
 
 " Don't learn, you dear, solemn little bird ; just come 
 and talk until school-time. Do you see that bank of 
 clouds ? We are going to have snow if it is only the 3d 
 of November ; but come, Bess, and talk. I am not 
 going to learn my lesson, so don't you learn either." 
 
 " Oh, Ray, you are getting very naughty. I really 
 think I cannot love you any more," said Bessie, with a 
 merry laugh. " I have not known my lesson for two 
 days. What would papa think?" 
 
 " One day more won't make any difference, so come 
 and talk, that is a good girl." And Ray placed her arms 
 around Bessie's neck in such a coaxing manner that the 
 little girl could not resist, but closed her book and seated 
 herself for a chat. 
 
 "If it snow, Bessie, won't we have a glorious Satur- 
 day,' skating and sledding?" said Ray, dwelling hope- 
 fully upon the clouds. 
 
 " Ray Bellmont and Bessie Raymond are wanted below," 
 said Miss Thome's grim voice at the door. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" said Ray, with a pout, "our pleasant 
 talks are always interrupted," while Bessie placed her 
 books preparatory for recitation when she returned from 
 down-stairs. 
 
 " Here are the culprits. Miss Lester," said Miss Thorne, 
 
T30 
 
 BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 as she opened the door for them to pass in, and then 
 seated herself, glancing with supreme scorn at the sur- 
 prised children. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Ray, to call you and Bessie down 
 for this purpose," said Miss Lester's gentle voice; " but 
 will you read this note?" 
 
 It was a small slip of paper, and on it was written : 
 
 " Dear Lillie, — Come to my room this evening just at ten o'clock. 
 Bessie and I are going to have a feast from the remains of the box that 
 was sent her, and you are cordially invited. 
 
 " Ray Bellmont." 
 
 Ray stood there surprised and ashamed, while Bessie's 
 face was covered with blushes. 
 
 "Ray, was that note written by you?" asked Miss 
 Lester. 
 
 "Yes," murmured the stricken Ray. 
 
 "Then you really did have a supper in your room 
 Tuesday night at ten o'clock, openly defying the rules? 
 Ray, I am grieved to hear it, and as a punishment for 
 your naughtiness I forbid you to leave the school-ground 
 for two weeks, — you and Bessie both. It is needless to say 
 more, so you may go to your rooms." And Miss Lester 
 turned to her work, not noticing Bessie's distressed looks. 
 
 "Oh, Ray!" said the mortified Bessie when they 
 reached their room, "isn't it dreadful? I did not think 
 Miss Lester would think us so bad." And poor Bessie sank 
 down sobbing, truly grieved at what she had done, and 
 not at being discovered. 
 
 " Oh, Bessie, never mind ; it is that horrid Miss Thorne 
 who found the note, and I am going to have good times 
 yet, despite her happiness at the loss of our liberty." 
 
 But Bessie was truly grieved at being so naughty, and that 
 night sobbed herself to sleep at the thought of telling her 
 " little mamma;" for she had no intention of concealing 
 what she had done, and although she was led into a plan of 
 Ray's one week later, yet at that moment she was truly 
 penitent. 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 M' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "Bessie, Bessie! wake up, wake up!" called Ray 
 Bellmont one morning. Bessie opened her sleepy brown 
 eyes and exclaimed, " What is the matter, Ray? you look 
 so excited." 
 
 "I am," cried Ray. And as Bessie hopped out in her 
 little white night-dress, she pointed to the window, ex- 
 claiming, "Isn't that beautiful?" 
 
 It was indeed beautiful. A mantle of snow had fallen 
 in the night, covering tree, shrub, and river with a fleecy 
 whiteness. On the distant hill-top, just outside the school- 
 yard, lay the smooth, undisturbed snow, ready for the 
 troop of merry girls to go sledding, for it was one of 
 those clear, brilliant Saturdays. 
 
 "Oh, is it not fortunate that this is Saturday?" cried 
 Ray, hopping joyfully around on one little bare foot. 
 But Bessie's face was clouded, and the tears came into her 
 eyes as she said, almost fretfully, "What good will it do 
 us, Ray? We cannot leave the school-ground." 
 
 Ray's merry face darkened as she exclaimed, angrily, 
 " It is all Miss Thome's fault that we are prisoners. I 
 hate her, Bessie, and I will have a good time despite her 
 old croaking rules." 
 
 Bessie was almost startled at Ray's vehemence, and 
 Ray seeing the surprised look, her surliness vanished, and, 
 throwing her arms around Bessie's neck, she exclaimed, 
 " I wish I were half as good as you, Bessie ; but you have 
 loving parents, and I have neither father nor mother, nor 
 any one to love me." And Ray, with a sudden burst of 
 tears at the thought of her desolation, sank on tlie floor, 
 Bessie comforting her as best she might. 
 
 Perhaps if Miss Lester had been a witness of this touch- 
 ing scene she might have shortened the girls' imprison- 
 ment ; but heretofore there had been no chance to severely 
 punish the children for their misdeeds. They had studied 
 their lessons as usual and played in the school-ground ; 
 but now there was something in which they could not 
 
132 
 
 BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 mingle, and Miss Lester thought that depriving them of 
 that Saturday afternoon's fun would punish them more 
 than all the rest of their confinement. Therefore that 
 afternoon, when the girls with their large sleds went out 
 to the hill just back of the school-house, eight tiisap- 
 pointed faces watched them from the school-room window, 
 where Bessie and Ray, together with the other six partici- 
 pants of the secret feast, were confined. They had not 
 been there long when Miss Lester entered, telling them 
 that she was going to spend Saturday and Sunday with a 
 friend, and would expect them to obey Miss Thorne im- 
 plicitly. 
 
 When the sleigh containing Miss Lester rolled away, 
 Ray sprang up and clapped her hands gleefully. There 
 was no one in the building except the two younger teachers, 
 as Miss Thorne was on the hill with her pupils; so Ray 
 called the girls to her, exclaiming, "Nothing could be 
 more fortunate; only the younger teachers here. Miss 
 Lester away, and Miss Thorne attending to us. Girls, to- 
 night let us go out on the hill and have a good time. I 
 will take my large sled, and you, Lillie King, bring yours, 
 and we will have a splendid time. Bessie, May, Eva, and 
 Carrie may ride on mine, and Belle and Jean will ride 
 on yours." 
 
 "Please don't mention me, Ray, for I really cannot 
 go." And Bessie looked resolute as she stood there, the 
 color wavering in her cheeks. " You know we are get- 
 ting punished for what we did do, and I think I had better 
 not go." 
 
 Who could resist the pleading of Ray's violet eyes? 
 and before she knew it Bessie had consented to go to 
 "just this one prank;" and Miss Thorne off on the hill 
 heard no word of the sled-ride, and little dreamed that 
 at that moment the penitent culprits were planning another 
 escapade. 
 
 " Silence, girls !" It was Ray's warning voice, and the 
 merry laughter, indulged in muffled tones, instantly ceased 
 as the eight merry girls wended their way bound for the 
 snow frolic. Out of the large gate, up tlie hill trudged 
 the school-girls, daring Ray dragging the large sled. 
 
 In after-years Ray, as she looked back upon her school 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 '33 
 
 pranks, often wondered how she ever dared climb that 
 hill, not knowing whether Miss Thorne might be watching 
 from her bedroom window. But that night Ray was in 
 a daring mood, and I doubt whether ever in her lifetime 
 she and her seven girl friends had quite such a merry snow 
 frolic as they had that night. 
 
 An hour later the girls wended their way homeward. 
 At last they reached the moonlit hall, and, slipping the 
 bolt, hurried up the stairs like solemn little ghosts. Safe 
 in their own rooms 1 A safe frolic 1 The moon gazing 
 down on the sleeping children seemed to sail triumphantly 
 through the blue winter sky, for Ray had outwitted Miss 
 Thorne. The worthy teacher asleep in her room knew 
 nothing of the escapade, and never would know that the 
 children had such a glorious, stolen snow frolic. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " My dearest Papa, — Only one week more and I will be home 
 with my 'little mamma' and precious papa. Only one week more, and 
 I could sing for gladness, for happy as I have been at Cedar Grove, it is 
 nothing compared with my love for home. Ray Bellmont has been the 
 sunbeam which brightened Cedar Grove, and now, papa, I have a plan 
 to propose. May I bring Ray home with me to spend the Christmas 
 holidays? Please do let her come, papa, and write and tell me 'Yes.' 
 In haste, your loving daughter 
 
 " Bessie. 
 
 " P.S. — Papa, I am sitting here in my little dressing-gown you sent me, 
 shivering with cold. You can't imagine how cold it is here. 
 
 " Bessie." 
 
 Thus wrote Bessie one cold, frosty morning in Decem- 
 ber, and slipping it into the little box down-stairs, she 
 crept back into bed, waiting for the bell to ring. 
 
 " Bessie, here is a letter for you," cried Ray, springing 
 into the school-room one day later and tossing a letter 
 into her lap. Bessie broke the seal with hasty fingers, 
 and reading the contents she gave a little cry of joy, at 
 the same time beckoning Ray into the hall. 
 
 "Ray dear, what do you think?" and Bessie threw 
 
134 
 
 BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 her arms around her friend's neck; "you are going 
 home with me to spend the Christmas holidays. I wrote 
 yesterday to ask papa, and he gives a willing consent." 
 
 "Did he really?" cried Ray, clapping her hands joy- 
 fully ; " and am I really to go home with you for a whole 
 week all through the holidays?" 
 
 "You really are," cried the delighted Bessie, almost 
 hugging Ray at the thought of the good times they would 
 have in the dear old home. 
 
 It was the last day of the term. Bessie and Ray, 
 already dressed for the stage which was to convey them 
 to Meadovvbrook, paced the piazza with faces as bright 
 as the winter sunshine. At last the old stage came lum- 
 bering up, good-byes were said, and the two happy chil- 
 dren were really rolling away toward Bessie's home. At 
 last the large stone house was seen among a group of 
 trees ; the trunks and the children were deposited on the 
 porch, and then the cheery driver mounted and drove away. 
 
 At the ring of the bell the door was opened by faithful 
 Janet, who held up her hands in amazement as she ex- 
 claimed, " Miss Bessie and her little friend !" 
 
 When Bessie eagerly inquired, "Where is mamma?" 
 she replied, " Why, child, she and Mr. Raymond have 
 gone to the city to make some purchases; they were not 
 expecting you for two days." 
 
 "Good!" exclaimed Bessie, clapping her hands; 
 "won't I surprise my 'little mamma!' But come, 
 Ray, up to the dressing-room to get warmed." And 
 Bessie sprang lightly up the oaken staircase, followed 
 closely by Ray. 
 
 The door of her mamma's dressing-room was half open. 
 It was a large, airy apartment. The carpet seemed to be 
 a bed of roses. Rich lace curtains draped the bed and 
 windows; handsome paintings were hung around in taste- 
 ful order ; easy-chairs and ottomans were scattered in- 
 vitingly about, and from the open fireplace a bright glow 
 was reflected on the room, making everything look cheery 
 and home-like to the little girls. 
 
 Ray from her babyhood had been accustomed to lux- 
 ury, but her uncle's home had not that cosey air that 
 told love, and not wealth, reigned supreme. Bessie had 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 135 
 
 taken their wrappings to the hall, and now, seated in the 
 big arm-chair, tliey talked gayly, awaiting the return of 
 the dainty little woman who at that moment, reclining 
 among the warm cushions, was riding homeward uncon- 
 scious of the arrival of the little daughter and her friend, 
 whose visit she was going to make so pleasant. 
 
 "Janet, have tea early this evening, please, and put 
 those packages where Bessie won't see them." These 
 words floated up the staircase, and in another minute the 
 little woman, in a pearl-colored silk trimmed with fur, 
 entered the room, while Bessie sprang forward with the 
 cry of " Mamma ! my dearest little mamma !" 
 
 Mrs. Raymond, regardless of silk and furs, held the 
 golden head in a loving embrace, and Ray was not for- 
 gotten. Mrs. Raymond greeted the little girl with more 
 warmth and leal, true affection than Ray had known 
 since the death of her mother. 
 
 That night around the cosey tea-table Ray was made to 
 feel at home, for her bright, winning little face, pleasing 
 manners, and love she had for Bessie endeared the little 
 girl to both Mr. and Mrs. Raymond. For, as Mr. Ray- 
 mond said, she seemed like a stray ray of sunshine which 
 had settled down at Meadowbrook to be a companion 
 to the lone Bessie. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " A MERRY Christmas, Bess ! a merry Christmas !" called 
 Ray, as she bounded from her bed and danced around the 
 warm room in her little bare feet. 
 
 A week of continual gayety had been going on ever 
 since Bessie and Ray had come to Meadowbrook. Sleigh- 
 rides, sledding, visits to the city, and all sorts of gayety. 
 Mysterious whispering, mysterious bundles, and mysterious 
 secrecy, — altogether it promised to be a merry Christmas. 
 
 " A merry Christmas, Bessie ! Wake up, you naughty 
 girl !" And mischievous Ray flung a shower of ivy-leaves, 
 pulled from the ivy-vine outside the window, in Bessie's 
 face. 
 
136 BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 At the words, "A merry Christmas," Bessie bounded 
 up and was soon engaged in dressing, while Ray sat by 
 pelting her with ivy-leaves. The breakfast-bell ringing 
 sent the two little girls hurrying down the wide staircase. 
 
 "A merry Christmas, Ray and Bessie!" said Mr. Ray- 
 mond's merry voice as he appeared, his fairy wife at his 
 side. " A merry Christmas ! I don't suppose you 
 slept any, did you?" asked Mr. Raymond, teasingly, 
 pulling Ray's curls. 
 
 " Indeed we did," said Ray, saucily. " Oh, Bessie !" 
 she exclaimed, springing forward, " look ! it has been 
 snowing." 
 
 It had been snowing indeed. Christmas berry, holly, 
 and trees were covered with the white down, forming a 
 pretty picture. 
 
 "You will take us sleighing, won't you, papa?" ask-ed 
 Bessie, as she joined Ray in a gay little waltz. 
 
 "I suppose I will have to. Come, Janet's coffee will 
 be cold." And they passed into the dining-room, where a 
 warm Christmas breakfast was set out. 
 
 After breakfast Mr. Raymond told the little girls to 
 follow him, and ere they knew it, as if by magic, they 
 were in a fairy room witii a beautiful tree in the centre. 
 The room was trimmed with evergreen, and red berries, 
 and sweet-smelling flowers. The tree in the centre was 
 ladened with pretty, tasteful, and costly gifts. A sealskin 
 coat, cap, and gloves for the delighted Bessie; a hand- 
 some set of books, a painting for her room, a pretty 
 amethyst ring from Ray, set around with forget-me-nots, 
 and several smaller gifts from her cousin ; these comprised 
 Bessie's presents, and I doubt whether any little girl 
 could have been made happier. Ray received a sealskin 
 cap from Mr. Raymond, a coat to match from Bessie's 
 mamma, and from Bessie herself a slender pair of gold 
 bracelets. Also from her aunt and uncle, Ray received a 
 handsome gold locket and chain as their Christmas gift. 
 
 At last, when the presents had been duly admired, Mr. 
 Raymond with a curious look told the children to wrap 
 up and he would take them sleighing. Delighted with 
 the idea they hurried away, and soon returned equipped. 
 With a gay good-by to Mrs. Raymond they hurried out 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 137 
 
 to the porch, but Bessie had not got half-way when she 
 suddenly stopped, exclaiming, "Oh, what lovely, lovely 
 ponies! Are they for me, papa?" 
 
 " They are for my little Bessie ; all her own. But come, 
 you and Ray jump in." 
 
 There was not a prettier sleigh nor prettier ponies in 
 the city that day than those driven by Mr. Raymond. 
 
 When the sleigh-ride was ended and the ponies safely 
 stabled, the dinner was ready. And such a Christmas 
 dinner ! 
 
 " Bessie, I never can begin to eat those good things," 
 exclaimed Ray, with a tragic gesture.- 
 
 "You are not compelled," laughed Bessie, merrily. 
 
 After dinner Bessie and Ray spent a pleasant hour in the 
 attic library, and then in warm coats and furs they went 
 down to the pond, and passed the rest of the afternoon 
 in skating until dusk. Then came such a delightful hour 
 in the big cosey arm-chair by the fire, with no light except 
 that given by the ghnving flames. Then followed the call- 
 ing to tea, the pleasant evening afterward spent in the fairy 
 bower with the Christmas-tree ; the talking and music and 
 games ; and last, as the pretty clock on the bracket struck 
 ten, the good-night said, the going off up the wide stair- 
 case, the light streaming cheerily down, and the pleasant 
 home-feeling as they sank to rest, with the merry flames 
 making curious shadows on the wall. Christmas-day was 
 ended. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Oh, what a pleasant week it was, and what gay rides 
 they had behind the two ponies ! Skating, sledding, and 
 visits to the city; how sorrowfully they saw the last day 
 of the holidays come, and knew they must go back to 
 Cedar Grove ! Then the day arrived when the stage came 
 lumbering up, the good-byes were said, and Bessie and 
 Ray were rolled away from pleasant Meadowbrook. 
 
 A year has passed, and it is the sunny month of May. 
 12* 
 
138 
 
 BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 At Cedar Grove the trees are budding into full bloom, 
 the sweet smell of spring is in the air, and everything 
 is awakening into life. Out in the school-ground are 
 the children, Bessie and Ray, although a year older, the 
 same merry children and loving friends. It is evident 
 from the girls' talk that a discussion is going on. " Now, 
 girls," Lillie King is saying, "it is settled ; the contest 
 is between Ray Bellmont and Bessie Raymond. I choose 
 Bessie. Ray is lovely, you know ; but Bessie is so sweet 
 and winning, so innocent and pretty, and yet so uncon- 
 scious of it all, that I think she would make a charming 
 queen, — would rule so prettily ; and besides, those golden 
 curls of hers would make her look so sweet. Girls, don't 
 you think Bessie Raymond shall be our May Queen ? Any 
 one who thinks Bessie ought not to reign, step forward." 
 
 There was no girl in the school but loved Bessie, and 
 therefore no dissenting voice was raised. And it was 
 decided that Bessie should be May Queen. Ray and 
 Bessie, walking together, were now hailed ; Bessie being 
 told that she was chosen May Queen, while unselfish Ray 
 exclaimed, " How nice ! We could not have a sweeter or 
 prettier queen." 
 
 "Oh, Ray, don't talk so!" said Bessie, blijshing; and 
 then looking timidly around, she said, "Girls, I really can- 
 not thank you for choosing me queen. Any girl would 
 have reigned better than I, but as you have chosen me I 
 will do my best. And Bessie stood there, in her sweet 
 humility looking so earnest and pretty that Lillie King 
 repeated Ray's words, — "We could not have a sweeter or 
 a prettier queen." 
 
 " Oh, here comes Miss Lester !" exclaimed Ray; and 
 springing forward she plucked some blossoms from the 
 trees, and, showering them on Bessie's head, she drew her 
 forward, exclaiming, " Miss Lester, we have chosen our 
 May Queen. See, we give her honor bv crowning her now. 
 Isn't she a sweet little queen ?" And Ray danced around, 
 truly delighted that her friend was chosen queen, while 
 Bessie stood in the midst shy and blushing. 
 
 "You have made a splendid choice, girls; may your 
 reign be a long and happy one, Queen Bess !" And Miss 
 Lester bowed playfully, and then bending over, whispered. 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 139 
 
 "I am glad you are to be queen, Bessie; they could not 
 have chosen a better one." Bessie raised her eyes, and 
 as just then the school-bell rang, she was spared an answer. 
 
 After school the girls all assembled in the school-ground 
 to play croquet, and a pleasant evening was spent in this 
 game. 
 
 When tired of playing croquet they all sat under the 
 trees, talking pleasantly; Ray and Bessie as usual to- 
 gether, talking of the May party. Always, in May, the 
 teachers and scholars had a pleasant party in the wooils, 
 with a sweet little queen to rule. Not far from the school 
 was the woods, where there were babbling brooks, shady 
 trees, and the little birds sang with musical fervor. Here 
 for one day the school rusticated, and it was always a gala 
 day in the lives of the children. 
 
 Bessie was proud to hold the position of queen : and 
 that night, as she sat in the moonlight beside Ray, she 
 hoped fervently that the day would pass as pleasantly as 
 usual, and that the girls might think her worthy to reign 
 as May Queen. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It was May-day, and the girls were waiting in the porch 
 for their queen. They always placed the crown of roses 
 on her brow when they reached the picnic ground ; so 
 Bessie now appeared in a simple straw hat, her golden 
 curls falling in a sunny shower from under the broad rim. 
 
 " Hail, Queen of May !" said Ray, tragically kneeling 
 at her feet. 
 
 " Arise, fair Ray of sunshine," said Bessie, demurely, 
 and Ray arose with alacrity. 
 
 Bessie was attired in a pretty muslin dress; a wide blue 
 sash encircled her waist, and the sunny hair was confined 
 by a ribbon of the same. A very simple suit, but it 
 showed she was a modest, unassuming little queen. 
 
 It was a beautiful day of sunshine, this May-day : birds 
 singing softly in the trees, sunshine glinting the fresh 
 green leaves, the wind sighing softly everywhere. It was 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL- DA YS. 
 
 a most perfect day for a picnic, and the girls chatted and 
 laughed, and exchanged merry bantering words with light 
 hearts and merry voices. At last the picnic grounds came 
 in sight ; swings were up, croquet was set out, archery 
 and all the amusements that contribute to girls' happiness. 
 
 "Now we will crown our queen!" cried merry Ray. 
 And the girls with one accord joined hands and sang a 
 simple little song, while the birds twittered musically. 
 Then Ray placed the crown of roses on Bessie's head, 
 and, leading her to the mossy throne, made a pretty little 
 speech, to which Bessie responded with simple earnest- 
 ness. The queen sat on her throne while the baskets 
 were being put away and the hats laid aside ; the sunshine 
 flickering through the branches turned Bessie's hair to 
 molten gold, and the wind played lovingly with her curls. 
 
 Was the day a foreshadowing of beautiful Bessie Ray- 
 mond's life, — all sunshine and pleasure and homage? A 
 pretty little May Queen she made as she sat there with 
 her thoughtful, earnest face, her little hands clasped, and 
 a smile playing on her red lips. 
 
 " Dear queen, will you come to the spring? It is de- 
 lightful and cool there, and your subject is going to take 
 a drink of its magic waters." 
 
 "With pleasure!" cried Bessie, springing from the 
 throne and following with fairy footsteps the airy Ray. 
 Down the rough woods, past waving trees and refresliing 
 waters they went, until the spring was reached. There 
 was a large, rough rock, and at a distance you could hear 
 the bubbling of the waters. At the edge of the rock you 
 turned, and there indeed was a pretty picture, — a bub- 
 bling spring of delicious cool water that threw spray all 
 around and dampened the queen's pretty curls. 
 
 Here a tiny cup hung, and, sinking on her knees, Ray 
 dipped the cup in the " Fairy's Spring," while the stream 
 went murmuring on, as if rebellious at its water's being 
 disturbed. 
 
 " Here, Bessie, here is a nice tuft of grass; sit down." 
 And Bessie sank down, while Ray trailed through the 
 water, enjoying the seclusion of their retreat. After they 
 had quenched their thirst they went up the bank toward 
 the throne. But Bessie did not take possession of the 
 
BESSIE'S SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 141 
 
 mossy seat ; she and Ray swung themselves up in the 
 swing, enjoying the cool, delicious breezes. 
 
 Oh, how swiftly the day passed ! and how delightful the 
 dinner was out under the green trees, with the murmur of 
 the waters from the "Fairy's Spring" sounding in their 
 ears ! Then after dinner was over the croquet, the archery, 
 and all the pleasant games were indulged in. Sometimes 
 when Bessie grew tired she would seat herself on the 
 throne and listen to the twittering of the birds, and smell 
 the fresh noonday perfume, and watch the pretty flowers 
 springing up among tlie turf. So complete was the charm 
 exercised over her that she murmured softly the little 
 poem which explained her feeling of rapture : 
 
 " Month of bees and month of flowers, 
 Month of blossom -laden bowers ; 
 Month of little hands, with daisies, 
 Lovers' love and poets' praises ; 
 O thou merry month complete. 
 May, the very name is sweet 1" 
 
 At last the sun, a great golden ball, sank back of the 
 woods, and the queen and her pretty attendants, as the 
 evening shadows stole apace, took their empty baskets 
 and walked lazily home through the dusk. 
 
 The little May Queen's homage had been rendered her 
 that day. Would it be rendered her all her lifetime? 
 And now, as Bessie in her white dress, with the crown on 
 her brow, fades in the dusk, so she fades from our view. 
 
 Three years longer she spent at Cedar Grove, but we 
 cannot follow her. Ray Bellmont and Bessie were always 
 friends, and Bessie grew to be the healthful, beautiful girl 
 that pretty Opal Raymond wished her to become. 
 
 Now the merry voices float away as Ray and the fair 
 Queen of May enter the school-house. 
 
 May pretty Bessie Raymond enjoy life and have as 
 many friends and as much happiness as she had at Cedar 
 Grove in Miss Lester's school, during those pleasant, 
 fruitful school-days. 
 
 March, 1881. 
 
LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 'Tis the eve of Pearl Austin's wedding-night. She 
 stands in the richly-furnished room of her uncle's hand- 
 some home ; fair, blushing, beautiful Pearl. 'Tis the last 
 time that she will be Pearl Austin, for to-night she is to 
 take upon herself the vows of wifehood, is towed hand- 
 some, gallant Leigh Arlington. As she stands before the 
 mirror, in her dress of pure white silk, she looks ex- 
 quisitely lovely. All trace of care has fled ; the large, 
 lustrous eyes are happy and trusting as any child's. 
 
 The bridal flowers are placed in her golden hair, and 
 blushing Pearl stands before the man whom so soon 
 she will call by the name of "husband." And Pearl is 
 happy. Two short years ago she had met Leigh Arling- 
 ton, and in the presence of this king of manhood Pearl 
 loved. She gave her trusting heart into his keeping and 
 worshipped him. Pearl was an orphan ; at the early age 
 of three years she was left in the care of her uncle, whom 
 she loved as a father. But her life was not a happy one. 
 Blanche and Mabel, her two cousins, made it thoroughly 
 miserable. She was slighted, treated coldly, and kept 
 out of society. Her aunt never noticed her except when 
 her uncle was present. Pearl bore all nobly, and never 
 complained to her uncle, who supposed his dead brother's 
 child was receiving all the advantages his own children 
 were having. 
 
 Living in this atmosphere, was it any wonder that 
 Pearl, when she met noble, chivalrous Leigh Arlington, 
 loved him? And now 'tis her wedding-eve. The car- 
 riages arrive and roll away from her uncle's stately home, 
 and she stands shrinking, but beautiful, before the altar. 
 142 
 
LOST AND FOUND. 143 
 
 The ring is placed on the slender finger, the words are 
 said, and Pearl Austin is Pearl Arlington, of Rose Lawn. 
 
 The new-made bride bids adieu to the home of her 
 childhood, and with a trusting, hopeful heart rolls away 
 to her future home. Rose Lawn. 
 
 One week has passed, and Pearl, beautiful and sought 
 after as the wife of Leigh Arlington, is seated on the 
 cool porch among the green vines, facing the river which 
 flows through the extensive grounds. The bride of a 
 week, and dreamily happy ! As she sits there, her dainty 
 slippered feet reposing on an ottoman, and the meshes 
 of her golden hair playing with the moonbeams, is there 
 no one to warn her of the near vicinity of her husband? 
 Is there no one to warn him of the nearness of the 
 blue-robed figure? of the nearness of his golden-haired 
 bride ? 
 
 Pearl sitting there in the moonlight smells the scent 
 of a cigar, and a few minutes later these words float up to 
 her: "And so you are married, Leigh Arlington, and to 
 such a fair, sweet little bride too. How did you happen 
 to win and love her?" 
 
 "That is the trouble, Carl," says a voice which Pearl 
 recognizes as her husband's; "that is the trouble. I 
 don't know whether I love her or not. The fact is, I 
 married out of pity. Pretty Pearl was being much abused 
 by those cousins of hers, and so I offered my hand, if not 
 my heart, knowing that she would have a comfortable 
 home at Rose Lawn. To be sure, she had a reasonable 
 annuity, but there is nothing like wealth and affluence, 
 and I think as the wife of Leigh Arlington poor little 
 neglected Pearl will at least be happy." 
 
 Poor Pearl ! For one moment she sits stunned and 
 frightened, repeating the words, "I married her out of 
 pity, — out of pity," murmured Pearl; " how can I ever 
 bear it ? Oh, I cannot, I cannot !" With these words the 
 blue-robed figure hurries along the hall, starting and 
 growing pale at every sound, until she reaches her room, 
 where, sinking into a chair, she exclaims, " I loved him 
 so, and fancied we would be so happy at Rose Lawn, and 
 he offered it to me ' out of pity !' " Hurriedly Pearl gath- 
 ered the few possessions together that she needed, and 
 
144 
 
 LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 started out into the night ; out into the night went blue- 
 robed Pearl — and to her fate. 
 
 The little dart of flame had gone out, and Leigh still 
 lingered in the moonlight, dreaming of the time that he 
 and Pearl would spend at Rose Lawn, and never thinking 
 of his cruelly thoughtless words. 
 
 The clock striking ten aroused him. "Ah!" he ex- 
 claimed, " here I am wasting my time thinking, when my 
 little Pearl is alone." 
 
 With these words, humming a gay strain, he hurried up 
 the stairs, and stepped out on the porch where Pearl had 
 sat in the moonlight. 
 
 " Pearl," he called, lightly, but there was no answer 
 except the sighing of the wind. "She is in her room," 
 he thought, for did he not stay out in the starlight until 
 eleven o'clock the night before, and was not his golden- 
 haired wife waiting for him? This he thought, and was 
 about to return to his room when a bit of white paper flut- 
 tered to his feet. He stooped to pick it up. On it was 
 simply written, — 
 
 " I leave you out of pity. 
 
 " Pearl." 
 
 For a moment he felt dazed, gazing at the chair, the 
 ottoman, the tiny blue satin bow lying there ; it suddenly 
 flashed upon him, his words, and he understood that sim- 
 ple sentence, "I leave you out of pity." Then he knew 
 it all ; he does love her, but the knowledge comes too 
 late. Oh ! those foolish words, and his poor misled 
 Pearl ! He bowed his head. 
 
 The blue-robed figure was gone ; all was empty and 
 silent except those words, "I leave you out of pity," 
 and Leigh Arlington knew that Pearl was gone. 
 
LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 145 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Sim is setting in a deep halo of crimson glory, 
 throwing a beautiful coloring on the landscape and on 
 Rocky Glen, a fairy spot among deep-green trees. Not 
 far back is a large, cosey house, its white muslin curtains 
 and home-like air throwing a refreshing influence over the 
 traveller who, mounted on a white steed, is traversing the 
 rocky grounds. Right in the centre is a group of waving 
 trees, attracting the fair girl traveller. 
 
 *' What a lovely spot !" she exclaims, and, tossing back 
 the broad-rimmed hat which shelters the fair brow and 
 clasping her little hands, she gazes in wonder at the bab- 
 bling brook in its setting of gold and red. She retains 
 her rapt attitude until the great red ball has sunk back of 
 the horizon, and a hush falls over the landscape, — the 
 hush of darkness. Then she taps her steed with the 
 riding-whip and rides on. The color has left her cheeks, 
 and a grieved look creeps into the eyes as she suddenly 
 exclaims, " Such a beautiful world ! The sun sinks redly 
 back of Rose Lawn, and Leigh is there. Oh, why is it 
 that I should be an outcast, an unloved wife?" Tiie first 
 bitterness of longing is over, and Pearl Arlington, for it 
 is she, throws back her head proudly as she says, with a 
 light of resolution in her brown eyes, "He shall never 
 be troubled with the wife he married out of pity. Hence- 
 forth Pearl Arlington shall be unknown." 
 
 With the end of these words came the end of the glen, 
 and Pearl and her steed halted by the leafy-covered farm- 
 house. An old lady, with a singularly sweet face, stood 
 in the door-way, who at the sight of Pearl came forward 
 and said, in a chirpy little voice, "Is this Miss Austin ? 
 Welcome, my dear, to Rocky Glen." 
 
 Pearl bowed, and placed her little white hand in the 
 old lady's. 
 
 "Why, my dear," the good hostess said, "here you 
 are on horseback. Surely you have not come to spend 
 a k 13 
 
146 
 
 LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 the summer at Rocky Glen in that fabric," touching the 
 delicate muslin. 
 
 "Oh, no," said Pearl, with a sad smile. "I left my 
 baggage at the station, preferring to ride on horseback 
 through lovely Rocky Glen." 
 
 The old lady looked curiously at fair, girlish Pearl, 
 surprised at the womanly little air and the look of grieved 
 sadness in the great brown eyes. A call of "Belle" 
 brought a neat little maiden to show Pearl to her room, 
 a large, airy apartment, tastefully furnished, and over- 
 looking the glen. 
 
 The door had just closed on the little maiden, when 
 Pearl flung herself down by the window and burst into 
 a storm of sobs. Not since the night she had taken her 
 impromptu flight had Pearl indulged in tears, and now 
 they flowed readily, relieving lier aching heart. 
 
 When Pearl left Rose Lawn her only thought was flight. 
 Like a wounded bird she sped on in the darkness, caring 
 not whither, only thinking bitterly that she, unsuspecting 
 and innocent, had given her heart into Leigh Arlington's 
 keeping, a heart full of love returned only by that of 
 pity. 
 
 On, on, sped Pearl in the darkness, until at last, wearied, 
 she slept in the woods. When she awoke the bright sun- 
 shine flickered through the leaves, and starting up she 
 hurried away, taking the train that came thundering 
 along, — for where? She was leaning back in one of the 
 seats, her heart too heavy for watching the landscape, 
 when a gentleman, leaning forward, offered her a news- 
 paper. Taking it, she thanked him in her low, musical 
 tones, and prepared to read, when an advertisement met 
 her view. Slie read it, her brown eyes growing bright, 
 for it gave her relief as to where she should go. It ex- 
 plained that Rocky Glen farm-house would be open to 
 occupants during the summer weather, and Pearl, who 
 had money enough in her little gold-lined purse, deter- 
 mined that Rocky Glen, for the summer at least, should 
 be her home. 
 
 She had often heard her uncle speak of Rocky Glen, 
 and of the farm-house that was filled with staid persons 
 who cared not for the whirl of gayety and fashion. It 
 
LOS 7' AND FOUND. 
 
 147 
 
 was just what she wanted, and when the passengers stopped 
 at Rocky Glen, Pearl was among the number. 
 
 The simple muslins that composed Pearl's wardrobe 
 were amply sufficient for the summer cami^aign, so when 
 Pearl was rested and refreshed at a hotel, she wrote a 
 simple little note to the hostess of Rocky Glen, which 
 was duly answered one day later. 
 
 One week from the time she had arrived at the little 
 station she rode to Rocky Glen, to the cosey farm- 
 house that was to be her summer home. And now she 
 was here, and the excitement of the week ended in a 
 refreshing shower of tears. When her grief was assuaged. 
 Pearl rose from her kneeling posture, looking at the world 
 with more hopeful eyes. She at least might be happy ; 
 surely it was happiness to live in the old farm-house, 
 secure from evil, with refreshing breezes, delightful scen- 
 ery, and the pretty grotto in the glen. Thus reasoned 
 Pearl, and after attiring herself in a simple suit of gray, she 
 descended to the dining-room, where the supper, cooked in 
 old, delicious fashion, and the dessert of strawberries and 
 cream, refreshed her mind and body. 
 
 At eight o'clock in the evening Pearl, in a dress of 
 pure white, sat dreamily in the glen. She was gazing at 
 the "rippling water," when a burst of merry laughter 
 rang above her head, and a little girl all in white came 
 dancing down the path, but seeing Pearl she stepped back 
 shyly, then came forward and asked, in true child fashion, 
 " Are you the beautiful young lady that auntie said was so 
 sweet and sad-looking ?" 
 
 " How can I tell?" asked Pearl, smiling amusedly. 
 
 " Are you Miss Austin, then ?" the child still continued, 
 unabashed. 
 
 "I am," answered Pearl. "Any more questions, 
 Fairy?" 
 
 " My name isn't Fairy," returned the child, seating 
 herself. "I only wish I were a fairy, and then I would 
 fly around and have such good times. I would hide in 
 the ferns every time you came here. But I like you," she 
 continued, in a sudden burst of confidence. " You are 
 pretty enough to be a fairy, only you are entirely too large, 
 you know," her great blue eyes fastened on Pearl. 
 
148 LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 "Am I?" asked Pearl, much amused. 
 
 " Yes," answered the child ; " what is your name?" 
 
 " Pearl," was the smiling answer. 
 
 "Oh !" exclaimed the little girl, springing up, " is it 
 really? Mine is Pearl, too. Two Pearls ! how nice !" 
 
 " So your name is Pearl, too, is it ?" said Pearl, smiling. 
 "Well, I shall call you Daisy, my little wood Daisy, you 
 know." 
 
 "And may I call you Pearl ?" asked Daisy, eagerly. 
 
 Pearl hesitated, then she answered, gayly, "They will 
 be our picnic names. When we are in the woods you may 
 call me Pearl, and I shall call you Daisy." 
 
 "Yes, yes!" cried tlie delighted child; "but there is 
 auntie calling, and I must go. Good-by, my beautiful 
 Pearl." 
 
 "Good-by, my little wood-nymph," said Pearl. 
 
 A clasp of the arms, a kiss from the fresh, innocent 
 lips, and the white-robed Daisy was gone, and Pearl was 
 alone in the moonlisrln. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The day is extremely hot ; the flowers hang limp and 
 exhausted, and the sun shines with unabated brilliance. 
 Only in the glen is there comfort to be found, and here is 
 a delightful breeze, the murmur of waters, the singing of 
 birds, and above all the fresh, delightful greenness, free 
 from the glare and heat. 
 
 Two months have elapsed since we left Pearl sitting in 
 the moonlight. It is now August, hot, relentless August, 
 and Pearl sits in the cool shade of a large tree, her lily 
 fingers trailing in the rippling water. A very pretty pic- 
 ture she makes as she sits there, her golden hair falling in 
 a shower around her shapely shoulders ; for Daisy had un- 
 loosed the wealth of hair from its confinement, and now 
 it ripples around her wiiite neck, making her look like 
 some ethereal being as she reclines there, her eyes un- 
 usually sad. 
 
 On a rock above perches Daisy, her nimble fingers 
 
LOST AND FOUND. l^p 
 
 twining a wreath of flowers for "beautiful Pearl," which 
 when finished, with a musical laugh, she places on Pearl's 
 golden head. 
 
 " Now I must go gather more," says the child. And away 
 off in the deepest of the wood she goes, and Pearl is alone. 
 
 As she lies there on the green turf, the tears wet her 
 lashes as she thinks of Rose Lawn and the husband whom 
 she deserted. A feeling of loneliness creeps over her, a 
 longing to feel his strong arm support her, and to hear him 
 say, as he said the night they were wedded, " My blush- 
 ing, beautiful Pearl!" "Beautiful, but unloved," mur- 
 murs Pearl, and looking up at the blue sky sings the 
 plaintive ballad, — 
 
 " Douglas, Douglas, tender and true 1" 
 
 The last words die off in a sob, and Pearl's golden head is 
 buried in the grasses, while the winds take up the strain, — 
 
 " Douglas, Douglas, tender and true !" 
 
 Not far off, but higher up, rides a horseman, his un- 
 covered head swept by the wind. He listens to the plaint- 
 ive strain, his eyes dark and earnest, his head bowed low 
 on his breast. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, 
 despite the look of grief on his face that tells of hope 
 " long deferred," one recognizes Leigh Arlington. For 
 two months he has been hunting for his " lost Pearl," his 
 only thought to find and soothe her wounded, sensitive 
 heart, by telling her how much he loves her, to make rep- 
 aration for his foolish words, and bring back the sunshine 
 of Rose Lawn. And now, on this hot August afternoon, 
 he is riding carelessly through the leafy woods when the 
 mournful song floats to him, sung so sweetly, plaintively, 
 that he feels as in a dream, that the words are magical, 
 unreal. While he is listening, a fairy-like figure comes 
 bounding toward him, and Daisy's eager voice asks him, 
 " Would you please gather those flowers? — those," point- 
 ing to a cluster of rich, wild pansies clinging to a large 
 rock, ^" I want them for Pearl." 
 
 Leigh plucks the flowers, and then gazing down into 
 the bright little face, asks, "And who is Pearl?" 
 
 " Pearl is my friend, and I am her wood Daisy. Come, 
 13* 
 
LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 I will take you to her. Did you not hear her singing just 
 now, humming the strain, ' Douglas, Douglas, tender and 
 true' ? Come, she will thank you for the flowers." And 
 away runs Daisy, leaving Leigh to follow. 
 
 " Pearl, I have brought you some violets. He gathered 
 them for me; are they not beautiful ?" But the little girl 
 is unheeded. As the name Pearl falls from Daisy's lips 
 the white-robed figure turns slowly round, while Leigh 
 stands transfixed ; then with a hungry look in his eyes he 
 stretches out his arms, and the two little words, " My 
 Pearl," tell of all the unsatisfied love and longing of his 
 heart. One look into the depths of the dark eyes, and 
 Pearl, just as she had done two months ago, goes into his 
 arms like a trusting child. 
 
 One long hour they sit there, unheeding the flight of 
 time, and in that hour Pearl knows of all the love which 
 Leigh bears her; knows that for two weary months he has 
 been hunting for the bird that had flown. 
 
 To-night, as Leigh and Pearl sit in the moonlight, a 
 small figure bounds upon them, and Daisy clasps Pearl's 
 neck, exclaiming, '* Oh, my precious, precious Pearl ! I 
 am afraid he will take you away. Auntie says he will, 
 but he won't, will he, Pearl?" 
 
 For answer, Leigh draws the blushing Pearl to his side, 
 as he says, " Yes, Daisy, I am going to take Pearl away 
 to a beautiful place called Rose Lawn, and one room 
 shall be fitted up for my Pearl's little wood Daisy when 
 she comes to visit Rose Lawn." 
 
 " Oh, how nice !" says the child, somewhat reconciled. 
 "And I shall stay, oh, so long! But it is my bedtime, 
 and I must go." And away flits the little figure, leaving 
 Pearl and Leigh together; and there, under the waving 
 trees in the moonlight, are the young husband and wife 
 reunited. Pearl, leaning trustingly on her husband's 
 breast, sings the ballad, — 
 
 " Douglas, Douglas, tender and true !" 
 
 while Leigh, gazing down upon the face so wondrously 
 beautiful in the moonlight, raises a heartfelt prayer of 
 thanksgiving that his " lost is found." 
 May 27, 1881. 
 
ETHEL'S HALLOWEEN. 
 
 "I AM SO sorry, Ethel." The words were spoken in a 
 sweet, quivering voice by a brown-haired maiden, who 
 stood in a large, elegant room, dressed in party array. 
 The girl addressed as Ethel stood in the shadow of the 
 rich garnet curtains, her face half turned toward the win- 
 dow, and her little hands toying nervously with the crim- 
 son tassels. 
 
 At the words "I am so sorry, Ethel," the hands went 
 up to brush away a rebellious tear, while the words came 
 forth impetuously: "Dear Josie, I am sorry, too; but 
 it cannot be helped. I am sure you look lovely, and I 
 hope you both will have a pleasant time." The last 
 words were spoken to a stately blonde who had just 
 entered the room, dressed in heavy black silk, with 
 jewels glistening at her throat and on her rounded 
 arms. Isabelle Stanton certainly looked lovely. " Come, 
 Josie!" she exclaimed, impatiently, coming forward, "I 
 don't see why you should stand there and fret simply be- 
 cause Mrs. Kingston failed to invite Ethel to her hallow- 
 een party. I am sure it makes no difference to me," 
 with a haughty toss of her golden head. " Come, Josie." 
 And without noticing the look of pain and fire that flashed 
 from Ethel's dark eyes, she left the room, while Josie 
 followed, stopping first to caress the bent head of her 
 younger sister, whispering softly, " Don't mind her, 
 Ethel," and then flashed out of the room like a sunbeam, 
 while even those few words brought a dewy freshness to 
 quench the fire of Ethel's dark eyes. 
 
 Ethel and Josie Grey were sisters. When Ethel was 
 five years old their mother died, and the father, who had 
 seen so much happiness in his first wedded life, married 
 Isabelle Stanton, the banker's daughter, who was the 
 mother of the haughty Isabelle. But the second wife was 
 
 151 
 
152 
 
 ETHEL'S HALLOWEEN. 
 
 unlike the former, and poor Mr. Grey's only happiness 
 consisted in his gray-eyed Josie and his impetuous little 
 Ethel, who at the time of which we are speaking had 
 grown to the charming age of nineteen. And now 'twas 
 halloween. 
 
 Mrs. Kingston, the mother of gay Archie Kingston, to 
 whom brown-eyed Ethel was very partial, had given a 
 halloween party, — a real old-fashioned home gathering, 
 to which Josie and Isabelle were invited, but not Ethel, 
 so said stately Isabelle, to whom the notes were delivered ; 
 and indeed no gold-lined paper with "Miss Ethel" 
 marked on it was forthcoming. 
 
 A very pretty ]>icture Ethel made as she stood by the 
 open fireplace, while the leaves rustled dismally and the 
 wind howled as only an October wind can. It was very 
 lonesome for Ethel down in the big drawing-room. The 
 servants were celebrating hallow-eve out in the big, cheery 
 kitchen, and Ethel, as she heard their distant merriment, 
 almost longed to join them. As she lay curled up in the 
 big arm-chair, she formed a charming picture. Her hair, 
 of a rich chestnut brown, was coiled simply around the 
 snowy brow; her lips were curled defiantly, and the brown 
 eyes, though full of fire, were fresh and winning, while 
 the little cheeks were rosy both with the glow of the fire- 
 light and the indignation that Archie Kingston, after all 
 his devotion, should allow none to be slighted but her. 
 No wonder the roses were not all caused by the firelight; 
 for Archie Kingston was a worthy lover, and more than 
 one worshipped at his shrine, among whom was Isabelle 
 Stanton. It was partly this caused the crimson to glow 
 in Ethel's cheeks. For all the long brilliant autumn she 
 had been looking forward to hallow-eve, when perhaps 
 Archie would tell her he loved her. And now, instead 
 of being all devotion to her, he was bending his stately 
 head, perhaps, to Isabelle, or some other damsel equally 
 as fair. 
 
 Not far from Ethel's home was an old-fashioned cottage, 
 weird and desolate. It was separated from the rest of the 
 village by a tempestuous stream, over which hung a crazy 
 bridge. Three years before, a miserly old man styled the 
 "hermit" had lived and died there, and since his burial 
 
ETHELS HALLOWEEN. 
 
 153 
 
 no human foot had crossed the bridge. The old people 
 very superstitiously said the hermit's ghost still lingered 
 there, and on moonlight nights the old man could be seen 
 walking on the porch. So much had this delusion grown 
 into the people's minds that even the children on their 
 way to school would hush their voices as they neared the 
 cottage. 
 
 The Greys and Kingstons had only shortly moved to 
 the village, and of course were free from the superstitious 
 awe, although as yet neither of the families had explored 
 the weird little cottage. 
 
 Ethel laughed the tale to scorn, although stately Isa- 
 belle would turn pale at the very idea. 
 
 One stormy night, as Ethel and Archie stood in the 
 gloaming, the subject of the old hermit arose. Ethel 
 defiantly had said she would not be afraid to cross the 
 little bridge on the stormiest of nights, while Archie, with 
 playful satire, had laughed her words to scorn. 
 
 As Ethel lay in the big arm-chair, she suddenly sprang 
 up, exclaiming, "What a glorious night to go view the 
 old cottage ! A night when the halloween spirits are 
 abroad. I will show Archie that I am not as cowardly as 
 Isabelle," with a defiant toss of the brown head. 
 
 A {tw minutes later, Ethel, in a warm crimson cloak 
 and hood, crept softly by her father's study and out into 
 the dim night. The dead leaves rustling under her feet 
 made a ghostly sound, but although she shivered despite 
 the warm cloak, yet she was too brave to turn back, al- 
 though no one would ever have known it, for Mr. Grey 
 was deep in his books, and Mrs. Grey was too much en- 
 grossed with the "Heir of Redclyffe" to care where 
 Ethel was staying. But despite her bravery, even Ethel's 
 heart quaked as she neared the bridge, where the waters 
 were rushing on with a sullen roar. But still she hurried 
 on, too brave to retreat. But the little cottage was not 
 destined to be explored by Ethel that night, for just as 
 she reached the end of the bridge the moon broke from 
 under the heavy clouds, disclosing a scene which would 
 have made a braver heart than Ethel's quake; for in the 
 weird moonligiit which was shining on the little porch a 
 man's figure, old and bent, stood. As Ethel stood there, 
 
154 
 
 ETHEVS HALLOWEEN. 
 
 her heart beating in wild tumultuous throbs, the figure 
 turned slowly toward the bridge, and before Ethel's hor- 
 rified gaze stood a face, — a face full of acutest agony. 
 With one horrified cry Ethel sprang, she knew not where, 
 for at that moment she sank unconscious. 
 
 When Ethel opened her eyes to consciousness she was 
 lying in her own room ; the crimson cloak was gone, and 
 in its place was a pretty red wrapper. There was no light 
 in the room except the blaze of tiie firelight, which was 
 casting its rosy gleams on the wall. Ethel's eyes wandered 
 around the room, and at last they lit on the little wounded 
 arm which lay on the coverlet ; it was bound around in 
 snowy cloths, and at the first look a quick, convulsive 
 shudder ran through her frame, and a little sob broke from 
 the quivering lips, for it all came back to her, — hallow- 
 een and that dreadful fall on the sharp, cruel rocks. 
 
 At the first motion a figure rose from the stool by the 
 fire and neared the bed. Ethel raised her eyes to see 
 before her Isabelle, or rather the shadow of Isabelle, for 
 the face with that look of acute suffering on it, that white, 
 drawn face with the large dilated eyes, could never be 
 the haughty Isabelle. But it was ; for the figure knelt by 
 the bed, and, taking the little, wasted hand, whispered 
 in low, hoarse tones, — 
 
 "Ethel, Ethel, can you ever forgive me? Can you 
 ever forgive me for concealing that note, therefore keep- 
 ing you from the halloween party, and causing all these 
 many hours of suspense to those that you love and love 
 you ? Can you forgive me," continued Isabelle, in hoarse, 
 strained tones, — " can you forgive me for being so jealous 
 of Archie, who loves you as he loves his life, and who is 
 wasted to a mere shadow in this terrible week of sus- 
 pense? Ethel, Ethel, only say you forgive me !" 
 
 Forgive her ! with those large pathetic eyes raised so 
 pleadingly, with that white, drawn face, showing that a 
 week of suffering had wrought years of change in the 
 haughty Isabelle ! For answer, Ethel raised her disen- 
 gaged hand and drew Isabelle's head on a level with 
 her own, smoothing it as fondly as a mother would a 
 baby's. That little pathetic action did more to show 
 Isabelle how deeply she had wronged the fair, sweet girl, 
 
ETHEUS HALLOWEEN. 
 
 155 
 
 who had been so near to death, than all the years of 
 friendship afterward. 
 
 :)(.-)(.%i(.i(.-)(i%i(.-^-if 
 
 A year has passed. 'Tis halloween, and Ethel's wed- 
 ding-night. It was the happiest year of Ethel's life, for 
 Isabelle was indeed changed, changed from the haughty, 
 distant girl to the sweet-faced, lovable companion. 
 
 From the night when the grave, handsome young 
 stranger, son of the long-secluded hermit, had carried, 
 home the apparently lifeless form of Ethel, Isabelle was 
 changed. When it was found that Ethel in her fright 
 had imagined the brave, stalwart young man to be the 
 old hermit's ghost, there was many a merry laugh raised, 
 but Isabelle never joined it, for there was something al- 
 most solemn in the tale of which others jested. 
 
 From the night when Leon Granger carried Ethel home 
 he had been fascinated by shy, winsome Josie, and they 
 were wedded on the night when pretty, brown-eyed Ethel 
 took Archie Kingston for weal or woe, — the night which 
 one year before had almost ended Ethel Grey's life. 
 
 Josie is now the happy mother of a little Leon, while 
 Ethel has a band of happy children, one of which, Ethel, 
 is almost old enough to wear the faded scarlet cloak. 
 And Isabelle, Isabelle the gay, haughty girl, is now a 
 lovable woman, the stay and comfort of her aged parents, 
 and her only great happiness consists in joining, on 
 halloween, Archie, whom she never ceased to love, and 
 his pretty wnfe Ethel, and, with baby Isabelle nestled 
 lovingly in her arms, list to Ethel as she tells to the 
 never-wearied children how Uncle Leon was the cause 
 of the scar on their mother's pretty, rounded arm, and 
 the old hermit's ghost on that never-to-be-forgotten hal- 
 loween. 
 
 Saturday, September 17, i88i. 
 
BROWNIE. 
 
 A PRIZE STORY. 
 
 Brownie Lee was thinking. Now don't for one min- 
 ute imagine Brownie was a fairy elf, or anytliing of the 
 kind, for she was only a little girl, lovable, wilful, and 
 faulty, like you and me, I presume. 
 
 She was not such a little girl, either, for the small fig- 
 ure sitting on the rocks, if she had lived there always, 
 would have seen the sunshine glimmer on the waters of 
 the little bay fully fourteen summers. 
 
 As she sits there, the soft summer winds playfully toss- 
 ing her curls, let me describe her. Rather short and 
 plump, with a wealth of chestnut locks showering to her 
 waist; a pair of bright, dancing, laughter-loving eyes 
 peeping from under lashes dark as a raven's wing; full 
 red lips, and cheeks as brown as a berry, while a pair of 
 arch dimples play hide-and-seek with the rosy mouth. 
 The small hands lying on the white frock are browner 
 even than the cheeks, and a perfect match for the plump 
 feet peeping from under the short skirt. 
 
 Such was Brownie Lee just as she sat on that July 
 morning, planning that which if never carried out, in 
 all probability, my little story would not have been 
 written. 
 
 Ah, you think Brownie is some fisherman's daughter, 
 and the story will not be interesting anyliow. I cannot 
 promise for the interest, but I will say that in spite of the 
 bare feet Brownie was a real city-bred child. Her mother 
 was an invalid, and so the little cottage owned by Cap- 
 tain Lee was always occupied during the summer season. 
 There Brownie spent the happiest hours of her life. 
 156 
 
BROWNIE. 
 
 157 
 
 'Twas the third summer she had spent at Beach Cove, and 
 the little cottage, situated just a pleasant distance from 
 the water, began to seem like home. 
 
 In the elegant mansion in the city, the captain's winter 
 home. Brownie was kept under strict discipline. She did 
 scarcely anything, however, but practise on the piano, 
 take lessons from the governess, and make "calls" with 
 Aunt Kate, who was trying to educate her little niece to 
 become a stylish and accomplished young lady. The 
 captain was away most of the time, and, as Mrs. Lee was 
 delicate. Aunt Kate was the oracle of the family. 
 
 Brownie was a mystery to both ; scarcely less a one to 
 the dainty little mother than to haughty Aunt Kate, the 
 proud woman of the world. A mystery to the mother, 
 because the frail little woman could not understand the 
 adventurous spirit of the healthy child ; and a great 
 source of worriment to the aunt, because the wilful child 
 would obey the laws of nature and go contrary to those 
 of fashion. Between the two. Brownie was kept under re- 
 straint ; but down at the seashore, when Aunt Kate was 
 many miles away, the child did just as she pleased, for 
 the little mother was too weak to combat her wishes, and 
 even when she did Brownie came off victor. 
 
 Captain Lee had three children : Brownie, our little 
 heroine, Ernest, a sturdy boy of fifteen, and Bessie, a 
 winsome, wee maid of six, — the " family conscience," as 
 her father called her. 
 
 As much a contrast to madcap Brownie was Bessie as 
 the fierce winter blasts to the soothing summer winds. 
 Not that Brownie was boisterous ; far from it. Lovable, 
 wilful, impetuous, and wild; always doing wrong, and 
 the next moment repenting with such heart-felt sorrow 
 that it was impossible to scold the penitent little figure 
 with the brown eyes raised so pleadingly for forgiveness. 
 In her most wayward moments there was only one who 
 could still the tempest, and that was Bessie. What magic 
 charm the little one carried about her could not be told, 
 but certain it was that a few coaxing words from Bessie 
 would transform the angry, dark-eyed Brownie into a 
 charming penitent. " My stormy elf" and " family con- 
 science" were the captain's favorite names for the children. 
 
 14 
 
158 
 
 BROWNIE. 
 
 The fittest description for Brownie in my estimation is, 
 that she was 
 
 A raging, stormy, beautiful elf, 
 Whom no one could know, 
 And who knew not herself. 
 
 And Bessie I will describe in Mrs. Browning's own 
 words : 
 
 " A quiet face and figure of a child, 
 Though too calm, I think, and tender 
 For the childhood I would lend her. 
 
 " Oval cheeks encolored faintly, 
 Which a trail of golden hair 
 Keeps from fading off to air ; 
 
 " And a forehead fair and saintly. 
 Which two bhie eyes under-shine, 
 Like meek prayers before a shrine." 
 
 That was Bessie. But to return : out on the rocks sat 
 Brownie, her elfin locks blowing about her temples and 
 the waters rippling around her bare, brown feet. Any one 
 who knew Captain Lee could well understand the adven- 
 turous spirit of the child. 
 
 It was the 3d of July, and Brownie's birthday. She 
 was just fourteen, and on that day contemplated going 
 to a small island, a pleasant little distance up the bay 
 and also adjoining Red Cliffs, a dangerous but beautiful 
 spot. 
 
 Not far from the captain's cottage lived an orphan boy. 
 Archie Grey was a boat-rower; owning a stanch little 
 craft, there were many who patronized the brave boy ; for 
 although but fifteen, there were none near Beach Cove, 
 except the bronzed seamen, wlio could excel him in the 
 art of boating. 
 
 From the first summer that bright-eyed Brownie had 
 spent at Beach Cove, Archie was her devoted slave. He 
 was too reserved to show his preference, but Brownie, 
 quick to perceive, soon saw that among all boys who 
 worshipped at her shrine Archie was leader. And right 
 royally she queened it over the boy. In her own circle 
 at Beach Cove she was the leader, admired by the girls 
 and respected by the boys for her championship of their 
 
BROWNIE. i^g 
 
 own sports. But in Archie's case it was different. When 
 Brownie smiled upon him the day was all sunshine, but 
 at her frown the sun went out of his small world. 
 
 Girls are quick to perceive even boyish homage ; in 
 Brownie's case it served as a check to her wild spirits ; 
 for a disapproving look from Archie's steady brown eyes 
 made the red blood mantle warmly to her cheeks, and 
 Brownie began to see that even the little boat-rower's 
 opinion was of worth. 
 
 As Brownie sat thinking on the rocks, a small boat 
 glided around the curve with a graceful sweep, and with an 
 eager cry she sprang up and sped swiftly along the sand, 
 exclaiming, " Oh, Archie, I have been waiting here a 
 whole hour watching for you ; say, quick, is the ' Rosebud' 
 engaged for the day? and if it isn't, will you row me over 
 to the island? It is my birthday, and please don't you 
 disappoint me, for I have had the stormiest time getting 
 mamma to ' come round.' " 
 
 As the little girl finished, she clasped both hands im- 
 pulsively, looking up with eyes bright with anxiety and 
 lips parted expectantly. A very pretty picture they made. 
 The little boat-rower with his curly hair tossed by the wind, 
 and his dark eyes bashful and averted ; and the little girl 
 standing, her hair kissed by the rising sun, on the tiptoe 
 of„ expectation. 
 
 " No, Miss Brownie, the boat is not engaged, and I 
 shall row you over to the island with pleasure. You could 
 not have a pleasanter day for the expedition." 
 
 "All right, then ; I must go prepare. Ten o'clock re- 
 member; notlater." And with one of her sunniest smiles 
 Brownie bounded away, happy and gay as a lark, leaving 
 the little boat-rower standing there, watching her until 
 a bluff hid the last flutter of the white dress. 
 
 At ten o'clock the " Rosebud," released from her moor- 
 ings, swept gracefully out into the bay, carrying a merry 
 boatful of children. And none were happier than the 
 little boatman, steering the dainty craft and dreamily 
 watching his ideal. Perhaps you may laugh, but in the 
 boy's heart there was a craving after beauty which pretty 
 Brownie filled to the highest extent ; for gay and romping 
 as the child was, yet she was a true, winsome little lady. 
 
i6o BROWNIE. 
 
 Many a time the boy's sensitive feelings had been hurt 
 at some little maid's thoughtless words ; not so with 
 Brownie, and thus it was that he cherished her as his boy- 
 ish ideal. 
 
 At last the little crew of the "Rosebud" were landed 
 on the sunny, smiling island, where they were soon en- 
 gaged in merry sport. Brownie the gayest of the gay. 
 The island on that day seemed like some enchanted palace, 
 where sorrow and trouble could enter not. The waters of 
 the bay danced in the sunshine, white clouds floated lazily 
 overhead, the wind-harp made sweet, mournful music in 
 the rocks looming up behind, and the birds flew by with 
 their glad songs, dipping their wings in the water with a 
 joyful note. It was a day when all nature rejoiced, and the 
 mere living was a thing of joy ; the verdure on the island 
 shone in its delicate green tints, and the waves rippled 
 against the shore with a musical murmur. How could 
 bright-eyed Brownie, her cheeks aglow with the healthful 
 breezes and her heart overflowing with happiness, associate 
 trouble with the bright day? Trouble seemed a thing far 
 away from the happy child ; life contained nothing more 
 just then than the bright midsmiimer day. Never in her 
 life had Brownie felt so unexceptionally gay and adventu- 
 rous, feeling as if she must do something to relieve the 
 wild burst of happiness in her swelling bosom. 
 
 At last the children, growing hungry, clamored for their 
 lunch, and Brownie, selecting her dearest friend, gentle 
 Daisy Westwood, began to prepare the rustic dinner. 
 
 Blue-eyed Daisy was as different from impetuous 
 Brownie as two children could well be. Brownie, the 
 elder by two years, protected while she worshipped Daisy. 
 Mrs. Lee always encouraged this friendship, for Daisy in 
 her way acted as a check to Brownie's wild spirits, while 
 Brownie taught the shrinking Daisy to be more confident, 
 helped her to mingle the practical with the sentimental, 
 and altogether the friendship flourished. 
 
 But to return to the dinner. If any boy reads my story 
 he can well understand the feeling which prompted the 
 "hurrah" from my boys when dinner was announced. 
 A very pretty picture the little islanders made as they sat, 
 reclined, or lay in the sand according to their various 
 
BROWNIE. - i6i 
 
 fashions, and ate, drank, and were merry. Bless you ! 
 Such voracious appetites as those dear boys had. It is 
 needless to say with what rapidity chicken, rolls, beef, 
 cream-puffs, and various other eatables vanished from the 
 table in almost less time than it takes me to write it. 
 Surely never was a midsummer dinner enjoyed more than 
 that one. 
 
 What a blessed thing innocent childhood is ! Little 
 maidens and little men, be not in a big hurry to row your 
 boats into womanhood's and manhood's port, for when 
 once there you can never return. 
 
 After dinner they wandered at their will anywhere they 
 pleased, the younger ones besieging Archie for a story, 
 the boys wandering off to the lower part of the island, 
 and Daisy and Brownie enjoying the luxury of a "good 
 talk." By and by the little ones, wearied of stories, 
 wandered to a cosey little nook to play " house," and 
 Archie, thus left to his own devices, lay down in the warm 
 sand to rest and to see that the children did not wander 
 out of sight. Drawing his hat over his eyes and settling 
 himself comfortably to watch, he was soon lulled by the 
 murmur of the waves into a long, delicious, restful sleep. 
 There was no one to waken him, for the boys were quite 
 a distance off, and when the younger children became 
 too hilarious, thoughtful little Bessie would shake her 
 head and point her finger toward Archie, and no more 
 was needed to restore quiet ; and so the wearied boy 
 slept on. 
 
 When Archie was watching the younger children he 
 did not dream that older but less wiser ones were doing 
 the very thing that he did not wish the little ones to do, 
 — wander beyond the bounds of safety. After dinner 
 Brownie and Daisy, seeing that the little ones were well 
 provided for, wandered off toward Red Cliffs, where they 
 sat down to rest on a cool ledge. The water rippled 
 with a musical murmur on the narrow stretch of saiul 
 which divided the sunny, smiling island from the frown- 
 ing, tempting, but dangerous cliffs. Here Daisy would 
 have been content to spend the remainder of the day, but 
 not so adventurous Brownie. The dark, angry cliffs offered 
 too much attraction to be resisted, and soon, regardless 
 I 14* 
 
1 62 BROWNIE. 
 
 of danger, the heedless child was coaxing Daisy to cross 
 the boundary-line and wander "just a little farther on." 
 For a i^vf minutes Daisy sensibly refused, for she had 
 often heard her papa speak of how delightful but danger- 
 ous the cliffs were, and how at high tide the boundary- 
 line between them and the island was completely covered, 
 thus cutting off every means of escape in that direction ; 
 and also how exceedingly difficult and dangerous it was 
 to row around the outer edge of the cliffs. But Brownie, 
 imbued with her father's spirit, was not to be persuaded, 
 and soon the two children were deep in the delightful 
 mystery of the cliffs, while the sun sank lower and lower, 
 and the "cruel, crawling foam" crept on, covering the 
 sand, and, not content with that, creeping farther up the 
 rocks. 
 
 It was not until a faint, shadowy glimmer of twilight 
 began to sweep over the cliffs that Brownie thought of 
 returning; and when at last they retraced their steps, it 
 was only to be driven back by the steady sweep of the in- 
 coming tide. Frightened and bewildered, the two chil- 
 dren crept upon a ledge where they could not hear the 
 boom of the waves, and then it was that Brownie's courage 
 stood her in good stead, for Daisy was too frightened to 
 do aught else but sob and beg Brownie "not to let her 
 drown." While Brownie was soothing the golden-haired 
 Daisy, she thought she heard the sweep of oars, and 
 while she is intently listening we will go back to the 
 island. 
 
 The sun was fast sinking behind the cliffs ere Archie 
 awoke, and when he did his first thought was for the little 
 ones; but finding they were safe, he next inquired of 
 Bessie where Brownie was. The childish answer of " They 
 have gone to the cliffs" sent a thrill of horror through his 
 veins, for only the little boat-rower knew what danger 
 they were in. 
 
 A shrill whistle soon brought the boys from the lower 
 part of the island, and a few plain words explained all, 
 the anxious boys eagerly proffering their assistance. But 
 Archie refused the well-meant offers, and, leaving Ernest 
 in charge of the little ones, hurried away to the " Rose- 
 bud," swinging at her moorings. A few steady strokes 
 
BROWNIE. 163 
 
 of the oars sent the little boat sweeping around the curve 
 on her short but difficult voyage. Only Archie Grey's 
 accustomed eyes could have sent the sturdy craft with 
 such apparent ease in and out the jagged rocks; but no 
 human person except the boy knew what a struggle it was 
 in the fast increasing twilight to row around those rugged 
 cliffs. Once and once only did the boat veer wrong, and 
 the curly brown head went with a sudden shock against 
 the rock, cutting an ugly gash and causing the boy to lose 
 time, while with an awkward effort he bound a rough 
 handkerchief around the wound, and was soon speeding 
 on again. 
 
 Brownie, with Daisy's head pillowed on her breast, 
 listened eagerly to see if it was the paddle of oars: but 
 when Archie's shrill whistle resounded through the cliffs 
 she sprang up, exclaiming, in her old impetuous way, 
 "Daisy, Daisy! Archie has come!" Archie had come, 
 there was no mistaking it. And soon the two delighted 
 children were sweeping from under the frowning, darken- 
 ing cliffs out into the open bay. 
 
 Then for the first time impetuous Brownie noticed 
 the ugly wound which the sinking sun was bathing ten- 
 derly, and, half ashamed and half shyly, she took her own 
 dainty handkerchief and dressed it gently. At last the 
 island was reached, and the little crew of the "Rose- 
 bud" were soon embarked for home, Brownie's spirits 
 quenched by the escapade on the cliffs. Half-way out 
 in the bay another boat was seen approaching, and ere 
 Brownie could realize it she was caught in two strong 
 arms, and Captain Lee's hearty voice was heard say- 
 ing, " My darling little madcap, aren't you glad to see 
 papa?" 
 
 This indeed was a surprise, for Brownie had not the 
 least idea that her papa was even on his homeward voy- 
 age, and here she was sobbing and laughing in his arms. 
 It was not long ere the captain knew the whole story, but 
 to Brownie's surprise he was very much displeased, and 
 chided her severely while lauding the brave little boat- 
 rower to the skies, for the captain knew only too well in 
 what danger his girl had been, and how nobly Archie had 
 done. 
 
1 64 BROWNIE. 
 
 When the shore was reached and the boats made snug 
 for the night, they all started for home, Bessie sound 
 asleep in her father's arms. But there was no going 
 home for Archie that night, the captain would not hear 
 of such a thing ; and soon the little boat-rower's wound 
 was being carefully and lovingly dressed by Brownie's 
 "little mother," while the words of praise were as balm 
 to his sensitive heart. For the first time since a wee 
 child Archie felt a mother's kiss on his lips that night, 
 and slept under the lace curtains to dream that the angels 
 had come for him, that he was no longer " motherless 
 Archie," and that Brownie in her white dress was sitting 
 down on the rocks, her tears mingling with the rippling 
 of the waves. 
 
 Was it all a dream ? No, not all, for the poor little 
 orphan went home to meet his mother in less than a 
 week, and Brownie could not be comforted. For some 
 time the fever had been surging in his veins, and the 
 terrible strain had hurried it on, and he was soon borne 
 through the portal to meet his mother. Yes, Archie was 
 dead. The room was darkened and the shutters closed, so 
 that only the distant murmur of the waves could be heard. 
 There he lay in the narrow casket, the curls brushed 
 down over the cruel wound, the white face richly lined 
 against the satin, the delicate flowers drooping over the 
 brown hair, and the dark eyes closed forever. Yes, 
 Archie was dead, and Brownie hovered over the casket, 
 her face scarcely whiter than the boy's own. At last it 
 was all over. The little boat-rower had gone to meet his 
 mother. 
 
 Down on the rocks sat Brownie, — poor, lonely little 
 Brownie. All was still except the moaning of the waves, 
 that seemed to murmur. Poor Brownie ! Brave, noble 
 Archie's mission was over, and perhaps it were better so, 
 for life had gone hard with the boy. But Brownie lived 
 to be a sweet, lovable woman, never quite tlie same little 
 madcap after that summer at Beach Cove. 
 
 With the future we have nothing to do, but I will just 
 add that Brownie often sits on the rocks at Beach Cove 
 and tells the tale I have told you, while her eyes are fixed 
 dreamily on the sunset clouds ; and a little Archie is lying 
 
BROWNIE. 
 
 165 
 
 at her feet, and the sun kisses his auburn hair as it did 
 that of the other Archie on that never-to-be-forgotten 
 summer day. And down on the rocks sits Brownie, 
 while the stars are appearing one by one, and the 
 waters ripple around her feet with a murmur tliat sounds 
 like wailing little voices, sobbing mournfully, " Poor 
 Brownie !" 
 
 November 29, 1881. 
 
LENORE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A STATELY mansion stood wrapped in impenetrable 
 gloom, half hidden among trees; the wind was moaning, 
 sobbing mournfully, now rising, now falling, with a cry 
 of bitter wailing. Outside, reigned the cold and chill of 
 a stormy evening ; inside, the comfort, ease, and light 
 which betokened luxury. The wind might moan chilly 
 along the avenues of trees, but no breath of air stirred 
 the rich lace curtains where everything was light and 
 warmth. In an easy-chair beside the glowing fire sat a 
 stately lady. Her hair of powdered silver was swept 
 back from a face both proud and cold ; her dress of rich 
 brocaded silk swept the carpet, while her hands lay idly 
 on her lap, — hands white as lilies, and as frail. She was 
 beautiful, this stately, queenly lady, yet her face repelled 
 you with its coldness. 
 
 Not less than the light of fifty summers had swept over 
 that haughty head. The firelight played with a softening 
 glow about the silent figure, and showed a smile curving 
 the cold, proud lips ; a smile that changed the face, 
 making it very beautiful, almost bringing back the lost 
 girlhood of Evelyn Stanton. 
 
 A light, childish step was heard, and a boy of fourteen 
 bounded into the room. Even in the dim firelight you 
 could see the large, lustrous eyes, the curls clustering in 
 beauty about a brow of purest whiteness, while the arch 
 smile that played around the full red lips told of the boy's 
 fearless disposition. 
 
 " Leroy, what made you so late ? Don't you know how 
 anxious I would be with you out in this raging storm ?" 
 
 "I cannot help it, grandma." And the boy, with a 
 musical laugh, flung himself full length on the rug. " I 
 i66 
 
LENORE. 
 
 167 
 
 cannot help it ; we were having such glorious fun that but 
 for you I would not have been home yet." 
 
 The lady smiled indulgently, her face showing the love 
 she felt for the boy. 
 
 Evelyn Stanton was a haughty, distant woman. She 
 had married for wealth, and not for love. When quite 
 young she was left a widow with two children, a boy and 
 a girl. Leroy and Lenore Stanton were beautiful children, 
 the pride and joy of the mother's heart. At an early age 
 Leroy married a fair young girl, who after three months 
 of wedded life died. It was not long before he sought 
 another bride, a stately woman with the little Leroy, of 
 which Evelyn Stanton was so proud. At the age of eight 
 years Leroy was an orphan, and the proud mother, now 
 deprived of her son, sought consolation in bringing to 
 her home the little boy. But a great sorrow had fillen 
 on the mother's heart : Lenore, her fair and idolized 
 daughter, married a poor artist against that mother's will. 
 
 Siie had married Ernest Kingston from pure love, of 
 which her innocent heart was full. From the time Le- 
 nore became Ernest's bride she was banished from her 
 home, forbidden ever again to enter its door. Only once 
 since then, which had been three years, had the mother 
 heard from her child, and then it was that a little Lenore 
 had come to gladden the rose-covered cottage where lived 
 the child of wealth, and then the cold, proud heart of 
 the woman had turned to the dark-haired Leroy, where 
 all its affections were centred. 
 
 The firelight was tlirowing a ruddy glow over the richly- 
 furnished room, when the woman spoke, her face growing 
 pale: 
 
 "Leroy, did you hear that cry? It sounded like the 
 wail of a child. Did you hear it?" 
 
 The boy raised himself to a listening attitude, and then 
 his dark eyes suddenly glowed. 
 
 "Yes, grandma, I hear it. It was the cry of a child." 
 
 The lady rose from her chair, her rich dress rustling on 
 the carpet, and rang a tiny silver bell. A servant appeared, 
 who at the lady's command soon liad the room in a blaze 
 of light. As the servant turned to leave the room Lady 
 Stanton exclaimed, " Do not go, Margaret; I want you. 
 
1 68 LENORE. 
 
 Open that door and see if a child is about ; Leroy and I 
 both heard it crying." 
 
 The old woman, Margaret, a faithful and tried servant, 
 obeyed. As the door opened a strong gust of wind blew 
 in, making the lady draw close to the fire. "A bitter 
 night, Margaret," she said; "look well, for if any poor 
 infant were out in the cold, it would soon perish." 
 
 For a few moments all was silent, except the moaning 
 of the wind ; and then the old servant reappeared, carry- 
 ing in her dusky arms a bundle, therein a baby covered 
 with warm wraps, its face distorted with weeping. It was 
 a beautiful baby, apparently a year old ; the long lashes 
 swept the fair white cheek, and golden ringlets curled on 
 the lily brow; lips like half-opened rose-buds, and two 
 dainty dimpled hands that lay clasped in baby fashion. 
 
 When Lady Evelyn saw the vision of loveliness she stood 
 transfixed with surprise, her face gradually softening, for 
 the innocent little one lying there would have touched a 
 heart of stone. Not so with Leroy. With a face full 
 of curiosity he bounded forward, and, leaning over the 
 little one, touched the golden ringlets lightly, his dark 
 hair mingling with the sunny curls of the baby. At 
 the touch a pair of violet eyes were raised, eyes deep and 
 dark. 
 
 "Oh, grandma, what a beautiful baby!" exclaimed 
 Leroy, as the waxen lids lifted. " Margaret, grandma, 
 what are you going to do with it?" 
 
 " Hush, Leroy !" said Lady Evelyn, sternly, advancing 
 toward the child. As she came nearer, the baby lifted 
 two dimpled hands and burst into a little sobbing wail. 
 "Lenore!" unconsciously the word broke from the 
 mother's lips; the deserted babe lying there in its infant 
 helplessness touched her heart, but only for a moment, 
 then she checked herself with a startled look. 
 
 " Lenore, grandma? what a pretty name ! Where is 
 Aunt Lenore?" 
 
 The cold, haughty look returned, and Lady Evelyn 
 spoke in measured, icy tones, " Leroy, never ask me 
 that question again, and never mention that name. Mar- 
 garet, we cannot turn this baby out into the cold, so you 
 may attend to her for to-night. To-morrow we shall see." 
 
LENORE. 169 
 
 And with a wave of her hand she dismissed the servant 
 and returned to her easy-chair. 
 
 But her thoughts were very different from what they 
 were before, and although she tried to banish the memory 
 of her lost Lenore, it would come again and again, until, 
 growing weary of thinking, she sent Leroy to his room and 
 retired to her own luxurious chamber, but not to sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Up in the nursery sat Margaret, with the baby on her 
 knee ; the wee, winsome, dimpled baby touched the old 
 woman's heart, for it reminded her of " Miss Lenore" 
 when an infant. Thus the child pleaded its own cause. 
 In the cradle which had been the little Lenore's the baby 
 was to sleep, and with loving hands the old woman began 
 to undress it, crooning a love-song the while, which soon 
 soothed the child into slumber. The long white slip, 
 tucked and embroidered, had just been removed, when a 
 note fell on the rose-tinted carpet. The woman stooped 
 to pick it up, when the words " Dear Mamma" came to 
 her view. " A note perhaps that will explain," and she 
 read eagerly : 
 
 " Dear Mamma, — To-night when you read this note try and think 
 kindly of your Lenore. Mamma. I have been much blessed ; a precious 
 gift has been sent to me, — that of my httle Lenore. No sunbeam ever 
 brought such gladness as my baby gives to me ; but to-night I leave her 
 at your door, hoping that the sight of her may make you love once more 
 your long-banished child. Ernest and I are very happy. The one wish 
 of our life is that my dear mother m;iy become reconciled. Dear mamma, 
 when you look on my little pink blossom remember she is Ernest and 
 Lenore's child and your grandchild. Lenore." 
 
 The old woman when she had finished reading gazed 
 with tearful eyes on the slumbering infant. " So it is 
 Lenore's child, Lenore's baby," she murmured, touch- 
 ing reverently the sunny ringlets. " Heaven forbid that 
 Lady Evelyn's eyes should rest on this note. Her heart 
 is yet too bitter, and the poor baby would be sent cruelly 
 H 15 
 
lyo 
 
 LENORE. 
 
 back to its mother. Old Margaret will keep the note a 
 little while, until that proud, cold heart softens toward 
 the little one. If she send it away, then I will tell her 
 it is Lenore's child, but not yet, not yet. ' ' And, laying the 
 baby softly in the cradle, she stole away, putting the note 
 where the proud lady would not find it ; and therefore 
 she could not know that under her roof was Lenore's 
 child. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Grandma, please keep the beautiful baby. Just think 
 such a sweet little sister to play with ! If you don't, 
 grandma, I will run away, and then what will you do ?" 
 
 This was spoken by Leroy as he stood near Lady Eve- 
 lyn's chair, pleading with his eyes as well as his X\\^. 
 For two days Evelyn Stanton had been considering 
 whether to adopt tlie little one, and now she had just 
 decided that the baby siiould live at the mansion, and 
 become her adopted grandchild, Lenore Stanton. 
 
 "Leroy," she said, turning with set lips to the boy, 
 " you may go tell Margaret that henceforth the baby 
 is to be my adopted granddaughter ' Lenore' and her 
 charge." 
 
 Leroy needed no second bidding ; away he bounded, 
 delighting the old servant's heart with the tidings, while 
 the cold heart of her mistress was deep in bitter musing. 
 
 " Eighteen to-day, grandma, and oh, so happy !" A 
 fairy picture of loveliness Lenore Stanton made as she 
 stood at the door of Lady Evelyn's dressing-room. She 
 was attired in a suit of violet-tinted velvet; her golden 
 hair, tiiat looked like imprisoned sunbeams, was caught 
 and confined by a pearl comb; her violet eyes were dewy 
 with happiness, and her laughter sounded like rippling 
 music. 
 
 Lady Evelyn, reclining on the lounge, watched the fair 
 girl with pride. Granddaughter or no granddaughter, 
 
LENORE. 
 
 171 
 
 sweet I^enore had entwined her love around the woman's 
 heartstrings until there was no loosing it. 
 
 "Yes," thought Lady Evelyn, "eighteen years ago 
 you were left on my door-step. Ah, Lenore, you do not 
 know, nor never shall, that you were a homeless, nameless 
 waif." 
 
 " Grandma, are you not glad that Leroy is coming 
 home. Think, I have not seen him for four years. I was 
 a merry girl of fourteen then, now I am a young lady. 
 No more romping for us, grandma; and yet I shall love 
 to see him." Ah ! Lenore, little dream you of the conse- 
 quences of this visit from Leroy I 
 
 'Tis later in the afternoon. Lady Evelyn is in the 
 handsome parlor luxuriously reclining on a sofa, and think- 
 ing of that day years ago. Her thoughts gradually centre 
 on her daughter, the lost Lenore. A longing steals over 
 her to forgive and forget, to bring home Ernest and his 
 wife and the little Lenore. She is growing old, and longs 
 once more to have her fair Lenore by her side. But her 
 thoughts are interrupted ; this time a manly form treads 
 the carpet, and bearded lips press hers. 
 
 Four years her boy has been on the continent, and has 
 now returned a handsome, bearded man. "And where 
 is Lenore, little Lenore?" exclaims Leroy, when com- 
 fortably seated by Lady Evelyn's side. 
 
 " Here I am, Leroy," says a clear, sweet voice. And 
 Leroy is dazzled by the picture of a fair young girl in 
 violet velvet standing before him with frank, dewy eyes. 
 He puts out his hand and draws hers within his own, and 
 the look of passionate adoration that passes from his dark 
 eyes tells Lady Evelyn that the thread of romance is con- 
 tinued, that a rich heir will soon give her fair Lenore the 
 rightful claim of grandchild. 
 
172 
 
 LENORE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Winter passes into summer, and Lenore is being im- 
 prisoned in love's net. She loves. Her heart flutters, 
 beats, when her uplifted eyes meet those of Leroy, and 
 her own heart tells her that her love is partially, if not 
 wholly, reciprocated. 
 
 It is this that causes the color to come and go in Le- 
 nore's fair cheeks as she walks through the conservatory 
 one sunny morning, her thoughts on Leroy. At that 
 very moment his voice floats on her ear ; he is speaking, 
 and she hears it all, — there is no way of escape. 
 
 " Now, grandma, are you sorry you adopted the little 
 waif when you see this queenly girl? Are you sorry she 
 was left on your door-step eighteen years ago?" 
 
 "No, Leroy, I am not. I only want you to win fair 
 Lenore so that I may call her grandchild rightfully. If 
 she was my Lenore's child, how proud I would be of 
 her!" 
 
 No more is heard, and Lenore with burning cheeks 
 springs along the hall, almost rushing into the arms of 
 good, faithful Margaret. 
 
 "My dear child, where are you going in such a 
 hurry?" And the faithful woman holds the poor, 
 grieved child, while Lenore pours out her trouble. 
 
 " Lenore, Lenore, that can be easily remedied. Child, 
 do not grieve about it, but go dry those tears. This very 
 night all shall be revealed." 
 
 Lenore did not hear the last words ; she had sprung up 
 the stairs at the sight of a tall form. 
 
 Lady Evelyn is reclining in her dressing-room. Lenore 
 had begged to be excused, and is therefore in her room, 
 while Leroy roams over the ground longing for Lenore. 
 Lady Evelyn leans back and closes her eyes wearily, 
 when there comes a knock at the door, and at the word 
 " Enter" faithful Margaret comes in. Lady Evelyn looks 
 surprised, but bids her be seated. Good old Margaret 
 
LENORE. 
 
 173 
 
 trembles all over as she lays the note on Lady Evelyn's 
 knee. 
 
 She picks it up with a look of surprise, and begins to 
 read ; her surprise deepens, and tears come into her eyes. 
 " Margaret, Margaret, when and where did you receive 
 this note? On the night that Lenore was left here?" 
 
 Margaret nods assent. 
 
 The stately lady grows pale and trembles as she ex- 
 claims, " My Lenore, my own grandchild ! my precious, 
 precious Lenore!" In her excitement she sends for the 
 girl, and in a few minutes Lenore understands all. She 
 is the rightful grandchild of Evelyn Stanton, and a cry 
 of thankfulness ascends from her heart. 
 
 That night, after Margaret had gone, Lady Evelyn told 
 Lenore all about her mother, and how at last her wish 
 was granted. She forgave her daughter. 
 
 Weeks pass on, and the much-looked-for father and 
 tnother arrive not. Lenore is the betrothed of Leroy 
 Stanton, and her happiness needs but to be completed by 
 the arrival of that mother, the fair Lenore ; and her wish 
 is granted. The rich artist and his fair wife now again 
 claim the daughter they had given up for lost. Lenore is 
 now the loved bride of Leroy Stanton, and a golden-haired 
 I^enore plays in the trellised walks. She is the image of 
 the baby with the sunny ringlets and dewy eyes, that was 
 left on the door-step, — the baby that acted as peace- 
 maker between the cold, haughty Lady Evelyn and the 
 lost Lenore. 
 
 '5^ 
 
COMPOSITIONS. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Summer is a very pleasant season. In summer we go 
 picnicking, on excursions, and, in short, we have a very 
 pleasant time. I remember last summer what a pleasant 
 time I had. I went to visit my uncle. One day in early 
 June, I remember being awakened by hearing uncle call- 
 ing me to get up. It just flashed upon me what he wanted. 
 I hurriedly dressed myself and ran down-stairs; there was 
 uncle waiting, hat in hand, to take me to the mill with 
 him. Oh, what a pleasant time we had I Uncle was not 
 very talkative, but there was plenty of other things to 
 make me enjoy myself. It was early, and the birds were 
 just getting up. The cool air of the morning sun fully 
 awakened me. I listened to the sweet notes of the robin 
 redbreast, I watched the squirrel as it cracked the nut, 
 and, indeed, I could tell you of many things more; but 
 we have arrived at the mill, and being aweary of long 
 sitting, I bid you good-by. 
 
 Pecember 18, 1877. 
 
 A TRIP TO ROCKY POINT. 
 
 It was in September. The day was hot and sultry ; 
 the sun poured down its fierce rays with unabating fury. 
 Altogether it was not a day for girls, just fresh from their 
 summer vacation, to study with unremitting diligence. 
 
 We were girls boarding at the pleasant seashore school 
 of Rose Irvin. Living quite a distance from home, we 
 174 
 
COMPOSITIONS. 175 
 
 had spent our vacation with our teacher, and many a 
 pleasant day we passed rambling on the beach. 
 
 This hot September day of which I am speaking, instead 
 of keeping us confined in the close atmosphere of the 
 school-room, Miss Irvin proposed we should go on a little 
 excursion of six miles to Rocky Point, under her protec- 
 tion. A half-hour after the proposal a merry party of 
 schoolgirls, with broad-rimmed hats and well-packed 
 lunch-baskets, scrambled into the steam-cars for a half- 
 hour's ride along the beach in the cool breezes of a Sep- 
 tember afternoon. 
 
 How intensely we enjoyed the scenery on that lovely 
 day ! On one side was the smiling ocean, with ships like 
 monstrous birds riding proudly abreast of its white-capped 
 waves. Half-way out at sea we descried a wreck, with the 
 waves dashing roughly around it. On the other side lay 
 the damp, green marshes, with here and there a bank of 
 sand glistening in the sun. At last the swift motion of 
 the cars gradually slackened, and we were soon climbing 
 up the steep, narrow stairs of the light-house and swinging 
 inside the big lantern. Then we left the light-house to 
 ride up in the elevator, which commanded an extensive 
 view. But perhaps the pleasantest of all was climbing up 
 in the tower and viewing the ocean in its garb of spring, 
 summer, autumn, and winter through different colored 
 glasses. 
 
 After we had partaken of our luncheon we took a walk 
 on the pier, and then started for the bath-houses to pre- 
 pare for a dip in old ocean. What a gay time we had, 
 splashing about like sea-nymphs 1 But at last the good-by 
 had to be said, and the steam-cars soon left us standing 
 on the beach, where, tired and happy, we sought the 
 leafy-covered farm-house, and were soon sleeping peace- 
 fully. 
 
176 
 
 COMPOSITIONS. 
 
 LESSONS FROM THE LIFE OF JAMES A. 
 GARFIELD. 
 
 From the life of our beloved President there is more 
 than one lesson to be learned. Many a poor girl or boy 
 standing and gazing into the years that are to come, per- 
 haps discouraged and heart-sick with the thought of the 
 many trials awaiting them, would come refreshed and 
 strengthened from the reading of James A. Garfield's life. 
 
 From the poor tow-path boy Garfield struggled on, 
 overcoming all obstacles. His motto ever was "Excel- 
 sior," until at last he became the President, the high 
 chief of a nation. 
 
 The thought of this untarnished life, which will live 
 forever in the annals of history, ought to lead us "on- 
 ward and upward" to patience, truth, goodness, nobility, 
 purpose, and steadfastness. The two little words " 1 will" 
 was what helped make James A. Garfield what he was. If 
 discouraged, we should press onward with our eyes fixed 
 on the goal. We should "do good because it is good; 
 do right because it is right." 
 
 Did the life of James A. Garfield teach us that labor is 
 degrading? Did he not become a janitor and work to 
 earn his schooling? Is the great and good man whom 
 the nation so sincerely mourned less loved because at one 
 time he was a humble boy working for his education? 
 Ah, no. He did not glide into the position which 
 brought him so much of joy and sorrow, but worked hand 
 and brain to gain it; thus showing his motto was not "I 
 can't," but "I will." 
 
 Though discouraged, we should press onward. Be 
 brave, noble, and good. Do no mean action that we should 
 be ashamed for the world to know. If our position should 
 be an humble one, we should improve it to the best of 
 our ability. If our position is an elevated one, we should 
 be true, noble, and dignified. 
 
 May we all profit by the life of James A. Garfield ! 
 
EDNA REED'S SACRIFICE.* 
 
 It was a bleak day in December, but none of the snow 
 and sleet entered the warm little sitting-room \vhere a bevy 
 of children sat around a bright fire. "My! how the 
 wind howls !" said a very pretty girl, apparently the eldest 
 of the group. 
 
 " Awful cold, ain't it, Ed? and I'm afraid Uncle Harry 
 will be injured out in this cold weather." 
 
 Just as this was said by one of the merry lads, the door- 
 bell rang. 
 
 " There he is now," said Edna, springing up from the 
 easy-chair where she had been sitting. " I will get to the 
 door first, Hal," to the merry lad who, thus challenged, 
 sprang forward to Edna's side; but fleet-footed Edna 
 gained the door first, and had it opened before Harry was 
 half-way there ; but to her great surprise and disappoint- 
 ment she found it was not her uncle. 
 
 "My gracious! how cold it is!" said Harry, as he 
 stepped out upon the porch. " Ho ! what's that?" as he 
 stumbled over a little figure in a remote corner. 
 
 " It is so cold I" said the clear voice of a child ; " but 
 oh !" in an eager tone, "will you please buy my toys?" 
 She held up to view a little basket filled with Christmas 
 toys. By this time the rest of the children, ten in all, 
 had gained the porch. 
 
 " Come," said Harry, — he was the only one who was 
 thinking how cold the child must be, — "come in and 
 get warmed." And the child, nothing loath, entered the 
 house, and the door was closed. For the time Uncle 
 
 *This and the four following stories were never completed. The 
 concluding tale, " Life at Birdsnest," was intended to be a book of thirty 
 chapters. 
 
 m 177 
 
1^8 EDNA REED'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 Harry and everything else was forgotten in the interest in 
 the little waif. 
 
 "Mamma," Edna said, taking the child's hand and lead- 
 ing her up to Mrs. Reed, " here is a poor little girl sell- 
 ing toys. Please buy them." 
 
 The bright eyes of the little stranger were fastened 
 eagerly upon the lady's face as she said, " Go bring me 
 a dish, Edna." It was brought, and Mrs. Reed emptied 
 the toys into the plate, and, taking out her purse, asked, 
 smilingly, "How much, my dear?" 
 
 Instead of answering, the little one burst into tears. 
 " How kind you are !" she replied, and, kneeling down, 
 kissed the lady's hand. 
 
 " My child, what is your name?" said Mrs. Reed. 
 
 "Alice Howard," the child replied, "and mamma is 
 very ill, — oh ! so ill, — but I think she will get well ; but 
 now I must go to her, and oh, how pleased she will be 
 when she sees this !" And the child kissed the bright five- 
 dollar note which lay in her hand, little dreaming of its 
 vahie. " But now I must go." 
 
 " Tell me, my child, where you live?" And Mrs. Reed 
 took down the address. " Tell your mother, Alice, I will 
 call to see her in the morning. But you are not clad 
 warmly enough to go out in this piercing storm." 
 
 " Mamma, oh ! mamma, may I give her my nice warm 
 cloak?" Hardly before Mrs. Reed could reply Edna 
 had left the room, and soon returned bringing the cloak. 
 
 Wrapping it around her shoulders, Mrs. Reed kissed 
 the child, and with tears in her eyes said, " Take her to 
 the door, my darling." 
 
 After the little child had gone, the group of faces around 
 the fire was rather saddened, and many pitying, expressive 
 exclamations were exchanged about the little stranger. 
 
 Meanwhile, Alice herself was walking swiftly homeward, 
 and it seemed a very short time when she stood by her 
 mother's bedside. 
 
 "Dearest mamma, just look here." And Alice held 
 up the note. "Have I not had splendid success? But 
 there, I must go. I'll be back in a few minutes," she 
 called, as she was hurrying down the stairs. It was not 
 long till she was back, bringing with her sundry articles. 
 
EDNA REED'S SACRIFICE. 179 
 
 " Now, mamma, you must eat something," said tlie little 
 girl, gayly. Mrs. Howard smiled at the child's enthu- 
 siasm. 
 
 After supper was over the little girl crept into bed, and, 
 being very weary, was soon fast asleep. 
 
 " How late I have slept ! and I expect mamma is want- 
 ing her tea," she said, next morning. "Mamma!" she 
 called, softly ; but there was no answer, and Allie reached 
 out her hand and took that of her mother's. It was icy 
 cold. With a little wild cry she called, "Mamma! 
 Mamma!" There was no answer, and the child, with a 
 low moan, knelt by her mother's side. 
 
 " Mamma," said Edna Reed that morning after break- 
 fast, " you promised to go and see Alice's mother." 
 
 "I am just ready now, Edna," said Mrs. Reed, "and 
 I want you to be a good little girl until I come back." 
 And with this parting injunction she left the room. After 
 she had reached the little cottage she stopped, and there 
 was Alice kneeling by the bedside, weeping bitterly. 
 
 It was all over, and Alice Howard was motherless. 
 There was no other remedy but to take the child home. 
 Edna Reed and her cousins were very much delighted 
 when they found that the little stranger was to reside with 
 them, and Alice was no less pleased. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE TWO STRUGGLES. 
 
 Three weeks had passed, and it was nearing Christ- 
 mas. Edna Reed's cousins were going to stay until after 
 New Year's. It had now become a settled matter that 
 Alice was to stay with them (that is, the children had 
 settled it). One day, a little while before Christmas, 
 when the others were out playing, Mrs. Reed called to 
 Edna. Taking her into a room by herself, she said, " I 
 see you are beginning to love little Alice," looking down 
 
l8o EDNA REED'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 into her daughter's surprised face. "Do you want to 
 keep her, Edna?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, mamma." 
 
 "Well, dear child, we are not rich; and, my darling, 
 if Alice goes away she will have a good, comfortable 
 home. I know a lady that wants her to be child's- 
 nurse." 
 
 "Oh, mamma! how can you?" said Edna, sobbing. 
 
 " Edna, there is one way to keep Allie." 
 
 "What is it, mamma?" said Edna, eagerly. 
 
 Mrs. Reed hesitated. "And that is, my child, that 
 you will have to give up your long-wished-for piano." 
 
 For a moment Edna held her breath. Give up her 
 piano, for which she had longed ! How could she? " Is 
 it the only way, mamma?" she asked, with a sob in her 
 voice. 
 
 "The only way, Edna," said Mrs. Reed, decidedly. 
 "But I will leave you to think for yourself." And im- 
 printing a kiss on her white brow, she left the room. 
 
 About an hour afterward Alice came running in. "Oh, 
 Aunt Grace" (for so she had been taught to call her), 
 " where is Edna, that she does not come down ? We are 
 having glorious fun !" 
 
 "Edna does not feel disposed to come down, Allie. 
 Run out and play." 
 
 The child did as she was bid. Two hours afterward 
 Edna came down. There were traces of a hard conflict 
 on her face. " Mamma, I have decided to give up my 
 piano," that was all she said. 
 
 Mrs. Reed bent down and kissed her, and said, ten- 
 derly, " My poor child! You decided rightly, Edna." 
 Only her mother knew what a struggle she had, — a strug- 
 gle, and how she had conquered. 
 
 " Edna," said Mrs. Reed, " run out and play with the 
 children now; they miss you." And Edna went. 
 
 Alice came running up to her delightedly. " I am so 
 glad you came;" but the sight of Allie brought the tears 
 into her eyes. 
 
 " Come and skate, Alice and Edna," shouted Harry, 
 and both the children ran off". Soon Edna became real 
 happy. They were skating around delightedly, when all 
 
EDNA REED'S SACRIFICE. igi 
 
 of a sudden there came a cry, and Edna just caught sight 
 of Alice's blue plume on the top of the ice, where she 
 had broken in. Hardly knowing what he did, Harry 
 sprang in after her, and soon brought her up to the surface 
 of the water, where Edna helped her out. " She is dead ! 
 oh, she is dead !" said Edna, distractedly. "What will 
 we do, Harry?" Harry lifted her in his arms, and bur- 
 dened with the weight of his dripping clothes, managed 
 to get her home ; he said afterward he could 
 
 1879. 
 
 16 
 
LILLIE'S VISIT TO FAIRY-LAND. 
 
 "Oh, dear me !" sighed Lillie. Lillie was generally 
 a good little girl and very happy; but on this memor' 
 able day she got up with a yawn and a pout. Perhaps it 
 was on account of having been up so late the night before. 
 
 Can you guess how late? Why, ten o'clock; for it 
 had been Lillie's birthday, and a very eventful day. 
 They had played games, and altogether had just as much 
 fun as they could ; and, yes, really, just as many straw- 
 berries and cream, too. But the crowning pleasure was 
 the lovely doll which Lillie got. Can you believe it ? — 
 and a little trunk of clothes (the doll would open and 
 shut its eyes and cry) and a cunning coach. How could 
 any little girl help being happy with a kind father and 
 mother and such a lovely doll? 
 
 Yet Lillie had awakened cross, and with a pout on her 
 rosy lips. 
 
 Nurse came in, and then it was Lillie began to be 
 naughty. She ran all around the room, thus giving her 
 nurse the trouble to capture her, and then, not satisfied 
 with that, declared she would not wear that horrid brown 
 frock, but would have on her pretty little blue, and at 
 last began to cry; but still she had to submit, for nurse 
 was determined, knowing well that the day was too cool 
 to put on the blue dress. 
 
 Lillie went to breakfast in high dudgeon. '* It seems 
 to me," said nurse, "that parties don't agree with my 
 sunny-tempered little Lillie. Ah," shaking her head, 
 "it is well birthdays don't come but once in a year." 
 
 When Lillie sat down to the table her father noticed 
 her frown, and said, gravely, " What I my little Lillie in 
 frowns? Ah, daughter," with a quizzical smile, "I am 
 afraid little Gertrude" (that was the name of the doll) 
 "has disobeyed her young mamma;" but even these 
 pleasant words failed to remove the frown. Lillie ate 
 182 
 
LILLIE'S VISIT TO FAIRY-LAND. 
 
 183 
 
 her breakfast in silence, now and then pouting becaiise 
 she could not have something" which was denied lier. At 
 last came the final act. 
 
 " Papa," Lillie asked, " may I have some coffee?" 
 
 "No, Lillie," replied Mr. Vernon. "I do not ap- 
 prove of little girls drinking coffee." 
 
 "Well, I just think that is too bad, when you drink 
 it," said Lillie, angrily; and then she was frightened at 
 her audacity. 
 
 "-Lillie, leave the table instantly, and do not come 
 down till dinner," said Mr. Vernon, sternly. 
 
 Lillie with flushed face ran out of the room, and gave 
 vent to a burst of sobs. The morning was long and 
 weary, and she was very glad when nurse came to smooth 
 her hair for dinner. 
 
 "Well, Lillie, has my little girl called back the 
 smiles?" asked her papa, kindly. Lillie hung her head 
 and blushed. After dinner, taking her doll and wheel- 
 ing it in the coach, she strayed down to the pretty little 
 arbor named after her, " Lillie's Arbor." This was a 
 favorite spot with eight-year-old Lillie. Sitting in her 
 little rocker she began to play with her doll. After she 
 had put it to sleep, she leaned back and crossed her hands. 
 The day was hot and sultry, the sun beating down with 
 great fervor ; but it was deliciously cool in the arbor, the 
 vines and trees flinging delightful shades around. 
 
 Lillie's father was wealthy, and he put his money to 
 good account. The grounds were laid out tastefully in 
 beds of roses, lilies, and heliotrope. The lilies were her 
 very own, right at the front of the arbor. Meanwhile, 
 here is something still more important. Lillie lived in 
 the fairies' time. Now, while she was sitting there, some- 
 thing strange happened. While she was gazing intently 
 at the lilies, something looking like a white cloud came 
 between her and them. A beautiful, misty cloud, which, 
 while she was gazing at it with wondering eyes, suddenly 
 parted, and a lovely fairy sank upon the soft green turf, 
 and then a wonderfully sweet voice said, " Lillie, I want 
 you to go with me on a visit to Fairy-Land. I have 
 asked your parents' permission, and they say you may. 
 Will you?" 
 
1 84 LIL LIE'S VISIT TO FAIRY-LAND. 
 
 "Yes, do, Lillie," chimed in two voices. And then 
 Lillie looked up to where the cloud still lingered, and 
 saw two little beings dressed in plain white robes, witli 
 wings, and holding a pretty little golden chair. 
 . " Ves, do come," they repeated. For a moment she 
 stood too astonished to speak, and then said, suddenly, 
 "Yes, indeed, I will." 
 
 " Then you can come right now," said the lovely fairy. 
 She who replied was the queen of the fairies. Lillie soon 
 found that out by the respectful attention the two paid 
 her. The queen lay back in her chair, and instantly they 
 were in upper air. It was very pleasant to go sailing along, 
 and it was deliciously cool, too. Toward evening they 
 began to descend slowly. They entered the woods; then 
 the fairies came out of the cloud, and it suddenly became 
 transfigured into a small carriage, which the fairies rolled 
 along. They came to a large rock. Instantly the door 
 swung open, and a little man in a short scarlet jacket, 
 and a cap with a little tassel, came out. She soon found 
 he was one of the queen's favorites. They entered a large 
 room, and then what beautiful things came upon hervision ! 
 
 The room was carpeted with soft green. Curtains of 
 finest mist hung by the windows. Lights gleamed from 
 a chandelier. The ftiiries were grouped around, wait- 
 ing for the queen. Lillie noticed one most beautiful fairy 
 which strangely resembled the queen. When they en- 
 tered the room the queen called the lovely little fairy, 
 who came forward and said, "Oh, mamma, is this the 
 little earth-child?" 
 
 "Yes, Rosebud," replied the queen, " this is the little 
 Lillie. Now, darling, be a good little girl, and don't get 
 into mischief." 
 
 " Mamma told us this morning that she was going to 
 bring you here." 
 
 The little Princess Rosebud took her around everywhere. 
 Among the most charming sights was a beautiful silver 
 lake, on which sailed a lovely little boat. " Oh ! how I 
 would like to sail !" cried Lillie. And soon after the Prin- 
 cess Rosebud and Lillie were sailing in the charming little 
 boat that 
 
 1879. 
 
UNA'S MAY PARTY. 
 
 "Papa!" 
 
 "Well, Lina?" And Dr. May paused on the last step 
 of the staircase to hear what his little daughter had to 
 say. 
 
 ** Papa," Lina said, after waiting a moment, while the 
 rosy blushes covered the sweet face, " I have a little favor 
 to ask you." 
 
 "Well, ask me quickly, Lina, for I have to visit a 
 patient," Dr. May replied, looking at his watch, then 
 glancing, for the first time, at the upturned face, noticed 
 that Lina was dressed preparatory to going out. 
 
 " Lina," he said, in a tone of displeasure, " have I not 
 already told you that the day is too stormy for you to go 
 out ? The hall is entirely too cold for you to be standing 
 here. Go up-stairs instantly. Do you hear?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; but, papa " 
 
 " No more, Lina, no more. Go up-stairs, and do not 
 leave the house until I return." And Dr. May was gone. 
 
 Lina turned and went slowly up-stairs. Mrs. May 
 glanced up from her sewing as she entered, and said, 
 gently, " Come, Lina, no pouting. I hardly expected 
 your papa to let you go out on such a stormy day ; and 
 he knows best, little girl." 
 
 Lina sat down by the window, and rested both of her 
 plump little arms on the window-ledge, gazing out at the 
 falling snow. 
 
 It was a cold, bitter day in November. "Yes, it is 
 stormy," soliloquized Lina, as a fresh burst of wind 
 dashed the snow against the pane. "I know it was 
 naughty in my going to ask him again," but, with a sigh, 
 " it is so hard, and Myrtle and Violet will be expecting 
 me, after I promised. Papa always said it was very wrong 
 to break a promise. I will ask mamma how it is." And 
 
 i6* 1S5 
 
1 86 LIMA'S MAY PARTY. 
 
 she sprang lightly toward her mamma. "Mamma," she 
 began, after seating herself in a cosey little rocking-chair, 
 *' isn't it wrong to break a promise ?" 
 
 "Yes, Lina," answered Mrs. May, "it is very wrong 
 indeed." 
 
 "Then, mamma," said Lina, decidedly, "I ought to 
 have gone to see Myrtle and Violet, no matter how 
 stormy." 
 
 Mrs. May put away her work and drew the child toward 
 her. " My poor, misguided child ! It is wrong to wil- 
 fully break a promise ; but always make allowance for 
 such things, my dear. But there, I hear papa's carriage ; 
 run and see if it isn't." 
 
 Lina ran eagerly to the window. "I hope it is, 
 mamma; but oh," with a cry of delight, " it is Myrtle 
 and Violet !" And springing down the stairs, she was soon 
 hugging and kissing the little friends whom she loved so 
 dearly. 
 
 " Mamma said we might stay all day," put in both 
 girls in a chorus. " Wait till Tom brings in the dolls, 
 then he is going back, and not coming again until late. 
 Isn't that just splendid?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Lina, hugging them again. 
 
 The coachman brought in the dolls, and, after giving 
 injunctions about going out in the snow, took his leave. 
 Lina took both up to mamma, and after a warm welcome 
 the children trooped to the nursery. Dolls were brought 
 out, and trunks upset to find the prettiest dress to put on 
 each separate darling. As Lina and Myrtle were bending 
 over the same trunks, Mrs. May stood in the door-way, 
 noting the great contrast between the two. Lina was fair, 
 with clear, blue eyes, and long, golden hair. Myrtle had 
 short, dark curls, and dark-brown eyes. Their disposi- 
 tions were just as dissimilar. Lina was sweet, loving, and 
 docile, willing to give up her own pleasure for the sake 
 of others; Myrtle was rather selfish, with a passionate 
 temper ; Violet was very much like Lina. 
 
 "The dear children ! how happy they are!" thought 
 Mrs. May. Just then Lina espied her, and ran forward 
 to bring her in. "Oh, mamma! please help us choose 
 some pretty dresses for the dollies." 
 
LIMA'S MAY PARTY. 187 
 
 Mrs. May, after finding a dress whicli suited each doll, 
 arose, saying, "There's papa for sure; go and get nurse 
 to dress you for dinner." 
 
 "Papa," whispered Lina, after dinner, "I am glad I 
 didn't go over to Cliffords' to see Myrtie and Vio," and 
 she was blushing now. " I will try and remember that 
 you always know best." Lina was glad after this little 
 confession was over, because she had felt rather naughty 
 at dinner. 
 
 The day passed very pleasantly, and they were all sorry 
 when they had to go home. " It is your turn to come 
 and see us next time," called out Myrtle to Lina as the 
 carriage rolled away. 
 
 Weeks passed on. One morning Dr. May, having 
 nothing to call him out, was talking to Lina. " How 
 would you like to have a party on your birthday?" he 
 asked, as he sat there thinking and stroking her curls. 
 
 "Oh, papa!" Lina exclaimed, springing from her 
 seat on his knee, while her eyes danced with delight, 
 "can I? May I really have a party?" 
 
 "Yes, if you would like to have it. Let me see. 
 This is Friday, and Thursday next will be your birthday. 
 Yes, you will have plenty of time ; but I have a motive, 
 too, little daughter, and it is this: You must write your 
 notes neatly, and you cannot see Myrtle and Violet until 
 all the invitations are sent. Do you understand, Lina?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; but I thought " Here she stopped 
 
 and blushed. 
 
 "Go on," said the doctor, encouragingly. 
 
 "I thought that Myrtle and Violet would help me 
 write the notes." 
 
 " No, indeed 
 
 1879. 
 
THAT WILD, WILD ROSE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION TO OUR HEROINE. 
 
 A GRAND old mansion built of solid brownstone, with 
 flights of deep granite steps, and wide balconies over- 
 looking extensive lawns, is standing in the midst of a 
 clump of magnificent maples. Here a fountain throws a 
 thousand silvery drops on the fresh green turf, while a 
 drooping maiden stands with bowed head, clasped hands, 
 and thoughtful mien, on the top. Now you step into a 
 dark passage-way of trees, and suddenly emerge into a 
 perfect fairy-land of flowers. Again you congratulate 
 yourself on being in a wilderness of flowers, and raise 
 your eyes to see only the trees at the top, a fountain play- 
 ing on your side, and far and near the velvet turf stretch- 
 ing. As the grounds of the Maples are a mystery, so is 
 the elegant mansion in the background. In the same 
 unaccountable way little balconies break forth at the 
 lightest touch, little doors open leading you into dark, 
 mysterious rooms, filled with small antique furniture, an 
 air of mystery surrounding everything. All over the 
 Maples a mystery is spread, and over the grounds the 
 same. On the day of which I am speaking the long 
 French windows are open, while the soft June wind is 
 toying with the lace and velvet drapery. 
 
 A fine-looking, stately butler is pacing the piazza while 
 he savagely cracks the white-handled whip in his hand, 
 to the extreme detriment of the well-bred birds whose 
 songs resound from the ivy clambering over the wall. 
 Up and down the porch walks the butler, with a steady, 
 stately tread that shows he is well at home at the Maples. 
 
THAT WILD, WILD ROSE. 189 
 
 By and by he quits the piazza, and descending the granite 
 steps, is soon lost in the shrubbery. He has scarcely left 
 when the lace curtains stir, and a little girl steps into the 
 sunshine of the fragrant June day. Her age can scarcely 
 exceed ten years, yet her face is wondrous beautiful. Her 
 hair, of rich yellow gold, hangs in clustering ringlets to 
 her waist ; her eyes, of a deep violet, hold a world of 
 merriment in their blue depths. Her skin is white as the 
 lily, but her cheeks are tinged with the healthy color of 
 childhood. Her lips are of a deep crimson, and a smile 
 continually plays around them. For one moment she 
 stands bewildered, and then springs into the shrubbery. 
 The stately butler is startled by a light touch on his sleeve, 
 and turning, he exclaims, surprisedly, — 
 
 " Why, Miss Rose, where did you come from?" 
 
 "From the Maples, George," the little girl merrily 
 answers ; but in a lower tone, " Where's Aunt Penelope, 
 George?" 
 
 " Why, she's been gone this half-hour. Miss Rose ; did 
 you want her?" 
 
 " Oh, no; I only wanted to know if I was to take my 
 ride as usual, or if that odious professor was coming to- 
 day." 
 
 "Not to-day. Miss Rose; my lady left orders that you 
 were to take your ride as soon as possible." 
 
 " Oh, I'm so glad !" says the little girl, gayly. " Get 
 my pony ready soon, George. I will be down in a few 
 minutes." And away speeds the child, her sunny hair float- 
 ing in the breeze. 
 
 As soon as she disappeared the butler resumed his rapid 
 walk, exclaiming, in suppressed tones, "There is some 
 mystery about little Miss Rose, or my Lady Penelope 
 would never guard her so carefully. Strange, strange, 
 when she is so winsome, that my lord should leave her 
 here while he is enjoying the beauty of the new country. 
 But then he must have the favor of my lady. Miss Rose 
 is surely the sunshine of the Maples." 
 
 A few minutes after Rose left the shrubbery she returned, 
 and with her riding-whip in one hand and the folds of 
 the blue riding-habit in the other, she looked every inch 
 worthy to be heiress of the Maples, — the vast baronial 
 
ipo THAT WILD, WILD ROSE. 
 
 estate. For although the child knew it not, yet she was 
 sole mistress of the stately mansion, so made by a paper 
 in Lady Penelope's secret drawer, — in other words, Lady 
 Penelope's will. 
 
 By and by George came round a. curve, leading a dainty 
 white pony and a handsome gray horse. Lifting Rose 
 into the saddle, he sprang on the gray horse, and away 
 they cantered down the avenue of the Maples. As Rose 
 canters out of the big gate and disappears in the foliage, 
 so she disappears from our view. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 AFTER SIX YEARS. 
 
 The Maples are not blooming with gay flowers and 
 bright scenery, but are bound in winter's icy fetters. 
 
 Li the large drawing-room at the Maples a lady and 
 gentleman are seated. The lady's face has a proud, firm 
 look that betokens her of gentle blood. Her hair is dark 
 as a raven's, her eyes large and lustrous, for she is very 
 beautiful. Yes, Lady Bellmont is beautiful, and she is 
 also conscious of this fact, but it is a consciousness that 
 does not sit ill on her ladyship's shoulders. Lideed, if 
 Lady Bellmont had less of the aforementioned art she 
 would not have been so charming a hostess and friend. 
 
 Lord Bellmont, tall, light, and distinguished-looking, 
 is also peculiarly handsome, but there is less of the bright, 
 proud curl to his lips, less hauteur to his bearing, and a 
 merry light is in his blue eyes, that shows he is Scotland's 
 own bonny bairn. 
 
 " Well, Madge," says Lord Bellmont, raising his eyes 
 languidly, " I suppose it would be as well for Rose to be 
 at school as here, just at present. There is no young 
 company about here, nor will be until the Elms is in- 
 habited ; and then, when Miss Nellie Clifton has made 
 her debiit, what use she will be to our Rose I cannot see." 
 
 " Men never can see anything," snapped Lady Bell- 
 
THAT WILD, WILD ROSE. igj 
 
 niont, looking scornfully at her liege lord ; " but then the 
 question is, 'Why must I wait for a letter from Leon now, 
 when he has showed no interest in Rose for the last fifteen 
 years, and especially since Penelope died ?' But perhaps 
 the difficulty is solved, as here comes Margaret, and, I 
 am sure, with tlie mail." 
 
 A stately old woman enters, and as Margaret claims a 
 small portion of our story, we must introduce her. She 
 is a fine-looking, middle-aged woman, whose features 
 would be almost homely if it were not for the refreshing 
 influence of her smile. She came to the Maples when 
 Rose was brought there, — in fact, as Rose's nurse. Lady 
 Bellmont herself could never tell why it was that no one 
 at the Maples was so trustworthy as Margaret. Ever since 
 Lady Penelope had died and Lady Bellmont had come 
 to the Maples, Margaret had ruled. In short, the good 
 woman soon showed Lady Bellmont that Rose was also 
 her proiegie, and what concerned her "nursling" 
 
 1882. 
 
LIFE AT BIRDSNEST. 
 
 TOLD BY BELLE. 
 
 I AM Mrs. Mordaunt now. There is madcap Nell, 
 gentle Bertha, and little Howard reposing at my feet. 
 They are my darlings, — the life, the light, and the pride 
 of the stately mansion of which I am sole queen ; the 
 household pets, just as we six — Lou, Evelyn, Ernest, 
 Daisy, Hal, and I, Belle — were the pets of Birdsnest. 
 
 Dear old Birdsnest ! I pause, pen in hand, ere writing 
 this story of our lives, — we six, — to take a glance back- 
 ward at the dear old home that sheltered the unfledged 
 nestlings for so many years before they took their flight 
 into the wide, wide world. 
 
 There it stands in my memory just as it stood on that 
 bright June day so many years ago, when I stood, a self- 
 willed little maid of twelve, by the big stone gate that led 
 out to the highway. 
 
 The light of the mellow June sun is falling in golden 
 rays aslant the hills, and falls on Birdsnest, lighting the 
 long, rambling old house in a shadowed glory. The trees, 
 ranged in a circle around the long, low house, make it 
 indeed like a happy home-nest, a peaceful haven. It is a 
 long, brown frame house, with pointed gables, wide piazzas, 
 and French windows. The cool, fragrant June air gently, 
 lazily stirs the lace curtains and wafts a fresh fragrance of 
 lilacs, tulips, and peach-blossoms to me standing there. 
 It is a pleasant, old-fashioned farm-house, nothing more. 
 There are no pretensions to elegance at Birdsnest ; sim- 
 plicity and love reign supreme. 
 
 School was out for the last time ; the dear vacation days 
 had really begun, and I gave a glance down to the river, 
 192 
 
LIFE AT BIRDSNEST. 
 
 193 
 
 and then back to the grand old woods, visions of the 
 pleasant future times floating through my mind. I stood 
 there for a long time. The wind had gently lifted my 
 hat, and, after timidly playing with it a few times, had 
 lazily wafted it into the centre of a fragrant lilac-bush, 
 and then began to toss and tumble my curls. " Oh, you 
 hateful wind !" I cried, good-humoredly, running after 
 my hat. 
 
 It was a broad-rimmed sundown, and I had just securely 
 tied the crumpled blue ribbons under my chin (my par- 
 ticular detestation), when a troop of merry children came 
 dancing around a curve in the highway. 
 
 I can see them now just as I saw them that day. Evelyn, 
 with her silken hair lying smooth under her broad hat, 
 her cuffs spotless, and hardly a wrinkle in the pretty blue 
 dress; Ernest, his dark eyes gazing at the rifts of golden 
 clouds, his hands behind him, and a smile on his thought- 
 ful face, — for Ernest was like his name ; Daisy, her brown 
 eyes sparkling, her lips parted, the sun-hat in her hand, 
 and the short golden curls mussed and rumpled ; Hal, 
 tossing his cap in the air, jumping stones, and running 
 races witli the wind. 
 
 There they came, four as bright-looking children as 
 could be found within the limits of Riverside, as our little 
 town was called. As soon as they came within hailing 
 distance, Hal called, gayly, "I declare, Belle, you are 
 the greatest runner and dodger that I ever met. Here, 
 we part with you at the school-house door, and long before 
 we have climbed the hill you stand waving your hat at us. 
 How do you do it. Miss Lightfoot ?" 
 
 I nod mischievously, and tap his curly head in a patron- 
 izing way, saying, in a tone of mystery, " Suffice it to say 
 I am here. Master Hal." 
 
 " Well, I can't see how it is," Hal says, giving a pro- 
 miscuous leap over a bed of roses in a way which promises 
 certain destruction to the Marechal Niel buds, but coming 
 out victorious with a loud hurrah, — " well, I can't see 
 how it is. Miss Isabelle." 
 
 Now, I do not mind being called Miss Lightfoot, as 
 every one knows that I am the swiftest runner near Birds- 
 nest, but as to being called Isabelle I will not stand it, as 
 in 17 
 
194 
 
 LIFE AT BIRDSNEST. 
 
 that veritable rogue of a Hal knows ; so, with a freezing 
 glance backward at him, I race swiftly toward the piazza, 
 never stopping until I reach the cool, chintz covered lounge 
 in the dining-room, where I throw myself down with an 
 impetuous *' Oh, dear, but it is hot !" 
 
 "No wonder, my dear," says a tall, sweet-faced lady, 
 who at that moment enters the room. "No wonder, 
 wlien you will persist in running so. Belle, how often 
 will I have to repeat the command that I do not wish you 
 to race this warm weather?" 
 
 "Oh, well, mamma," I interrupt, impatiently; but 
 mamma goes on with a sad look on her face that quiets 
 me quickly: "Another thing, Belle, how often will you 
 keep bursting into the room in this unceremonious way, 
 when you know how it worries poor little Lou?" 
 
 "Oh, mamma! dear mamma I please forgive me this 
 once and I will never forget again; indeed, I will not." 
 And I throw my arms around her neck in a perfect storm 
 of sobs. 
 
 Dear, forgiving mamma ! she talks to me quietly, 
 soothingly, until I am calmed, then with a loving kiss she 
 dismisses me to dress for supper. It does not take long 
 for me to recover my spirits, and I soon dance down into 
 the wide hall and out into the fresh summer day. The 
 birds are singing sweetly, having a little ball all to them- 
 selves, I think, gayly, as I heir their burst of music. 
 
 Oh, how beautiful it is at Birdsnest ! The strawberries 
 are hiding shyly among the fresh green leaves, the roses 
 are blooming, and the whole air is laden with the perfume 
 of flowers. Indeed, the whole earth seems to be keeping 
 a festal holiday. I feel in my wildest and gayest mood. 
 It is all forgotten, — mamma's lecture, — antl when the 
 supper-bell rings I go rushing in, only stopped by Evelyn's 
 pleading, "Oh, Belle, Lou's asleep." 
 
 We enter the dining-room together, — papa and mamma, 
 Ernest and Evelyn, and Daisy, Hal, and I. The dining- 
 room is a long, wide apartment, with windows on all sides. 
 One overlooks the villa, one the river, and one the brilliant 
 garden at Birdsnest. The floor is covered with a pretty 
 ingrain carpet, neither new nor old. The clock on the 
 wide mantel-shelf is both odd and pretty. There is a 
 
LIFE AT BIRDSNEST. 
 
 195 
 
 large, old-fashioned rocking-chair in one of the recesses ; 
 indeed, it is quite as old as it is old-looking, as it belonged 
 to papa's grandmother. He prizes it very highly, and at 
 first we liked it because papa did ; but now we like it for 
 its own sake, as papa always sits in it when he tells us 
 stories of the good old times, alias his own boyhood. 
 
 Then there is mamma's rocking-chair, papa's desk, — the 
 secretary built in the wall, — and Lou's couch. It is plainly 
 furnished, but we like it, for it is delightfully cool in sum- 
 mer, and in winter it is decidedly cosey for telling stories 
 and roasting chestnuts by the big open fireplace. Oh, it 
 is decidedly jolly ! as Hal says. 
 
 Once seated, papa says the blessing, and then we all 
 begin to chatter. Papa is a lawyer, and is away all day 
 in the city, going down in the boat in summer and in the 
 cars in winter ; therefore we make the best of our oppor- 
 tunities when he is with us. Such a kind, indulgent papa 
 as he is, too ! I sit on one side, and Daisy on the other. 
 
 "Well, Madcap" (papa always calls me that), "so 
 school is done, and I suppose you came off with the 
 highest honors?" 
 
 I blush and hang my head, for mamma looks gravely 
 at papa and papa gravely at me. 
 
 " No, I did not," in a low, aggrieved tone; "they 
 just cheat at that horrid old school, and I know they do." 
 
 Papa smiles and strokes my curls, and says, laughingly, 
 "Ah me, we know how much studying 
 
POETRY. 
 
 17^- 197 
 
ONLY A TRAIN WRECKED. 
 
 (Suggested by the delay of a train on her way home from Philadelphia.) 
 
 Only a train wrecked ! 
 
 Yes, right here 
 Between the two stations. 
 
 Nay, drop not a tear, 
 
 For 'twas only a train wrecked ; 
 
 Twelve people killed ; 
 And more lying wounded, 
 
 Here in the field. 
 
 Here a motherless child. 
 
 And ther'C a childless mother ; 
 Here a sister weeping 
 
 Over a dying brother. 
 
 Yes, only a train wrecked. 
 
 Just here at the bend ; 
 And loved ones are grieving 
 
 For the sad end 
 
 Of the people who, with 
 
 Gay laugh and gay jest. 
 Bade their darlings good-by, 
 
 Ne'er to return to the home-nest. 
 
 Hush ! what is that ? 
 
 A sob sounds near : 
 Only a mother's o'er her 
 
 Dead child's bier. 
 
 Last night the car was brightened 
 
 By the glee of a golden-haired child ; 
 
 To-night the people are saddened 
 By the grief of a mother wild. 
 
 199 
 
MV BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Yes, here a sister weeping 
 Over a dying brother, 
 
 And here a motherless child, 
 And there a childless mother. 
 
 February 21, 1881. 
 
 MY BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Fifteen to-day, this April day, 
 
 And happy as the flowers. 
 Fifteen fleet years, fifteen sweet years, 
 
 Years changeful as the showers. 
 
 Born in April, — April's showers, 
 April's clouds, and April's flowers. 
 Like my birth-month? no,- indeed ! 
 It is like a broken reed : 
 
 Ne'er to be depended on; 
 
 Now 'tis smiling, now 'tis weeping, 
 
 Ever like a verdant glade : 
 
 One place sunshine, next in shade. 
 
 Some are born in sunny May, 
 
 And their life is sunny, too. 
 I was born in changeful April, 
 
 But my clouds have been but few. 
 
 And fifteen years have passed away. 
 Through sunshine and through shower, 
 
 And here I stand, this April day. 
 Unfolding as a flower. 
 
 May fifteen other years pass by. 
 
 Through sunshine and through shower. 
 
 And may I be purer and better then 
 Than I am as a child this hour ! 
 
 Sunday, March 6, 1881. 
 
MV BABY.— BURIED HOPES. 201 
 
 MY BABY. 
 
 Precious hair, precious feet ; 
 How I love you, little sweet ! 
 Waxen hands, tiny ear, 
 You are mine, baby, hear? 
 
 ;|; * * * * * 
 
 A little robe, flowers perfume 
 The holy quiet of the room. 
 Waxen feet, beauty sweet. 
 Hair of gold, one year old. 
 For your mother fleetest year, 
 You are God's, baby dear. 
 
 Sunday, March 6, 1881. 
 
 BURIED HOPES. 
 
 Yonder lies a little grave. 
 Underneath the willow ; 
 
 Clinging grasses at the feet, 
 Roses for a pillow. 
 
 Not far backward flows the river, 
 
 And the little birds sing ever, — 
 Buried Hopes. 
 
 In the distance is a cottage. 
 Covered o'er with roses ; 
 
 And the winds sigh soft and low, 
 Sweetly she reposes. 
 
 Not far backward flows the river. 
 
 And the little birds sing ever, — 
 Buried Hopes. 
 
SNOW-FLAKES. 
 
 In the sunny, low, south porch 
 
 Often sat a tiny girl, 
 With a face of wondrous sweetness, 
 
 Hair in many a wavy curl. 
 Not far backward flows the river, 
 And the little birds sing ever, — 
 Buried Hopes, 
 
 And the home was often brightened 
 By a clear and silvery note, 
 
 As the dainty, blue-eyed maiden 
 Trilled sweet music from her tliro.it. 
 
 Not far backward flows the river, 
 
 And the little birds sing ever, — 
 Buried Hopes. 
 
 Yonder lies the little grave 
 
 Of the fairy maiden. 
 And the cottage, once so sunny, 
 
 Now with grief is laden. 
 Not far backward flows the river. 
 And the little birds sing ever, — 
 Buried Hopes. 
 
 April 13, 1881. 
 
 SNOW-FLAKES. 
 
 Softly, silently, falls the snow, 
 
 On mountain, hill, and dale, 
 And the fleecy whiteness falls aloft 
 
 On the little brown house in the vale. 
 
 Lightly, gently, cometh it down ; 
 
 It covers the trees and the rail ; 
 But it falleth more softly and lightly, methinks, 
 
 On the little brown house in the vale. 
 
THE SICK PATIENT. 
 
 203 
 
 Merrily hurrying, and racing on, 
 
 It reacheth the valley, the dale ; 
 And it treadeth soft, as it falleth aloft. 
 
 On the little brown liouse in the vale. 
 
 Fluttering and dancing it strayeth on, 
 
 Until it rests in the dale, 
 Where it droppeth, in piles of snowy white. 
 
 On the little brown house in the vale, 
 
 A child dances out, with laughter and shout, 
 
 To imprison the snow-flakes pale. 
 There are music and smile in the cottage the while. 
 
 In the little brown house in the vale. 
 
 April 14, 188 1. 
 
 THE SICK PATIENT. 
 
 "Oh, run, Nellie dear, 
 
 Bring the doctor right here ; 
 I've a pain in my head and can't stand it. 
 
 So please hurry up. 
 
 Bring the physic and cup \ 
 Tell doctor to come, I demand it." 
 
 So spoke little Del 
 
 To bright merry Nell, 
 As the two in the nursery were playing ; 
 
 And Nell hurried away 
 
 To bring back, in play, 
 The brave brother through the hall straying. 
 
 "Oh, doctor, please hurry !" 
 
 She cried in a flurry ; 
 "My patient is quite ill, you know." 
 
 So the doctor drew rein 
 
 (Del moaning with pain). 
 And hurriedly strode through the snow. 
 
204 1'^E SICK PAriENT. 
 
 Del lay on the bed ; 
 
 He uncovered his head, 
 And felt the pulse of the sick one. 
 
 "Good healthy food, 
 
 And no company rude, 
 Together with nursing well done." 
 
 In a day or two more 
 
 He called at the door, 
 To see how his patient was getting. 
 
 He found her in bed, 
 
 With a pain in her head, 
 And decidedly pining and fretting. 
 
 "Me will go with Belle," 
 
 Thus spoke little Del, 
 "And won't play sick any more ; 
 
 Me will dress her up pretty, 
 
 My darling wee kitty. 
 And won't throw her down on the floor. 
 
 The good doctor left 
 
 His patient bereft. 
 And Del sat down with her kitty ; 
 
 A smile on her face 
 
 That did the frowns chase. 
 And singing a bright little ditty. 
 
 The pain is all o'er ; 
 
 Del stands at the door. 
 And the brave doctor lies on the rug. 
 
 Del goes to her brother, 
 
 They nearly did smother, 
 For the quarrel ended up in a Iiug. 
 
 April 29, 1881. 
 
TWILIGHT AND DA YBREAK. 
 
 205 
 
 TWILIGHT AND DAYBREAK. 
 
 'I'he shadows are lengthening out of the sun, 
 The stars are appearing one by one ; 
 The moon rises up like a great silver ball, 
 And creeps weirdly over the garden wall. 
 
 The moon showers down her softened light. 
 And chequers the leaves in the opening night; 
 The grass sings a song, in a murmuring strain, 
 That tells of the pattering summer rain. 
 
 The stars reflect, in the water below. 
 Some of their clear, dark, silvery glow; 
 And the deep blue sky that hangs above 
 Tells of the great and infinite love. 
 
 The winds sigh softly among the trees. 
 Whispering low to the fresli green leaves; 
 The flowers sing a thanksgiving song 
 That tells of the cruel winter, gone. 
 
 The farm-house lies by the river-bed, 
 And o'er it the twilight glory is shed ; 
 The water creeps on, with a murmuring roar. 
 Not far from the trellised cottage door. 
 
 The moon sinks low, with silvery light. 
 And puts the foir young niglit to flight; 
 And over the hills and far away 
 Are seen the beams of the coming day. 
 
 May I, 1881. 
 
 18 
 
2o6 SUNBEAMS. 
 
 SUNBEAMS. 
 
 Sunbeams straying, 
 
 Lightly playing 
 O'er the low stone wall ; 
 
 Sunbeams airy, 
 
 Sunbeams fairy. 
 Sunbeams in the long cool hall. 
 
 Sunbeams dancing, 
 
 Sunbeams prancing 
 In among the leaves ; 
 
 Sunbeams creeping, 
 
 Sunbeams leaping 
 Out and in the eaves. 
 
 Sunbeams peeping. 
 
 Sunbeams sleeping 
 In the river-bed ; 
 
 Sunbeams shining. 
 
 Sunbeams lining 
 Everything with red. 
 
 Sunbeams shimmering, 
 Sunbeams glimmering 
 
 On the cottage home ; 
 Sunbeams wavering, 
 Sunbeams quavering, 
 
 Sunbeams cease to roam. 
 
 May 2, 1881. 
 
SHADOWS. 
 
 207 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 
 Shadows creeping, 
 
 Shadows sleeping 
 In the waving grasses ; 
 
 Shadows shivering, 
 
 Shadows quivering 
 As the soft wind passes. 
 
 Shadows gliding, 
 
 Shadows hiding 
 In among the eaves; 
 
 Shadows brightening, 
 
 Shadows lightening 
 On the soft green leaves. 
 
 Shadows roaming, 
 
 Shadows foaming 
 In among the rippling waves; 
 
 Shadows leaping, 
 
 Shadows creeping. 
 As the bank the water laves. 
 
 Shadows weary. 
 
 Shadows dreary, 
 As the lone wind grieves j 
 
 Shadows flying. 
 
 Shadows dying 
 In the darksome eaves. 
 
 May 2, 1881. 
 
2o8 TWO LITTLE BAREFOOTS. 
 
 TWO LITTLE BAREFOOTS. 
 
 Little Barefoot, hair of brown, 
 Wreath of daisies for a crown ; 
 Rippling laughter, ripe red lips. 
 Resembling ripe red berry tips. 
 
 Little Barefoot, thoughtless child, 
 Hunting leaves and flowers wild. 
 Little Barefoot, fair in feature. 
 Oh, a bright and airy creature. 
 
 Little Barefoot, happy life. 
 Heart that knows neither care nor strife. 
 Heart that bubbles with ceaseless joy, 
 Little Barefoot, playful and coy. 
 
 'Tis little Barefoot's, a small green grave, 
 Covered with flowers that bloom and wave ; 
 Bright little Barefoot, loved and lost, 
 Ah, little grave, what tears thou cost ! 
 
 Little Barefoot, hair of brown. 
 Tangled and matted for a crown ; 
 Quivering lips, weary feet. 
 Wandering aimless through the street. 
 
 Little Barefoot, friendless child, 
 Wandering weary and lone and wild ; 
 Seeing the bitter of the world, 
 With all its grief and sorrow unfurled. 
 
 With all its sweets and beauty sealed up ; 
 Sealed as in a magic cup. 
 Little Barefoot, lonely and wild. 
 When will the fairy unseal for the child ? 
 
PEARLS. 
 
 'Tis little Barefoot's, a small lone grave, 
 
 Where no sun-kissed blossoms wave ; 
 
 Only a homeless child, they say, 
 
 But the magical cup is unsealed to-day. 
 
 And apart 
 
 The two little Barefoots lay. 
 
 May 4, 1881. 
 
 209 
 
 PEARLS. 
 
 Horses prancing, fair winds dancing, 
 
 Toying with a lady's curls ; 
 Hair of golden, beauty olden, 
 
 On her neck a clasp of pearls. 
 
 Cottage small, low stone wall, 
 Over which the roses climb \ 
 
 And a lady fair of face 
 
 Rocks a cradle, keeping time 
 With a low aiid mirthful rhyme. 
 
 Wheels are sounding, now resounding, 
 
 On the road a rapid pace ; 
 And the lady in the carriage 
 
 Passes her so fair of face. 
 
 " Oh, those pearls !" exclaims the mother, 
 Losing the wee, dimpled hand. 
 
 " Oh, those pearls ! could I but claim them 
 I'd be proudest in the land." 
 
 In the cradle lay two babies. 
 
 Hair of gold and eyes of brown ; 
 
 Any queen might place such jewels 
 In her crown. 
 
NIGHT. 
 
 " Happy mother !" sighed the lady, 
 Toying with the fair pearl band. 
 
 *' Two sweet pearls, if I might claim them 
 I'd be proudest in the land." 
 
 And the mother, wishing, longing, 
 For the lady's band of pearls, 
 
 Lets her hand drop softly, lightly, 
 On her babies' silken curls. 
 
 O'er her face the crimson sweepeth 
 As she smooths the sunny curls, 
 
 And she speaks in broken whisper, 
 " Not for all the lady's pearls 
 Would I part with my two girls." 
 
 May 5, i£ 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 And night steals on ! 
 A night of fairest loveliness. 
 Sweet-smelling zephyrs, 
 Roses distilling perfume pure; 
 A night of rest and glory, 
 A night that tells the story 
 Of fair winds creeping on. 
 
 And night steals on ! 
 A night of chastened glory; 
 A night that tells the story 
 Of the low-bowed head and hoary, 
 Of the silvery head of winter ; 
 Of the harsh storm-kings that enter 
 The cottage poor and lone. 
 
 And night steals on ! 
 A night of wind and snow, 
 A night when chill winds blow, 
 
A PRAYER. 211 
 
 And the ground reflects the glow 
 Of the crackling cosey fire 
 
 From the cottage on the hill. 
 And the snow drifts high and low, 
 And it bloweth to and fro, 
 
 And the winds moan cold and shrill. 
 
 And night steals on ! 
 A night so cold and lorn, 
 A night when drear winds mourn \ 
 A night when wind and storm 
 
 Are raging by the cottage on the hill. 
 A night when flesh is frozen. 
 And the icy wind has chosen 
 
 To close the waters in the rill. 
 
 And night steals on ! 
 A night serene and fairy ; 
 A night when winds are airy. 
 And the waters ripple, murmur 
 
 In the rill. 
 A night when soft grass waveth, 
 And the path by roses paveth 
 To the cottage on the hill. 
 
 May 4, 1881. 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 O Father, help thy child. 
 And pity grief so wild 
 That from an aching heart doth burst ! 
 
 Father, send thy love, 
 And waters from above 
 
 That will quench this burning thirst ! 
 
 1 turn to the blue sky above ; 
 No pity there I find, no love. 
 
 I turn to thee that loves thy child, — 
 
 Oh ! pity there I find. 
 
 And grief so kind, 
 And love that helps this aching heart so wild. 
 
12 LETTERS. 
 
 I turn to friends so bold, 
 
 Their looks are icy cold ; 
 My heart will well-nigh break. 
 
 I have no friends to cheer, 
 
 My way is very drear, 
 O Father, wilt thou not thy poor child take ? 
 
 I turn to the river-bed, 
 
 And my burning tears are shed, — 
 
 No comfort there I find. 
 
 O Father, help my unbelief, 
 
 And comfort send for all my grief. 
 
 And balm for my troubled mind ! 
 
 My heart is now at rest ; 
 
 My path with flowers is drest. 
 And comfort here I find. 
 
 My grief I laid at his dear feet, 
 
 And comfort there I found so sweet, 
 And balm for my weary mind. 
 
 May 2, 1881. 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 At the window, smiling idly. 
 Sits a brown-haired maiden ; 
 O'er the meadow comes the perfume 
 Of the fresh grass laden. 
 Writing letters in the window 
 Is a pleasant pastime. 
 Pretty picture makes the maiden. 
 Smiling, dimpling, 'tis the last time. 
 What a charming letter, smiling, 
 The pretty maiden must be writing ! 
 Such arch dimples are beguiling. 
 And again the maiden's smiling. 
 All her face the smile is lighting. 
 Faster fly the dimpled fingers, 
 And the letter now is ended. 
 
THE STORM. 
 
 213 
 
 And the maiden seeks the window, 
 
 Leaning there, soft hair and roses 
 
 Now are blended. 
 
 Could I peep into the letter, 
 
 Would it be unto a lover? 
 
 Or a sister, or a mother? 
 
 Nay, it might have been 
 
 To the maiden's brother. 
 
 The possessor of that letter 
 
 Envy I their freedom ; 
 
 For the maiden in the window 
 
 Is a fair and lovely being 
 
 Whom one cannot see, and seeing, 
 
 Worship not or love her. 
 
 Oh, fair maiden, dreaming idly 
 
 In the darkening window, 
 
 Could I peep into thy letter 
 
 Would my heart beat any better, 
 
 Or beat faster? 
 
 For thy own sake, gentle maiden. 
 
 That small letter, blossom-laden, 
 
 Is a sacred package. 
 
 Pretty maiden, dreaming idly, 
 
 Thou needst blush no longer. 
 
 For that tiny, creamy letter's 
 
 To thy lover. 
 
 And he waits impatiently 
 
 For the blossom-laden letter 
 
 That will bring him fast to thee, — 
 
 Bring him fast to thy fair side. 
 
 There to claim thee for his bride. 
 
 May 8, 1881. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 In a little Highland village, 
 Once upon a summer day. 
 
 From off the Scottish harbor 
 Sailed a bonny ship away. 
 
214 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 And a bonny boy sailed with lier, 
 Watched by tender mother-eyes, 
 
 As the ship went bravely onward 
 Under blue and Scottish skies. 
 
 5j« ;); ;(; >|: * * >!' 
 
 " Think, gude wife, a storm is coming." 
 
 And the door was darkened quite 
 By the bluff and hearty stranger, 
 
 As the tall form came to sight. 
 Up from among her duties 
 
 Rose a stout and comely dame. 
 "Thou art welcome; seat thyself. 
 
 Wilt thou please but speak thy name?" 
 
 " Owen Clifford," spake the stranger. 
 
 " See, a storm is coming on ; 
 And, attracted to this cottage, 
 
 I ask shelter till the morn." 
 But the mother's face grew clouded, 
 
 Clouded as the summer sky. 
 Came a whisper soft and lowly, — 
 
 " Do as thou wouldst be done by." 
 
 Night has fallen, cold and dreary. 
 
 And the stranger, safely housed, 
 Sleeps, is sleeping, — he is weary. 
 
 By the storm is not aroused. 
 Not so the housewife, resting also. 
 
 In her bed so safely housed. 
 Thinks she of her sailor-boy. 
 
 By every wave is more aroused. 
 
 And the storm is raging fearful 
 
 Off the darkening Scottish coast ; 
 And the sailors, drenched and dripping, 
 
 Quit their post. 
 Hark ! the signal of distress, — 
 
 The looming of the minute-gun, — 
 And from out their cottages 
 
 Come the sailors, one by one. 
 
THE STORM. 
 
 215 
 
 And the sailors' wives do follow, 
 
 Speaking loud above the waves, 
 And again to-night old ocean 
 
 Will have many graves. 
 But the mother stands grief-stricken, 
 
 Till above the roar and noise 
 Is heard the voice of the stranger, 
 
 " Can we do nothing, boys? 
 
 " Can we do nothing to save them, — 
 
 The people out on the waves? 
 Can we do nothing to save them 
 
 From watery graves?" 
 'Tis only the work of a moment : 
 
 The form that is floating near 
 Is rescued by that of the stranger, — 
 
 Is saved from death that was drear. 
 
 And the boy that sailed from the harbor 
 
 Is safe in the cottage warm ; 
 Saved by the arms of the stranger 
 
 That begged shelter till the morn. 
 A ship had gone down in the darkness, 
 
 And only a boy left to save, 
 To tell the tale of the lost ones 
 
 That sank 'neath the cruel wave. 
 
 But the boy was back in the harbor, 
 
 Under the Scottish skies, — 
 The skies that now shone no brighter 
 
 Than the light in the mother's eyes. 
 And tlie boats sail into the harbor, 
 
 Under fair Scotland's sky. 
 For the mother obeyed the low whisper, 
 
 " Do as ye would be done by." 
 
 May 8, 1881. 
 
2i6 CLOUDS. 
 
 CLOUDS. 
 
 Rose-tinted clouds are floating by 
 Against the deep and azure sky : 
 Pink, gray, and purest wliite, 
 Deepening into golden light. 
 
 Now they deepen into ruby, 
 Melting as they float along ; 
 Tints, ruby, pink, and white, 
 While on earth is heard a song. 
 
 A fragile child is passing by, 
 Gazing up into the sky \ 
 And seeing the cloud-tints in a throng, 
 Bursts into a plaintive song : 
 
 " Clouds so beautiful and bright. 
 Tell me, is there no dark night 
 In that place where mamma's gone, — 
 In that land of light and song ? 
 
 " Tell me, pink clouds, floating by 
 In the deep and dark-blue sky, 
 Tell me, may I by and by 
 Join nvy mother there on high ? 
 
 " 'Tis so dark and drear below : 
 Winter comes, and then the snow ; 
 And the clouds do heavy rise 
 O'er the grave where mamma lies. 
 
 "Oh, bright clouds, floating on, 
 I know she has forever gone 
 In the grave, and she so fair ! 
 Say, pink clouds, is mamma there ? 
 
SNOWDROP. 
 
 217 
 
 "Or is she in that world of light, 
 Where they say there is no night? 
 Oh, I wish that I might fly 
 Up into the starry sky; 
 
 " Or that God would send an angel 
 To take me to my mamma fair ! 
 I am kneeling by her grave. 
 But I know she is not there." 
 
 The plaintive song was ended, 
 The clouds kept floating by ; 
 But they were dark and dreary, 
 And overcast the sky. 
 
 While from the courts of heaven 
 An angel, through the night, 
 Swept earthward, and the little girl 
 Was in the world of light. 
 
 The tiny life is ended, 
 The clouds keep floating by, 
 Creamy white and dazzling ruby. 
 Melting in the azure sky. 
 
 May 22, 1881. 
 
 SNOWDROP. 
 
 A STORY OF LAKE CRYSTAL. 
 
 On the bank of fair Lake Crystal 
 
 Stands a cottage all forlorn ; 
 O'er it clamber dark wild berries. 
 
 And the birds sing in the morn ; 
 And the winds sigh drear and lonely 
 
 From early even until late. 
 Seeming all to whisper sadly 
 
 Of the maiden Snt)wdrop's fate. 
 
 '9 
 
21 8 SNOWDROP. 
 
 Round it murmur sweeping waters 
 
 From the bosom of the lake, 
 And the thunder of the torrent 
 
 Seems almost the hills to shake* 
 Once the cottage lone and dreary 
 
 Was a happy maiden's home; 
 And the maiden's name was Snowdrop. 
 
 O'er the hills she loved to roam ; 
 Loved to frolic in the sunshine; 
 
 Loved to watch the moonliglit beam, 
 With an ever-brightening radiance 
 
 On the waters, in the stream. 
 Only fancies for companions ; 
 
 Only Nature's gifts to love; 
 And Nature claimed her as her child. 
 
 Tenderly \vatched from above. 
 A stern father had fair Snowdrop, 
 
 And a silent hunter he, 
 Who for days would leave his daughter 
 
 And his cottage by the sea. 
 Sixteen years had lived the maiden 
 
 With her, father all alone ; 
 For companions Nature's children, 
 
 Happy in her sunlit home. 
 Innocent as blooming flowers ; 
 
 Pure as the fresh morning dew ; 
 Untaught, simple little Snowdrop, 
 
 With a heart so brave and true. 
 Often by the rushing waters 
 
 Would the maiden sit and dream. 
 With a head bowed low and sadly. 
 
 And a thoughtful, earnest mien. 
 Golden little head so regal ; 
 
 Lips so fresh and ripe and sweet ; 
 Hands as white as unculled lilies; 
 
 Dainty little dimpled feet. 
 Thus sixteen years had come and gone. 
 
 And once upon a summer day, 
 As Snowdrop sat beside the stream, 
 
 A handsome stranger rode that way, 
 
SNOWDROP. 
 
 219 
 
 And riding, passed he by the stream, 
 
 Drawn, as though a vision seen 
 Of a seraph fair and lithesome, 
 
 Hair of purest golden sheen. 
 But on finding 'twas a maiden, 
 
 With courteous, manly air, 
 Begged that from the rustic dwelling 
 
 He a cooling drink might share. 
 When the stranger from the cottage 
 
 Had drunk of the magic water, 
 Pleading weariness, he lingered 
 
 With the hunter's fairy daughter. 
 But at last he left the maiden, 
 
 Promising at eventide, 
 When the sun sank o'er Lake Crystal, 
 
 She would find him at her side. 
 Weeks passed on ; thus to Lake Crystal 
 
 Always at the eventide 
 Came the stranger, lingering softly 
 
 At the blushing maiden's side. 
 And at last impulsive Snowdrop, 
 
 Linocent as morning dew, 
 Told the stranger that she loved him. 
 
 That her love was pure and true. 
 And the waters dashed and murmured 
 
 As her lover, bending near. 
 Kissed her lips, her cheeks, her forehead. 
 
 Murmuring, "Snowdrop, never fear. 
 I have loved, have loved you always, 
 
 You shall be my woodland bride. 
 See, the sun sinks o'er Lake Crystal, 
 
 I must leave your much-loved side 
 But remember, little Snowdrop, 
 
 Just again at eventide. 
 When the sun sinks o'er Lake Crystal, 
 
 I will come and claim my bride." 
 Weeks pass,ed on, and Snowdrop waited. 
 
 Waited just at eventide, 
 When the sun sank o'er Lake Crystal, 
 
 For another at her side. 
 
SNOWDROP. 
 
 One year trusting Snowdrop waited, 
 
 Waited at the water's side, 
 For lier handsome, bonny lover 
 
 To come and claim her for his bride. 
 But the fickle lover thought not, 
 
 Cared not, that at eventide 
 The fairy maiden waited lonely. 
 
 By Lake Crystal's murmuring side. 
 Weeks passed on ; the drooping maiden 
 
 Cared not for the water-side, — 
 Sought the banks of fair Lake Crystal 
 
 Ne'er again at eventide. 
 But the lily face looked whiter; 
 
 Snowdrop pale and paler grew, 
 And the hunter saw her fading. 
 
 Fading as the morning dew. 
 Fading Snowdrop, hapless maiden. 
 
 Once again at eventide 
 Sought the banks of fair Lake Crystal, 
 
 Lingered there, — while lingering, died. 
 And the hunter buried Snowdrop, 
 
 Buried her at eventide. 
 As the sun sank o'er Lake Crystal, 
 
 By the murmuring water-side. 
 Drear the cottage stands and lonely, 
 
 And the waters dash and roar, 
 With a never-ceasing murmur. 
 
 Round the darkened cottage door. 
 And the waters hush their roaring. 
 
 Murmur low at eventide, 
 As the sun sinks o'er Lake Crystal 
 
 And the spot where Snowdrop died ; 
 And the sun sinks o'er Lake Crystal 
 
 Many a night at eventide. 
 And the golden sunbeams linger 
 
 Lovingly by Snowdrop's side. 
 
 May, 1881. 
 
MAY. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 Birds are singing, brandies swinging, 
 
 And the air is rife with sweetness, 
 For 'tis the sunny month of May, — 
 May in all her fresh coni])leteness. 
 And the birds sing merrily. 
 And the bells ring cheerily, 
 And the winds sigh wearily ; 
 For 'tis the sunny month of May, 
 And nature claims a holiday. 
 
 Flowers are springing, blue-bells ringing, 
 
 And the trees are dense with leaves ; 
 And the sunsliine and the grasses 
 All day long their gay webs weave. 
 And the blossoms whisper lightly 
 Of the moon that beameth nightly 
 On their low-bowed heads so brightly, 
 For in the merry month of May 
 The flowers sing a roundelay. 
 
 May is dying, winds are crying : 
 
 For the fairy month they grieve. 
 Stately summer soon appeareth, 
 
 Wlien fair May takes her brief leave. 
 And the bells ring merrily. 
 And the leaves wave cheerily, 
 And the winds sigh wearily. 
 For May has gone with all her sweetness. 
 And summer cometh in completeness. 
 
 May 17, 1881. 
 
 19* 
 
LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 May your ])ath be flecked with sunshine, 
 
 May it gleam upon your heart ; 
 The purest summer sunsliine, 
 
 Poisoned not by trouble's dart. 
 But if the sunshine fleeth, 
 
 And night close round your heart, 
 Await the coming daybreak. 
 
 And bravely bear your part. 
 
 May 17, 1881. 
 
 A FACE AT THE WINDOW. 
 
 A FACE at the window is watching for me, 
 The sea rises high and the wind moans cold ; 
 
 A face that is fair and fresh to see. 
 
 While around it cluster the curls of gold. 
 
 A face peeps into the darkness drear. 
 
 And waits for the boat that will never come. 
 
 Eyes that are dark and blue and clear. 
 Eyes as bright as the summer sun. 
 
 A face at the window is watching for me. 
 The light shines cheerily out on the wave. 
 
 And the winds sighing drearily round the house 
 Moan as in a deserted cave. 
 
 A face at the window is watching for me, 
 And a slender form rocks to and fro ; 
 
 While the waves dash round the casement drear. 
 And the wind and the sea together blow. 
 
THE BAB Y IS DEAD. 
 
 223 
 
 Tiie sea dashes high, and foams and sweeps, 
 And the slender boat in the eddies is drawn ; 
 
 And the face at the window watching for me, 
 Will wait and watch long into the dawn. 
 
 A face at the window is watching for me 
 
 (The sea moans and frets on the rocks that are near), 
 And waits for the boat that will never come ; 
 
 While the winds sigh round the casement drear. 
 
 The cottage is lone and lorn and drear ; 
 
 The light gleams out upon the wave ; 
 The wind, sighing drearily round the house, 
 
 Moans as in a deserted cave. 
 
 May 18, 1881. 
 
 THE BABY IS DEAD. 
 
 The baby is dead, the dear baby, 
 
 Who through the storm and the snow 
 
 Came to gladden the rose-clambered cottage 
 Scarce one happy year ago. 
 
 The baby is dead ; it lies peaceful, 
 
 Its dimpled hands crossed o'er its breast ; 
 
 The dear little sunny-haired Daisy 
 Lies in the coffin at rest. 
 
 The baby is dead ; happy baby. 
 
 Just over there is the room 
 Where the wee, dimpled cherub lies smiling, 
 
 Amidst the silence and gloom. 
 
 'i'he baby is dead ; a wee coffin, 
 A bunch of lilies clasped there; 
 
 And a flower-strewn crown is placed 
 Above the uold of her hair. 
 
224 
 
 REACHING AFTER SWEETS. 
 
 A harp is placed in her fingers; 
 
 Little Daisy is playing one now. 
 Oh ! the smile of celestial glory 
 
 That streams o'er our baby's fair brow. 
 
 Tiiere came to the rose-covered cottage, 
 
 Scarce one happy year ago, 
 Like a beam of holy sunshine 
 
 Throughout the storm and the snow. 
 
 A dear little golden-haired baby, 
 With ringlets in many a wave. 
 
 The baby that lies in the coffin 
 Has gone to the God who gave. 
 May 24, 1881. 
 
 REACHING AFTER SWEETS. 
 
 (Suggested by breaking off a spray of honeysuckle covered with dew, 
 which she handed to her mother with the remark, " Is it not beautiful, 
 
 mother?") 
 
 Honeysuckle in profusion 
 
 Clambers o'er the garden bars ; 
 
 And the roses intermingle, 
 
 Pure and snowy, 'neath the stars. 
 
 And the lilies in confusion 
 Droop their stately heads, 
 
 For a maiden fair and lithesome 
 s Treadeth o'er the beds. 
 
 Past the little modest violets, 
 
 Past the bluebells fair, 
 That with ever-murmuring voices 
 
 Trill bell-music in the air; 
 Past the blue forget-me-nots. 
 
 Past all humble flowers. 
 Comes the maiden, treading softly 
 
 Li the fairy bowers. 
 
REACHING AFTER SWEETS. 225 
 
 O'er her shines the harvest moon, 
 
 Bathing all in silvery light ; 
 Round her is the fresh perfume, 
 
 And the voices of the night. 
 On she treadeth, free and careless, 
 
 Crushing 'neath her reckless feet 
 All the life out of the blossoms 
 
 That to others are so sweet. 
 
 Past the humble, lowly flowers, 
 
 To where those exalted stand. 
 Toward the richly-colored roses, 
 
 Reacheth out her lily hand. 
 Standing in the silvery moonlight, 
 
 She the fairy scene completes; 
 Lovely, thoughtless little maiden. 
 
 Reaching after sweets. 
 
 Now the pink and creamy roses, 
 
 Reared by tender showers, 
 Stateliest of all tlie blossoms 
 
 Among stately flowers. 
 Lie in proud and blushing state 
 
 In her rounded arms. 
 Pink, cream, and purest white 
 
 Mingling with her charms. 
 
 In the moonlight, silvery moonlight. 
 
 Onward doth she roam 
 Toward the ivy-covered door-way 
 
 Of her moonlit home. 
 Tri|jping lightly toward the portal, 
 
 Suddenly her slippered feet 
 Tangle in a stately rose-bush ; 
 
 And her flowers fair and sweet 
 
 Lie all crushed and scattered. 
 
 Now no longer fair; 
 And the little maiden, 
 
 Lying humbled there, 
 
 V 
 
226 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 Sobs out in her childish grief, 
 " Oh ! my pretty flowers, 
 
 Cradled by the soothing winds, 
 Reared by tender showers !" 
 
 Lying there all crushed and broken. 
 
 This her grief completes. 
 All her pleasure's turned to pain, 
 
 Reaching after sweets. 
 And thus it is as through life's way 
 
 We gather fairest flowers. 
 Scorning all the humble ones 
 
 Culled from Nature's bovvers, 
 
 We trip almost at the portal, 
 
 And our flowers lie dead. 
 Then too late we see our folly, 
 
 Humbly bow our head. 
 Thinking of our scornfulness 
 
 This our grief completes. 
 All our pleasure's turned to pain, 
 
 Reaching after sweets. 
 
 May 17, 1881. 
 
 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 'Tis evening, and the holy hush 
 Of eventide falls o'er the earth ; 
 
 The heated, tired, and busy day 
 
 To gentle, murmuring night gives binh. 
 
 The sleepy songsters seek their nest 
 
 Ere gone is evening light, 
 And around us come the voices, — 
 
 The voices of the night. 
 
VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 227 
 
 The earth is wondrous beautiful 
 
 In the softened, tender light, 
 And from tree and wood and river 
 
 Murmur voices of the night. 
 
 A tender hush comes o'er me. 
 
 As from every mountain height 
 Come the gentle, soothing voices, 
 
 The voices of the night. 
 
 The river sings of conquest, 
 
 Of how, when storm-winds blew, 
 And the waves dashed in their fury, 
 
 And the sky was a leaden hue, 
 
 A noble man went under tlie waves, 
 
 And hid was the fair hair bright ; 
 Oh, 'tis a cruel tale you tell, 
 
 Sad voices of the night ! 
 
 The trees murmur forth in a softened strain 
 
 The tale of a boyish grave ; 
 Not off on the stormy water. 
 
 Not under the cruel wave, 
 
 But away in a moonlit, sheltered nook, 
 Where the stars shine clear and bright. 
 
 Ah, 'tis a musical song you sing, 
 O voices of the night ! 
 
 The grass whispers low, as the soft winds blow. 
 
 Of a little flower-strewn mound, 
 Wliere a baby girl lies under the sod, 
 
 Oh, it is sacred ground ! 
 
 Where the flowers bloom in their fresh perfume. 
 And the birds pause in their flight ; 
 
 Ah, 'tis a soothing tale you tell, 
 O voices of the night ! 
 
THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 They are gone, the wee nestlings, 
 
 'Tis years since their flight ; 
 And I have grown old and feeble, 
 
 Am weary and lone to-night ; 
 
 And I sit alone in the moonlight. 
 
 Out in the fast-fading light. 
 And listen, with ears grown weary, 
 
 To the voices of the night. 
 
 They are gone, the noble-browed father. 
 And the children with golden hair bright ; 
 
 And I alone sit and listen 
 
 To the voices of the night, — 
 
 The voices that tell of my nestlings. 
 
 The voices so clear and so bright. 
 The low, subdued, tender voices, — 
 
 The voices of the night. 
 
 June 8, 1881. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 The evening was wild and stormy. 
 
 The wind moaned and sobbed everywhere, 
 And a woman knelt at the casement, 
 
 A woman youthful and fair. 
 And the wind raged on in its fury. 
 
 And it carried the plaintive moan 
 That broke from the lips of the woman. 
 
 Far over the ocean foam. 
 
 " Oh, my boy ! my boy !" moaned the mother, 
 " My boy so handsome and bold ! 
 
 My golden-haired boy, this stormy night, 
 Is sleeping out in the cold. 
 
THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 229 
 
 Three short years he was mine, my own, 
 More precious than sunny gold ; 
 
 And now he is dead, my fair-haired boy 
 Is lying out in the cold ! 
 
 " The light shines cheerily in the room, 
 
 And the chair to the fire is rolled. 
 While my prattling, sunny-haired boy 
 
 Is sleeping out in the cold. 
 I cannot think he is elsewhere, — 
 
 Cannot think he is safe in the fold ; 
 I only think of the wind and the rain. 
 
 And the little grave out in the cold. 
 
 " It seems so hard for the winds to moan. 
 
 When under the sod is the head of gold ; 
 It seems so hard for the rain to fall, 
 
 When my boy is out in the cold. 
 And only last night the sea-waves 
 
 Dashed in their fury, and rolled, 
 While the one who watched them so proudly 
 
 Was lying out in the cold." 
 
 Thus mourned the much-bereaved mother 
 
 On the loss of her golden-haired child ; 
 But ere the evening was over. 
 
 And the winds lulled their tones so wild, 
 A comfort stole into her heart ; 
 
 She thought of him, not in the cold. 
 Not out where the rain fell so wildly, 
 
 But sheltered safe in the fold. 
 
 June 9, i88i. 
 
230 
 
 AUTUMN RAIN. 
 
 AUTUMN RAIN. 
 
 Drearily falleth the autumn rain, 
 
 Drip, drip, drip. 
 And it dasheth against the window-pane. 
 
 Drip, drip, drip ; 
 And it falleth on tree and shrub and bed, 
 And it wetteth the stately roses red. 
 
 It comes pouring adown 
 
 On country and town, 
 With a ceaseless drip, drip, drip. 
 
 How dismally falls the autumn rain 1 
 
 Drip, drip, drip ; 
 And it tappeth against the window-pane. 
 
 Drip, drip, drip, 
 As if mournfully soothing my grief. 
 And bringing a tender, soft relief; 
 And it droppeth on the dashing waves. 
 And it falleth soft on the grass-grown graves, 
 
 With a musical drip, drip, drip. 
 
 And I sit alone at my window-pane, — 
 
 Moan, winds, moan, — 
 Listening to the autumn rain 
 
 And its dreary monotone. 
 And the winds sigh dismally round the heath, 
 And all is still and silent as death ; 
 
 While the winds so sorrowfully moan, 
 I am startled as 'neath my chamber floor 
 I hear the creaking of a door, — 
 
 All is so drear and so lone. 
 
 The trees shake off their weight of drops 
 
 With a drip, drip, drip. 
 And a bird from off a green leaf hops. 
 
 Drip, drip, drip. 
 And all are gay but the one at the pane. 
 Cheered by the balmy refreshing rain ; 
 
BABV JEAN. 231 
 
 But / still sit in the darkness lone 
 And list to the dreary monotone, 
 As it falleth against my window-pane, 
 Of the sobbing, mournful autumn rain. 
 
 June 9, 18S1. 
 
 BABY JEAN. 
 
 Rosy, dimpled, baby Jean, 
 Pure and innocent I ween ; 
 With those eyes so large and bright, 
 Dusky as the darkest night. 
 You are fairest of all flowers 
 Culled from babyhood's fair bowers. 
 All the sunny household's queen. 
 Baby Jean ! 
 
 Sunny-haired, dimpled Jean, 
 With a face fair and serene ; 
 Two red lips, so cherry ripe, 
 Of red berries a fair type, 
 And a little rosy hand. 
 Fit to hold a fairy's wand, 
 Helpless little hands, I ween, 
 Baby Jean. 
 
 Little feet so snowy white. 
 That from morning until night 
 Patter all around the house, 
 Timid as a little mouse; 
 Papa's darling little pet. 
 Mamma's baby even yet. 
 Although two whole years, as queen 
 Has reigned baby Jean. 
 
 Around the baby's lily brow 
 Is a wreath. Listen now, — 
 'Tis a wreath of sunny hair 
 That curls round the brow so fair. 
 
232 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 Shy, winsome little bird, 
 That can rule us by a word, — 
 Rule the household, yes, I ween, 
 Baby Jean ! 
 
 Two little hands clasped reverently 
 Above the baby's tiny knee; 
 A snowy crib so snug and warm, 
 Where sleeps the baby free from harm, 
 While the clouds float over all. 
 And the weary rain-drops fall. 
 Earth's sweetest flower, I ween, 
 Baby Jean ! 
 
 June 9, 1881. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 Alone ! in the wide world over. 
 Is there none to love or to cheer? 
 
 Must I live alone, day after day, 
 And grieve alone, year after year? 
 
 Is there none to say, " I love you" ? 
 
 Is there none to befriend or to cheer? 
 
 Alone ! is there no heart to beat madly 
 When mine is aching with pain ? 
 
 Is there none to grieve at my sorrow. 
 Not one in the world's wide domain? 
 
 Must I stand alone year after year, 
 
 With no one to grieve or to cheer ? 
 
 When my heart is beating with rapture, 
 Is there none to say, " I am glad" ? 
 
 When my head is bowed low with sorrow. 
 And my heart is aching and sad, 
 
 Is there no one to pity or love ? 
 
 None but the Mighty above ? 
 
FROM SUNRISE TO SUNSET. 
 
 233 
 
 When the world seems shrouded in darkness 
 
 And my heart is shrouded in pain, 
 Is there none to pity the orphan? 
 
 No one to say, " I would fain 
 Bring comfort and love to the broken heart," 
 And raise her out of her pain ? 
 
 Alone ! not one the world over 
 
 To pity the orphan, or love; 
 No one to grieve or be joyful, 
 
 None but the Mighty above ; 
 Her heart may be gleeful, her heart may be sad, 
 There is no one to grieve, there is none to be glad. 
 
 Alone ! in the wide world over 
 
 There is none to pity or cheer ; 
 I must live alone day after day. 
 
 And grieve alone year after year. 
 There is no one to say, ^^ I love you,'''' 
 None to befriend or to cheer. 
 
 June 23, 1881. 
 
 FROM SUNRISE TO SUNSET. 
 
 A BABY lies in the cradle there, 
 A winsome baby young and fair; 
 To the tiny girl, life has just begun, 
 Life came in with the first ray of sun. 
 Shall the page be unsullied, white and clean, 
 Marred not by the sin of the years between ? 
 Shall the baby's life, which has just begun. 
 Be faithful and true till the set of the sun? 
 
 A golden-haired child is treading the path 
 Which older children have trod before, — 
 
 Older ones who have passed through life 
 And entered in at the golden door. 
 
 With the words spoken, "The life begun 
 
 Proved noble and true till the setting sun." 
 20* 
 
234 FROM SUNRISE TO SUNSET. 
 
 A maiden is swinging in old Time's swing; 
 
 For her the conquest has just begun. 
 Her life is as yet as pure and true 
 
 As it was at the rising of the sun. 
 Shall the page that is now unsullied and clean 
 Remain so in the years between ? 
 
 A woman is taking the solemn vows ; 
 
 A woman stands at the altar there ; 
 Will the heart that is now so bright and gay 
 
 Remain always so free from care? 
 The baby, the child, the maiden now 
 Is consecrating the marriage vow. 
 
 * * * ;|: * * * 
 
 A mother bends over the cradle near: 
 
 Another life has just begun ; 
 Will the page that is now so white and clean 
 
 Remain so till the set of the sun ? 
 Ah, mother ! almost set is your sun, 
 For your baby the conquest has just begun. 
 
 A grave is made at the rise of the sun : 
 The wife, the mother, slumbers there; 
 
 For her the golden crown is won. 
 
 The page is once more unsullied and fair, 
 
 And spoken the words, " The life begun 
 
 Proved noble and true till the set of the sun." 
 
 Ah, baby, lying so innocent there, 
 For you the conquest has just begun ; 
 
 May your life be as pure and fresh and fair 
 As the life that went out at the setting sun ! 
 
 And of you be said, "The life begun 
 
 Proved stainless and true till the setting sun." 
 June 24, 1881. 
 
A DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 235 
 
 A DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 DREAMING. 
 
 I AM lying amidst the daisies. 
 
 I am sweet sixteen to-day; 
 I am tired of children's lessons, 
 
 I am tired of children's play. 
 I am tired of the old stone farm-house, 
 
 With its cover of clinging vines, 
 And the old bowed apple-trees 
 
 Through which the bright sun shines. 
 The song of the rippling brooklet 
 
 Tg me is always the same; 
 I see no beauty in the stars, 
 
 Set in their deep blue frame. 
 
 brown bird, hush your singing, 
 To me 'tis a weary rhyme; 
 
 1 wish the years would hurry along, — 
 So slow is the flight of time. 
 
 I am tired of the ceaseless murmur 
 
 Of the wind waving soft in the trees; 
 I hear no rippling music 
 
 In the sigh of each passing breeze. 
 I am tired of the old mossy well, 
 . Where I used to sit and dream ; 
 But things are changed : they must be so ; 
 
 To me it is so I deem. 
 How soothing the murmur of the rain 
 
 As it pattered on the roof along ! 
 Now I am tired of the weary drip, 
 
 Of the ceaseless, dreary song. 
 I long to peep into the world, 
 
 And taste of its pleasure and jxiin ; 
 I know that never the wish would come 
 
 If I were but a child again. 
 
236 A DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 The old swing now stands silent and lone ; 
 
 I want to swing in old Time's swing, 
 And swing, oh ! so fast and so high, 
 
 For I long for the pleasure age will bring. 
 
 TASTING. 
 
 I am standing on the threshold now ; 
 
 I have passed that age so incomplete, — 
 The age I longed to hurry o'er. 
 
 Where womanhood and childhood meet. 
 I am tasting the pleasure time has brought. 
 
 For I am twenty years old to-day; 
 Pleasure's lessons I arn learning now, 
 
 I am now partaking of woman's play. 
 How delightful to be full-grown, 
 
 To play a part in the drama of life ! 
 But I pray my heart may be light and gay, 
 
 May always be free from care and strife. 
 When a child I went to beautiful balls, 
 
 Met women with nameless graces ; 
 But mine was the chief, the charm of all. 
 
 Amongst the beautiful faces. 
 'Twas only a dream, but the dream is true ; 
 
 For realized is my fairy ball ; 
 'Mongst all the women with beautiful faces 
 
 They said I was fairest of all. 
 Ah ! delightful the praises meet 
 
 That showered like dew upon the grass ; 
 Ah ! once by aged lips it was said, 
 
 " She is indeed a comely lass." 
 If then 'twas sweet, how sweet 'tis now ! 
 
 If honeyed when spoken by trembling lips, 
 It is surely more sweet to hear the words 
 
 That thrill you to the finger-tips. 
 I am tasting of pleasure, — 
 
 To come is the pain ; 
 But may it be light 
 
 As the summer rain ! 
 I cannot think the heart which now beats 
 
 Overcharged with the weight of pleasure, 
 
A DREAM OF LIFE. 237 
 
 Will ever beat wildly with grief or pain. 
 
 Ah, yes ! I know in a measure 
 That sorrow will come, 
 
 And so will the pain; 
 But may it be light 
 
 As the falling rain ! 
 
 LOVING. 
 
 I am loving, loving, loving. 
 
 The world is not the same ; 
 Even the stars shine brighter, 
 
 Set in their deep blue frame. 
 The world is changed ; it must be so, 
 
 For time flies on like a dream. 
 I say it is changed ? It cannot be, — 
 
 It is I that am changed, I ween. 
 I am loving, loving, loving, 
 
 And I hope am loved in return ; 
 I know that I am, for my love is true. 
 
 I've another lesson to learn, — 
 The lesson of bearded lips pressed to mine, 
 
 Of heart beating close to heart. 
 Ah, love, I have tasted some of your cup, 
 
 But say is it only a part ? 
 When a child I lay 'midst the daisies, 
 
 And wished for the years to fly ; 
 Did I dream of the heart that was waiting 
 
 For me, as the years went by ? 
 Have those lips ever said, " I love you" ? 
 . Ah, no ! but the glance of his eyes 
 Has told me the truth long since. 
 
 And true love never dies. 
 I am standing alone in the door-way, 
 
 The dew is beginning to fall. 
 And the dusk, born of night, is gathering 
 
 On the roses over the wall. 
 I like the sunshine better. 
 
 It makes them so brilliant and gay, 
 But the dusk falls lightly upon them 
 
 And shades them with cold, dreary gray ; 
 
238 
 
 A DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 The dusk falls over the roses 
 
 And makes them gloomy as night. 
 
 Cheer, roses, the sun is coming, 
 
 And then 'twill be dewy and bright. 
 
 GRIEVING. 
 
 My eyes are aching with weeping, 
 
 My heart is aching with pain. 
 Ah, yes ! the grief and the sorrow came, 
 
 But not liglit as the falling rain. 
 I am old, — it must be so, — 
 
 And the world seems like a dream ; 
 And yet I am only eight times three : 
 
 'Tis grief that is old, I deem. 
 I am grieving, grieving, grieving, 
 
 Grieving for years that are past, — 
 The years that were bright as a pleasant dream, 
 
 That flew away quite as fast. 
 Ah ! once in a gilded ball-room, 
 
 /Mongst women with nameless graces, 
 I was the fairest of all the fair ; 
 
 Mine was the fairest of faces. 
 My heart was light as a flake of snow, 
 
 And 'twas filled with rapture keen. 
 Oh ! the world must be changed, I know, 
 
 But, ah ! 'tis myself, I ween. 
 Then I was taught the lesson of love 
 
 By bearded lips that were ruby red. 
 And the hair of purest golden sheen 
 
 Was close to the darker head. 
 Oh ! that I might lie under the daisies, 
 
 With the gay little songsters above ; 
 Then perhaps he would grieve 
 
 That he taught me the lesson of love. 
 Oh ! that I might be a child again, 
 
 And fastened be childhood's link; 
 For I had not learned this lesson then. 
 
 When I stood at womanhood's brink. 
 Oh ! to rest 'midst the snowy daisies, 
 
 And list to the rippling stream ! 
 
A DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 239 
 
 With the birds singing o'er my head, 
 
 And dream as I used to dream ! 
 Might I but lean o'er the well, 
 
 And gaze in the silvery mirror there, 
 And imagine I was at a "grown-up" ball, 
 
 The fairest of all the fair ; 
 And a noble head was pressed to mine, 
 
 And lii)s to my cheek so pale ! 
 Ah ! little dreamer, 'tis all true, 
 
 As well as the end of the tale. 
 As I sat and dreamed by the brooklet there, 
 
 I little thought that my ideal 
 Would win and wed another maid, 
 
 And leave me under my burden to reel. 
 And the words that once were said to me 
 
 Would be said to another maiden fair, — 
 A maiden with eyes of wistful blue. 
 
 And rippling golden hair. 
 They were said to her by the same false lips : 
 
 " Among women with nameless graces 
 Yours is the fairest of the fair, 
 
 The fairest of all the faces." 
 I am standing alone in the door-way, 
 
 The dew is beginning to fall, 
 And the dusk of night is gathering 
 
 On the roses over the wall. 
 The dusk falls over the roses 
 
 That once were so brilliant and gay, 
 And the dusk falls over my heart, 
 
 Coldly, cruelly gray. 
 
 June 30, 1881. 
 
240 SOMEBODY'S CHILD IS DEAD. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S CHILD IS DEAD. 
 
 (On hearing the bell toll nine.) 
 
 Somebody's child is dead to-day. 
 Nine ! solemnly tolls the bell away ; 
 Nine years has the little one lived on earth, 
 Nine years since the baby's birth. 
 
 Somebody's child is dead to-day, 
 And some aching heart is cold and gray; 
 Some little feet have ceased to stray, 
 While some little garments are folded away. 
 
 Somebody's child is dead to-day. 
 Nine ! solemnly rings the bell away. 
 Perhaps 'tis a golden-haired girl who has fled 
 To the silent city of the dead ; 
 
 Or perhaps 'tis a dark-eyed boy. 
 The pride of a mother's love and joy. 
 Who has entered in at the open door, 
 Whom the bell is solemnly tolling for. 
 
 I can just imagine the simny face. 
 
 The smile chilled by Death's embrace, 
 
 The form bent over the coffin near. 
 
 And the drop that is none but a mother's tear. 
 
 Then comes the trample of many feet, 
 And away is borne the burden sweet ; 
 While sadly rings the bell away. 
 For the household pet is dead to-day. 
 
 Folded the little garments away 
 In the darkened room so dim and gray. 
 Nine ! sadly tolls the bell away. 
 For somebody's child is dead to-day. 
 
SOMEBODY'S CHILD IS DEAD. 241 
 
 Ah ! bitterly comes the mother's cry : 
 "Other children have been passed by; 
 Why is empty my darling's room ? 
 Why faded the bud beginning to bloom?" 
 
 Somebody's child is dead to-day. 
 Nine ! solemnly tolls the bell away; 
 And tlie wooden coffin, so tiny and plain, 
 Is borne along in the pattering rain. 
 
 And the motlier sobs in the dreary room, 
 
 For the child who is borne to the pauper's tomb ; 
 
 And sadly rings the bell away, 
 
 For somebody's child is dead to-day. 
 
 And the rich man shudders as past his door 
 Is borne the coffin of the poor ; 
 For on pillows of dainty lace 
 Sleeps his dead child, so fair of face. 
 
 And the mothers grieve for their children there : 
 One on the scanty floor so bare ; 
 The other one, 'mongst Brussels and lace, 
 Kneels by the casket with hidden face. 
 
 And the little casket is borne through the gloom, 
 And the coffin is borne to the pauper's tomb. 
 Nine ! solemnly rings the bell away, 
 For somebody's child is dead to-day. 
 
 July 7, 1881. 
 
242 
 
 FRIENDLESS. 
 
 FRIENDLESS. 
 
 Into the storm of a winter night 
 A mother sped with her child ; 
 
 Into the snow she took her flight, 
 While the wind raged bitterly wild, 
 
 And the snow piled up in pillows of white. 
 
 Friendless ! God help the mother to-night ! 
 
 The clouds grew heavy and dark. 
 And the wind raged on in despair, 
 
 As if 'twere the agonized cry 
 
 Of the lost ringing out on the air. 
 
 'Twas a night for weird deeds to unfohi. 
 
 Friendless ! and out in the cold ! 
 
 The lights from the marble halls 
 Gleamed into the winter night, 
 
 And dancing, and music, and mirth 
 Into the snow took their flight. 
 
 While the baby sobbed with pitiful cry, 
 
 Friendless ! and God knows why ! 
 
 The curtains of lace are drawn. 
 
 And a face clouds the burst of light,— 
 
 A face which the angels have blessed. 
 That softens the chill winter night. 
 
 And the mother speeds on in her flight, 
 
 Friendless ! God help her to-night ! 
 
 The air is bitterly cold, 
 
 And pierces the thinly-clad form. 
 And the babe sobs with muffled cry. 
 
 Which the wind carries into the storm. 
 Out in the chill winter night, 
 Friendless ! doomed in her flight. 
 
FRIENDLESS. 
 
 Friendless ? Not always so. 
 
 List to the tale I unfold 
 Of a maiden with laughter-lit eyes 
 
 And hair of fair sunny gold, — 
 Of a maiden with heart full of light, 
 Who is friendless and homeless to-night. 
 
 Of a maiden pledging her troth 
 In a home of luxurious ease, — 
 
 Of a golden-haired maid and lover brave 
 Kneeling on low-bended knees 
 
 To hear the marriage rite spoken. 
 
 Friendless ! God help the heart-broken ! 
 
 Away in a moonlit clime 
 
 Lived a dainty, golden-haired wife ; 
 A heart throbbing with pulses wild, 
 
 And a happy, untroubled life. 
 Happy! oh, mother and wife! 
 Friendless! oh, broken life! 
 
 Happy and pure as the snow. 
 
 Sweet mother and innocent wife ; 
 
 But the tempter came, with his bitter cup, 
 And darkened the youthful life. 
 
 Ah, baby ! hush your pitiful cry. 
 
 Friendless ! and God knows why ! 
 
 A husband with trusting heart, 
 A mother with laughter-lit eyes, 
 
 A home bright with happiness, love, 
 An undisturbed paradise. 
 
 Why is it that love must die? 
 
 F'riendless ! and God knows wliy ! 
 
 A grave where the husband sleeps, 
 A homeless mother and wife ; 
 
 No arms are open, all doors are shut, 
 A miserable, blighted life. 
 
 And the mother speeds on in her flight, 
 
 Friendless and homeless to-night. 
 
 243 
 
244 
 
 NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 The curtains of lace are drawn, 
 
 And a face clouds the burst of liglit. 
 
 O homeless and friendless mother, 
 You once were as fair and as bright ! 
 
 Baby, hush your pitiful cry. 
 
 Friendless ! and God knows why 1 
 
 The snow falls bitterly cold, 
 
 And the wailing cry is stilled. 
 Under the snowy piles they sleep, 
 
 Baby and mother, — 'twas God so willed. 
 And the snow falls in pillows of white. 
 No longer friendless to-night. 
 
 NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 New-Year's Eve! and the embers dying, dying, 
 
 In the grate are sadly lying ; and the dreary wind is flying 
 
 O'er the mansion sad and lone. 
 And the snow is falling, falling, while the wind is shrilly 
 
 calling ; 
 And the night grows dark and denser, and the silence 
 grows in tenser. 
 With its dreary undertone. 
 
 And the embers, dropping, dropping, and the sighing, 
 
 never stopping, 
 Of the wind, now rising, falling, falling, stillness now 
 
 appalling. 
 Rising with a shriek of wailing ; 
 Then a sudden sobbing, sobbing, as if wind and snow 
 
 were robbing 
 All the glory of the morning that the earth should be 
 
 adorning. 
 And the wind should sigh a greeting and a hailing. 
 
NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 245 
 
 New-Year's Eve ! and the embers, dying, dying, in the 
 
 grate are sadly lying, 
 And our thoughts are backward flying 
 
 To the year now almost fled, 
 That brought many a night of sorrow, and again a joyful 
 
 morrow, 
 That brought smiles as well as sighing, living just as well 
 as dying. 
 Now itself is almost dead. 
 
 And the wind is sighing, sighing, and the old year now 
 is dying; 
 
 While the embers, falling, falling, make us start as if ap- 
 palling 
 Were the dropping of the coals ; 
 
 And the clock ticks sadly, sadly, as if hastening, though 
 not gladly. 
 
 The departure of the year now dying ; and the wind so 
 sadly sighing 
 O'er the past a requiem tolls. 
 
 And the magic hour draws nearer, and the dying year is 
 dearer, 
 
 For, oh rapidly, 'tis fleeting, and the morn will soon be 
 greeting 
 Another spotless year. 
 
 And the wind is sighing, sighing, and the year is slowly 
 dying, 
 
 And though it brought us sorrows as well as happy mor- 
 rows, 
 Yet we drop a lingering tear. 
 
 Though it taught us grieving, grieving, it still kept weav- 
 ing, weaving 
 Happiness as well as sighing, living just as well as dying, 
 
 Sunbeams well as tearful rain. 
 And if our cup was bitter, it moulded us still fitter 
 For the light as well as shadow, for the grief and unbelief, 
 Hai)piness, as well as pain. 
 21* 
 
246 THE UNFINISHED DRESS. 
 
 New- Year's Eve ! and the embers, d)'ing, dying, 
 In the grate are sadly lying, and our thoughts are forward 
 flying 
 Toward the new and stainless year ; 
 And our hearts grow lighter, lighter, as the morning 
 
 beameth brighter, 
 And our hearts grow free from pain as the sky is freed 
 from rain, 
 For the New Year's birth is near. 
 
 New-Year's Morning ! and the sun is shilling, shining, 
 While its beams are lining, lining, all the earth that was 
 repining. 
 For 'tis happy New-Year's morn. 
 And the winds are blowing, blowing, with a never cease- 
 less flowing. 
 And the flames are prancing, prancing, in the grate they're 
 gayly dancing, 
 For the New Year now is born. 
 
 Sunday, July 24, 1881. 
 
 THE UNFINISHED DRESS. 
 
 Here it lies on the table, 
 
 A tiny unfinished gown. 
 Just as my baby left it, 
 
 My Bessie with eyes of brown. 
 
 Here is the little stuffed rocker 
 
 Where she sat, and in childish glee 
 
 Fashioned the dainty wee dress 
 
 For the blue-eyed babe on her knee. 
 
 Dear little mother ! with innocent pride 
 You fashioned the dainty dress, — 
 
 The dress destined for your bab\-. 
 No more will tliose wee fimreis i)ress 
 
THE UNFINISHED DRESS. 
 
 247 
 
 The tiny unfinished wrapper, 
 
 For cold is the little form ; 
 And as I look at your baby, 
 
 My own lies out in the storm. 
 
 Tiie room where my darling oft sat 
 
 Is cold and gloomy and still, 
 And the rain-drops fall and the robins sing, 
 
 And the wind moans cold and shrill. 
 
 Dear little room ! it lies untouched, 
 
 Just as she left it that day. 
 When she lay so still in her trundle-bed, 
 
 Tired and wearied of play. 
 
 Here is the wee wooden cradle ; 
 
 Within is the waxen form 
 Of her baby ; she sang it to sleep, — 
 
 My own is asleep in the storm. 
 
 Here are the little loved scissors, 
 
 Just as she threw them down. 
 Tired of cutting the tiny blue dress : 
 
 Oh, dear little unfinished gown ! 
 
 Oh, dear little gown that she handled ! 
 
 Oh, precious wee baby dress ! 
 I can see the look of childish glee yet, 
 
 As the gown to my lips I press. 
 
 Bessie, my own little Bessie, 
 
 Up in the big arm-chair 
 Is another unfinished dress, 
 
 Destined for my baby to wear ; 
 
 Lying just as I left it. 
 
 As impatient I flung it away, 
 When you came with your pitiful lips, 
 
 Tired and wearied of play. 
 
248 THE UNFINISHED DRESS. 
 
 And begged me to tell you a story, 
 And sing your brown eyes to sleep, — 
 
 Oh, reproachful, unfinished dresses ! 
 But my eyes are too iieavy to weep, — 
 
 And tell you about the angels. 
 
 Even then they were bending near; 
 
 And when you smiled while sleeping, 
 They were whispering in your ear. 
 
 Oh, dear little unfinished dress ! 
 
 Oh, dear little rocking-chair ! 
 Placed just as her little hands left you, — 
 
 Left you so empty and bare. 
 
 Oh, dear little unfinished dress ! 
 
 Oh, dear little rocking-chair! 
 Left just as when she last sat there, 
 
 And the sunbeams kissed her bright hair, 
 
 Oh, dear little unfinished dress ! 
 
 No longer you're needed now. 
 For my Bessie wears one that is snowy, 
 
 And a crown rests on her fair brow. 
 
 There's a little grave out in the gloom; 
 
 There's a coffin under the sod ; 
 There's another void in a mother's heart. 
 
 And another baby with God. 
 
 Oh, dear little unfinished dress ! 
 
 Oh, dear little unfinished life ! 
 My Bessie is safe from all danger. 
 
 Is freed from all tumult and strife. 
 
 There's another wee form in heaven, 
 A little grave out in the gloom. 
 
 The nest is empty, — the bird has flown, 
 Gone is the rose of the room. 
 
THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 249 
 
 Oh, dear little unfinished dress ! 
 
 You will never be needed more, 
 For the little form has faded, 
 
 Has stepped through the open door. 
 
 August 9, 1881. 
 
 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 " I HAVE come to take a look, stranger, 
 At the dear old home once more, — 
 
 The home that is dearer to me than gold, 
 From the oaken beam to the tottering floor. 
 
 " 'Tis the place where I was born, stranger; 
 
 'Tis here I played 'mongst woodlands wild, 
 With brown bare feet, and browner hands, 
 
 A happy, thoughtless, careless child. 
 
 " 'Twas in this very room, stranger, 
 I knelt and prayed m\- simple prayer, 
 
 Nightly, at my mother's knee. 
 With her white hand on ray hair. 
 
 " Twas here a baby cherub came ; 
 
 She did not come to linger long. 
 But folded her tiny wings awhile, 
 
 And sang us a prattling song. 
 
 " Not long enough to be tainted 
 By this world of sorrow and care, 
 
 But to leave us a golden memory 
 Of a baby saintly and fair. 
 
 " Of a wee one among the angels, 
 
 Who is waiting for us to come. 
 If we keep our hearts pure and free from sin, 
 
 To meet her at rest and at home ; 
 
2SO 
 
 THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 " To meet her at home with the angels, 
 Our darling wee heaven-sent May ! 
 
 I can see the little white casket yet, 
 As if 'twere but yesterday. 
 
 " 'Tis here that the bitter tidings came, — 
 
 A noble ship went down at sea, 
 And among the bravest sailors lost — 
 
 Well, our father had ceased to be. 
 
 " But our Father above was looking down, 
 And our boy-hearts were fearless and true. 
 
 And the world was wide, the laborers scarce : 
 There was plenty of work to do ; 
 
 "And our hands were brown with hardened toil, 
 Our boy-lives were buried and dead. 
 
 The child with a step had grown to the man, 
 The old life was passed and fled. 
 
 " 'Twas here in this very room, stranger, 
 
 I married sweet Daisy Lee ; 
 And it seems I am kissing her fresh red lips. 
 
 As I did when she wedded me. 
 
 " There's a grave on the hill-side, stranger. 
 
 Where sleeps fair Daisy Lee ; 
 But the old man lingers, though weary of life, — 
 
 For his years number eighty-three. 
 
 "Oh, blushing, beautiful Daisy! 
 
 You are safe in heaven now. 
 Your eyes are beaming with brightness. 
 
 And a crown rests on your fair brow. 
 
 "Ah, I am wandering, stranger ! 
 
 But then I am eighty-three. 
 And it seems as if I were young again, 
 
 With a baby on my knee, 
 
THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 
 
 251 
 
 ** And the other two clustering round me, 
 
 Proud father of children three : 
 Two sturdy boys, one frail, sweet girl. 
 
 As fair as my Daisy Lee. 
 
 " 'Twas here in this very room, stranger, 
 
 I knelt at the rough old bed. 
 Where a maiden was dying slowly. 
 
 As fair as the one I wed. 
 
 " 'Twas right through yon path, stranger. 
 
 The funeral carriages wound. 
 And we buried the younger Daisy 
 
 Under the flower-strewn mound. 
 
 "Scarce had the wound healed, stranger, 
 When my fair wife drooped and died ; 
 
 And we buried the older Daisy 
 By the younger Daisy's side. 
 
 " There is little more to tell, stranger. 
 
 My boys, so ruddy and brave, 
 Sailed away in the good ship ' Petrel,' 
 
 And sailed to a watery grave. 
 
 "But we will all meet there, stranger. 
 For ' the sea will give up its dead.' 
 
 And I will meet my two Daisies, 
 
 And my boys with their raven head. 
 
 "The tale is all told, stranger ; 
 
 The house is tottering down, — 
 The house where my babies were born, stranger, 
 
 And the house where I was born. 
 
 " But I will soon meet my brave boys, 
 And be laid in the church-yard there, 
 
 With my darling, wee, heaven-robed May, 
 And my Daisies with sun-kissed hair." 
 
 August 12, 1881. 
 
252 
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 The lieavy clouds have rolled away, 
 And the sun shoots forth its parting ray 
 With a lustre bright as the dawn of day, 
 
 And seemeth to whisper in accents low, 
 
 " Though the lightning flash, and the winds do blow, 
 
 And the earth in angry fury is drest, 
 Yet God knows best." 
 
 The rain sparkles lightly upon the grass, 
 And glistens like jewels as you pass, 
 While over the field trips a golden-haired lass, 
 And singeth low, as the soft winds blow, 
 "Though the rain in heavy torrents fall. 
 
 And the lightning flash o'er the cottage wall. 
 
 Yet a good God watches over all." 
 
 The sun shines on the dashing sea. 
 And a sailor is singing a song of glee : 
 
 "What was, and is, was meant to be. 
 
 Though the storm-clouds frown. 
 
 And the rain dash down, 
 
 And the winds blow wildly over the sea, 
 
 What was, and is, was meant to be." 
 
 And a maiden stands at the casement there, 
 
 A slender figure with golden hair. 
 
 And sings in a voice of sweet music, and low, 
 
 "Though the angry storm-clouds blow, 
 
 And the waves dash to and fro, 
 
 And the clouds frown on the heaving sea. 
 
 What was, and is, was meant to be." 
 
 A sailor is singing a happy rhyme, 
 And the bells ring out a merry chime ; 
 And ring clear out on the foaming sea ; 
 
KITTY'S PRAYER. 253 
 
 While a maiden leans on her lover's breast, 
 With her golden hair for the bridal drest, 
 And sings, in a voice of music and rest, 
 " Though the angry storm-winds blow, 
 And the waves dash to and fro, 
 Yet God knows best." 
 
 August 13, 1881. 
 
 KITTY'S PRAYER. 
 
 In a darksome attic 
 
 On a winter's day. 
 Knelt two little children 
 
 In the twilight gray, — 
 Homeless little orphans, 
 
 Knelt they down to pray. 
 
 Supperless and weary, 
 Chilled with icy air. 
 
 Knelt they humbly downward 
 On the floor so bare, — 
 
 One with chestnut locks. 
 And one with golden hair. 
 
 Motherless wee bairns 
 
 Tiny girl and boy. 
 Loving little orphans, 
 
 Once a father's joy, — 
 Golden-haired wee Kitty, 
 
 Trusting, dark-eyed Roy. 
 
 Stormy winds were blowing ; 
 
 Not a cheery ray 
 Peeped into the attic 
 
 On that winter day, 
 But the trusting children 
 
 Knelt them ilown to pray. 
 22 
 
254 KITTY'S PRAYER. 
 
 Shivering in the darkness, 
 Roy, with chestnut hair. 
 
 Crept near with the low whisper, 
 " Kitty, are you there ? 
 
 'Tis so dark, and I am cold, 
 And the floor's so bare." 
 
 And the older baby, 
 
 Little matron wise. 
 Answered, with calm triumph 
 
 Shining in her eyes, 
 "Roy, I'm not one bit afraid, 
 
 God is in the skies ; 
 
 "And He'll watch us, darling. 
 For you heard dear mamma say, 
 
 If we grew afraid and lonely 
 Only to kneel down and pray, 
 
 And the good God up in heaven 
 Would hear every word we say. 
 
 "Shall we do it now, dear Roy?" 
 And from out their cheerless bed 
 
 Sprang the children, hand in hand, 
 Kneeling softly with bowed head. 
 
 "Jesus, help me how to pray," 
 
 Baby Roy heard Kitty say. 
 
 Kneeling in the attic, 
 Roy with chestnut hair, 
 
 And the older Kitty 
 With her face so fair, — 
 
 Darling little Kitty, — 
 This was all her prayer : 
 
 "Jesus up in heaven. 
 
 List to Roy and me : 
 I am six years old. 
 
 But Roy is only three, 
 And we're afraid, dear Jesus, 
 
 Baby Roy and me. 
 
KITTY'S PRAYER. 
 
 55s 
 
 " Dearest mamma's dead ; 
 
 She only died, you know, 
 Just as the sun was going down 
 
 And the wind began to blow. 
 It seems years to Roy and me, 
 
 Although but an hour ago. 
 
 " Dear Jesus, mamma's dead, 
 
 And Roy is only three ; 
 And the wind is cold, and we're afraid. 
 
 Dear little Roy and me." 
 And the moon peeped in through the door 
 And kissed the babes on the floor. 
 
 And it dropped on Roy's curly hair 
 With a mute and tender caress. 
 
 And it crept along the floor so bare. 
 And it fell on Kitty's white dress. 
 
 And it shone on the quivering lips, 
 
 And it kissed the cold finger-tips. 
 
 While Kitty, unheeding the cold. 
 
 Prayed on in her sweet, earnest way, 
 
 While the minutes hurried along, 
 Fast bringing the chill winter day; 
 
 Still brown-eyed Kitty knelt there. 
 
 Praying her childish prayer : 
 
 " O good God up in heaven, 
 
 Please take us home to-night, 
 To be 'midst the shining angels 
 
 And dwell where the stars shine bright ; 
 For mamma's lying on the bed, 
 But we're afraid, for mamma's dead. 
 
 " She will not speak nor smile, 
 
 Nor hear us say our prayer, 
 Nor kiss Roy's cold white lips 
 
 And smooth his sunny hair; 
 And when he laid his cold white cheek 
 Against her own, she would not speak. 
 
256 
 
 KITTY'S PRAYER. 
 
 "And so I know she's dead, 
 Though Roy can't understand, 
 
 For he kneels low beside the bed 
 And smooths her cold white hand, 
 
 And pleads for her to take her boy, — 
 
 Her poor, cold, frightened little Roy. 
 
 " Just two short hours ago 
 
 I knelt beside the bed. 
 And felt her breath against my cheek, 
 
 Her warm hand on my head ; 
 And now I kneel beside the bed. 
 And all the while my mamma's dead. 
 
 " So Jesus up in heaven, 
 
 Please take us home to-night 
 
 To see our darling mamma, 
 
 And where it's warm and bright ; 
 
 To where there is no sorrow, 
 And where there is no night ; 
 
 ** To see our precious papa 
 And our darling brother Ben ; 
 
 To see our dear Aunt Nellie 
 And our mamma dear again ; 
 
 So, dear God, please send an angel, 
 For Jesus' sake. Amen." 
 
 In the early morn 
 
 Two wee babes were dead, — 
 One with chestnut hair, 
 
 And one with golden head ; 
 Two wee forms were kneeling 
 
 By the icy bed. 
 
 Kitty's prayer was answered — 
 
 " Little Roy and me" 
 Had gone to dwell with angels. 
 
 And their mamma see ; 
 With the trusting prayer 
 
 Life had ceased to be. 
 
THE MAGIC WISHES. 257 
 
 Beside a larger coffin 
 
 Two wee ones were borne 
 Along the snowy streets 
 
 On that winter morn. 
 '•' Little Roy and me" 
 
 Were safe from wind and storm. 
 
 The gate of heaven was unlocked, 
 
 Kitty's prayer the golden key ; 
 Jesus, with loving tenderness, 
 
 Had taken " little Roy and me." 
 
 August 14, 1881. 
 
 THE MAGIC WISHES. 
 
 Three children sat under a tall oak-tree, 
 Three little maidens as fair as could be. 
 One with hair in wavy gleams, 
 A perfect match with the bright sunbeams. 
 And eyes of merry, mirthful blue. 
 As pure and fresh as the morning dew; 
 Another with hair of chestnut-brown. 
 Lips that could smile, and pout, and frown. 
 And cheeks that could scarcely rival the flush 
 Of the peach in all its creamy blush ; 
 And the other with wistful, misty eyes. 
 That had stolen a glance from Paradise ; 
 With purity, honor, and truth therein, — 
 A little maiden of stmimers ten. 
 Thus the three children so full of glee 
 Sought as their tryst the tall oak-tree. 
 "Let's wish three wishes," said merry Nell, 
 "So that the fairy who hides in the dell 
 May bring her charmed cup, with its magic spell, 
 And scatter its contents all around. 
 And change the old oak into fairy ground. 
 r 22* 
 
258 
 
 THE MAGIC WISHES. 
 
 When I grow big I want to be 
 
 As fair a charmer as you will see; 
 
 I want to live in a mansion grand, 
 
 With servants in plenty at my command ; 
 
 My tables laden with ruby wines ; 
 
 Luscious grapes from the choicest vines ; 
 
 My house must be furnished with Brussels and lace, 
 
 Mirrors reflecting my beautiful face ; 
 
 Carpets that sink at the lightest touch ; 
 
 Paintings reflecting fair Nature's blush ; 
 
 In short, all things at my command, 
 
 In my stately, luxurious mansion grand. 
 
 And there will be guests with beautiful faces, 
 
 In dusky satins and creamy laces ; 
 
 But of all the maids in my mansion grand ; 
 
 The true knight will kneel at my right hand; 
 
 And he will love as none others love, 
 
 Will kneel at the queenly lady's command, 
 
 And sue for a kiss on the dainty hand ; 
 
 And I will glance in his eyes of blue. 
 
 And murmur sweet, 'I live for you.' 
 
 And the bells will peal against the sky 
 
 When we are wedded, my knight and I." 
 
 The sunshine gleamed through the tall oak-tree, 
 And laughed in low and scornful glee. 
 
 "And I," said Pearl, with the golden hair, 
 
 " I too want to be rich and fair ; 
 
 So that all will kneel at my knee. 
 
 And worship no other so madly as me. 
 
 But I must be famous, haughty, and proud, 
 
 And the world must ring with ray praises loud. 
 
 I must have fame 'mongst women and men, 
 
 Tlie world must say, ' There never has been, 
 
 Nor never, no never will be again, 
 
 Such a famous woman 'mongst women and men 
 
 As Pearl,' the beautiful, stately star. 
 
 Whose praises are ringing near and far ; 
 
 Who thrills the world with her wonderful voice. 
 
 Who can make you grieve or make you rejoice, 
 
THE MAGIC WISIJES. 259 
 
 Make you laugh or make you cry, 
 
 Wish to live or wish to die ; 
 
 Who with one glance of her wonderful eyes 
 
 Can lift you from earth to Paradise.' 
 
 I must have fame ; the world must say, 
 
 ' The people are sounding from day to day 
 
 The fame of Pearl, the musical star, 
 
 Whose praises are ringing near and far.' 
 
 Hearts must ache, and hearts must break, 
 
 Before Pearl her knight will take. 
 
 And then I will have my castle grand, 
 
 And servants in plenty at my command ; 
 
 And guests with all their beautiful faces. 
 
 In dusky satins and creamy laces, 
 
 And I will be Pearl, both wife and star. 
 
 Whose praise has been sung both near and far." 
 
 The sunshine gleamed through the tall oak-tree, 
 And laughed in mocking, scornful glee. 
 
 "And I," said Daisy, with mystical eyes 
 
 As pure and fresh as from Paradise, 
 
 •' I want to be neither rich nor fair. 
 
 With raven tresses nor golden hair ; 
 
 Not famous like you, my stately Pearl, 
 
 Nor rich and grand like my beautiful Nell ; 
 
 But only a modest Daisy bell, 
 
 Content to shine in my cottage home, 
 
 And sing my songs in yon bright dell. 
 
 My mirror shall be the rippling brook. 
 
 As it hides away in some sheltered nook ; 
 
 My carpets shall be of mossy green ; 
 
 My curtains of finest dewy sheen ; 
 
 My mansion shall a cottage be ; 
 
 My knight a lover brave and free, 
 
 Who shall love no other maid but me. 
 
 Our cot shall be in the wildwood free. 
 
 And the brook will sing its song of glee. 
 
 As it wendeth its way through the rocky dell, 
 
 As it ripples its murmur, sweet as a bell, 
 
 And seemeth to whisper ' All is well.' 
 
26o THE MAGIC WISHES. 
 
 My fame shall be prattled by children's lips ; 
 
 And my form will thrill to its finger-tips 
 
 As my lover whispers the song of the brook 
 
 As it hides away in some slieltered nook, 
 
 As it skippeth along in the mossy dell, 
 
 'Sweet little maiden, all is well.' 
 
 No hearts will ache, no hearts will break, 
 
 For I at once my knight will take. 
 
 I siiall be neither rich nor grand ; 
 
 I only ask that the fairy's wand 
 
 May always bless my tiny cot, 
 
 And sorrow and trouble may enter not. 
 
 Not stately as you, my famous Pearl, 
 
 Not rich nor grand, like you, sweet Nell, 
 
 But only a modest Daisy bell." 
 
 The sunshine gleamed through the tall oak-tree, 
 And laughed a musical song of glee. 
 
 Years passed: to beautiful, sunny-haired Nell 
 Fortune had showered her gifts right well ; 
 With her one true knight, and her mansion grand, 
 There was never a fairer one in tiie land. 
 It seemed that the fairy had waved her wand 
 Over the dainty lady's hand. 
 
 But the scornful laugh of the old oak-tree 
 Whispered low, in mocking glee, 
 "Wealth is here as you wished it to be." 
 
 Fame had come to the gracious Pearl ; 
 Hearts were breaking, and hearts were aching, 
 For a glance from the wonderful mystical eyes 
 That would lift you from earth to Paradise; 
 But often Pearl, 'midst the song of glee 
 Would hear the laugh of the old oak-tree. 
 As it whispered in all its mocking glee, 
 " Fame is here as you wished it to be." 
 
 Down in a cottage in the dell 
 Bloomed the gentle Daisy bell ; 
 
DAISY'S TEST. 26 r 
 
 Under the shade of the old oak-tree 
 Played three children in childish glee, — 
 Blue-eyed Daisy, and Nell, and Pearl, 
 With hair in many a wavy curl. 
 And low came the laugh of the old oak-tree 
 "Yours was the best of the wishes three. 
 You have the fame, and the mansion grand, 
 And the fairest jewels in all the land." 
 
 And the old oak laughed in joyful glee : 
 "Love is here as you wished it to be." 
 
 August 31, 1881. 
 
 DAISY'S TEST. 
 
 Daisy Lee was a rich man's child, 
 
 A brown-haired maiden, thoughtless, wild, 
 
 Who lived in a lovely country-seat. 
 
 Where waters rippled and birds sang sweet. 
 
 There she lived, fair Nature's child. 
 
 And wandered in thickest woodlands wild. 
 
 With money in plenty at her command, 
 
 Suitors sought for her dainty hand ; 
 
 But none were loved by the maiden fair, 
 
 Unless it were handsome Warren Adair. 
 
 Eyes as dark as the chestnut brown, 
 
 That could kindly smile or deeply frown. 
 
 Hair as dark as a raven's vving, 
 
 And lips that could many blushes bring 
 
 To the cheek of some sweet maiden fair. 
 
 If only pressed on the golden hair, — 
 
 This was handsome Warren Adair, 
 
 Who was loved by the wealthy maiden fair. 
 
 At last, one night — well, let it be, — • 
 
 He wanted to marry sweet Daisy Lee. 
 
262 DAISY'S TEST. 
 
 The answer was low and sweet and clear : 
 
 " One week hence we will meet right here, 
 
 Stand just here in the moonlight glow, 
 
 And, well — 'twill be either 'Yes' or 'No.' " 
 
 Thus answered capricious Daisy Lee 
 
 To Warren's question : " Which shall it be ?" 
 
 Now, Daisy loved brave Warren Adair 
 
 As well as he loved the maiden fair. 
 
 But with money in plenty at her command 
 
 There were many to sue for her jewelled hand 
 
 Some who sought for the maiden's wealth, 
 
 Some who sought for her own true self. 
 
 " Which of these would Warren be?" 
 
 With a rosy blush, thought Daisy Lee. 
 
 " Is he wedding me for my dusty pelf, 
 
 Or does he wed for my own true self? 
 
 I must know," thinks Daisy Lee, 
 
 " Whether it be my wealth or me. 
 
 A man is noble, and just, and true, 
 
 Who scorneth to wed the worldly pelf, 
 
 But weds a maid for her own true self. 
 
 To-morrow we meet at the brooklet's brim, 
 
 Whether 'Yes' or ' No' depends on him." 
 
 Li the cosey depths of an easy-chair 
 
 By the glow of the fire sat Warren Adair, 
 
 With an open book on a steady knee. 
 
 As handsome a man as you'd wish to see ; 
 
 For honor and truth were written there, 
 
 The soul of honor was Warren Adair. 
 
 Musing there in his easy-chair. 
 
 With a poet's book upon his knee, 
 
 He thought only of Daisy Lee. 
 
 Tliinking of her he wished to wed, 
 
 Whom he loved from her regal golden-brown head 
 
 To the tip of her dainty little shoe 
 
 That peeped from under her dress of blue, 
 
 Wondering if 'twould be "Yes" or " No" 
 
 When he met her in the moonlight glow. 
 
 But as he sat in his easy-chair 
 
DAISY'S TEST. 263 
 
 A note dropped on his chestnut hair, 
 And his merry sister, sweet and fair, 
 Whispered, in playful, earnest glee, 
 " Here is a note from Daisy Lee." 
 
 From the cosey depths of his easy-chair 
 
 Eagerly read Warren Adair 
 
 The words penned by Daisy Lee : 
 
 " Dear Friend : 
 
 In urgent haste I write. 
 
 To tell you that to-morrow night 
 
 I shall be many miles away ; 
 
 So could you call this very day? — 
 
 That is, if nothing more occur. 
 
 From this, my friend, you may infer 
 
 That you may call to-night at eight ; 
 
 And do not be one minute late. 
 
 We are to meet in the moonlight's glow, 
 
 And if I answer a little ' No,' 
 
 'Twill be because that just at eight 
 
 You failed to come ; depend, your fate 
 
 Consists in punctually meeting me. 
 In haste, 
 
 Your true friend, 
 
 Daisy Lee." 
 
 The night was bright with the moonlight's glow. 
 
 And the ponies pranced o'er the frozen snow, 
 
 And flew along with rapid feet ; 
 
 While the bells kept time with music sweet. 
 
 As if ringing in mirthful glee, 
 
 " In the moonlight's glow she waits for me, 
 
 My beautiful, stately Daisy Lee." 
 
 Just in the shade of the grim old mill, 
 
 With Daisy's home just over the hill. 
 
 The horses stopped of their own free will. 
 
 Right in the beams of the moonlight's glow 
 
 A woman's form swayed to and fro ; 
 
 A pause, and Warren, with masterful hold. 
 
 Held the excited liurses bold. 
 
264 
 
 DAISY'S TEST. 
 
 Right in the shade of the grim old mill 
 
 Stood the horses panting, but awe-struck still ; 
 
 Warren Adair, with careful tread, 
 
 Stood by the woman with low-bowed head. 
 
 " My good woman, why stand you here 
 
 In this bitter cold? you will freeze, I fear." 
 
 " Brave young man, I have no home ; 
 
 Unsheltered to-night in the snow I roam ; 
 
 But if I might stay in some cottage warm 
 
 Until after this bitter winter storm. 
 
 And if you will kindly guide me there, 
 
 I will ask no more of your time to spare." 
 
 With kindly hand brave Warren Adair 
 
 Led her into the sleigh ; right there 
 
 He tucked the buflalo-robes so warm 
 
 Around her apparently helpless form, 
 
 Wondering then at the dainty hand. 
 
 On which glistened a plain gold band. 
 
 Rapidly homeward the horses flew, 
 
 While all around the chill winds blew; 
 
 And the bells pealed forth the hour of eight, 
 
 Seeming to murmur, " You are late ; 
 
 You alone have sealed your fate." 
 
 Scarce three miles from the grim old mill, 
 
 With the gleaming lights just over the hill, 
 
 A voice whispered, " Warren Adair!" 
 
 And before him stood a maiden fair, 
 
 With rapt face in the moonlight there, 
 
 Which shone on her glittering golden hair; 
 
 Eyes of tender, wistful blue. 
 
 And cheeks of a dainty crimson hue, 
 
 And lips that were a ruby pair, 
 
 That whispered low, " O Warren Adair ! 
 
 Ask me again which shall it be." 
 
 Thus spoke sweet-voiced Daisy Lee. 
 
 The tatters and rags had dropped adown, 
 Disclosing a dainty silken gown ; 
 The grim old bonnet had fallen low. 
 Showing gold tresses in the moonlight glow ; 
 
DAISY'S TEST. 
 
 265 
 
 And low before him on bended knee 
 
 Knelt lovely, blushing Daisy Lee, 
 
 As she whispered low, in the moonlight glow, 
 
 " Warren, shall I say ' Yes' or ' No' ? 
 
 Can you forgive me for doubting your love?" 
 
 And the moon shone brightly from above. 
 
 " I thought perhaps you were wedding my pelf. 
 
 Instead of my own true, wilful self.* 
 
 And now, when I find your heart is true, 
 
 Perhaps you will say ' I love not you.' 
 
 Warren, here in the moonlit snow. 
 
 Shall it be either 'Yes' or ' No' ?" 
 
 In a flash the golden hair 
 
 Shone on the breast of Warren Adair ; 
 
 Love shone in the eyes of brown, 
 
 And the head with its silken, golden crown 
 
 Was pillowed on Warren's breast, 
 
 Loved none the less for her girlisli test. 
 
 Right in the shade of the busy mill 
 Live Warren and Daisy, — lovers still, — 
 And many a night, by the firelight glare, 
 As the father sits in his easy-chair 
 With his little Daisy upon his knee, 
 And scattered around his children three, 
 With his wife's fair head upon his breast. 
 He tells the tale of " Daisy's Test." 
 The children hold their breath witli fear 
 As they think of the danger that was near, 
 Rut add in glee, " 'Twas mamma dear." 
 Right in the shade of the grim old mill 
 Live Warren and Daisy, — lovers still, — 
 And many a night in the dear home-nest 
 Is told the tale of " Daisy's Test." 
 September, 1881:. 
 
 2.^ 
 
266 THE DESERTED CHURCH. 
 
 THE DESERTED CHURCH. 
 
 There it stands in the valley, 
 
 A structure of moss and stone, 
 While o'er it climbs the dark ivy, 
 
 And the church stands drear and alone. 
 
 The walls are crumbling inward, 
 
 The rooms are old and decayed, 
 While the wind moans shrilly through them. 
 
 And the tower in moss is arrayed. 
 
 The bell is silent and broken, 
 
 Its busy tongue is stilled, 
 While the silence, an ever-grim token. 
 
 Makes the old church lonely and chilled. 
 
 The benches are long since deserted. 
 Where the people, in Sunday array, 
 
 Knelt down on the chilly bare floor. 
 With heads bowed lowly to pray. 
 
 The church-gate swings on its hinges, 
 
 And the wind moans through the closed door, 
 
 And the grim, ghastly moonlight forever 
 Casts weird, lonely beams on the floor. 
 
 The wind clambers up the short stairway. 
 And makes the great bell moan and creak, 
 
 With a sob that makes many a pallor 
 Spread o'er the fair maid's rosy cheek. 
 
 Just there beyond is the church-yard, 
 
 With the young and the grass-grown graves, 
 
 Where on tender, fresh summer nights 
 The moon shines in pitying waves; 
 
THE DESERTED CHURCH. 267 
 
 Showing there a wee mound sunk, and only 
 
 With the tiny inscription-stone, 
 Perhaps bearing the words trembling lonely, 
 
 " Wee Nellie, the light of our home." 
 
 Ah ! long years ago in the church-yard 
 The sweet little maid ceased to roam ; 
 
 And under the tiny tombstone lay 
 
 "Wee Nellie, the light of our home." 
 
 The bell creaks up in the tower ; 
 
 And if it could speak, and not moan, 
 It would tell how, with reverence holy, 
 
 "Wee Nellie, the light of our home," 
 
 Was borne to the church-yard yonder. 
 
 Her feeble heart-beats stilled. 
 Like some tiny golden-haired angel, 
 
 Whose mission on earth was filled. 
 
 Wb.ile the preacher tenderly, slowly. 
 
 Read the sorrowful funeral poem 
 On the baby who lay in the coffin, 
 
 " Wee Nellie, the light of our home." 
 
 Ah ! right over there, in the shadow, 
 
 Is another wee sunken mound : 
 The baby who left the home desolate, 
 
 In heaven with jewels is crowned. 
 
 The wind whistles dreary and sadly. 
 
 The moonbeams creep o'er the wee stone, 
 
 " Little Laurie, the pet of the household," 
 " Wee Nellie, the light of our home." 
 
 Ah ! tall the weeds grow, and rankly. 
 And the rain prattles low on the graves, 
 
 And the wind sweeps over the lonely m.ounds 
 In wild and tumultuous waves. 
 
2 68 THE DESERTED CHURCH. 
 
 All ! lone and deserted the church is, 
 
 But once it was brilliant with light, 
 And the moonbeams shone in through the window, 
 
 Just as they shine in to-night. 
 
 But they shone with a softening glory 
 
 On the head of a kneeling bride; 
 And the winds seemed to chant the old story. 
 
 With her lover kneeling low by her side. 
 
 And the bell rang with tuneful music 
 
 For the two who were wedded that night, 
 
 And the moon bathed the land in her glory. 
 In a brilliant and radiant light. 
 
 Again the moon shone in the window. 
 That time on a bowed, broken head. 
 
 As the young wife and childless mother 
 Knelt low by her sweet holy dead. 
 
 And the bells tolled low, sad music 
 For the feet that had ceased to stray, 
 
 For the baby who, in the weird midnight. 
 Went to a brighter day. 
 
 And the wind moaned low, as if tearful, 
 
 For the little feet ceased to roam ; 
 Again the moon shines on the loving words, 
 
 " Wee Nellie, the light of our home." 
 
 The church is long since deserted ; 
 
 The graveyard is ghostly and lone. 
 But still stay the words, "Wee Nellie," 
 
 Upon the low, moss-sunken stone. 
 
 The church-gate swings on its hinges, 
 
 And the winti moans through the closed door, 
 
 And the grim, ghostly moonlight forever 
 Casts weird, lonely beams on the floor. 
 
 September 21, i88r. 
 
WAITING AT THE GATE. 269 
 
 WAITING AT THE GATE. 
 
 Standing by the garden-gate, 
 
 Little maiden fair, — 
 Eyes of clearest chestnut brown, 
 
 Wealth of golden hair; 
 Little Madie, mamma's pet, 
 Standing by the garden gate, 
 Fearing that papa is late. 
 
 Up the path a tall form comes ; 
 
 Madie laughs in glee. 
 " Here I am, behind the gate ; 
 
 Why, papa, it's me. 
 I really fink you were afraid," 
 
 Madie says, with merry glee. 
 
 Madie lies on papa's arm, 
 
 Golden head upon his breast ; 
 
 Eyes so full of happiness. 
 Little heart at rest. 
 
 Knowing that in all the world 
 Papa loves her best. 
 
 Hiding by the garden-gate, 
 
 Back of sunny flowers ; 
 Eyes so fresh, and bright, and sweet, 
 
 Bathed in dewy showers. 
 Waiting by the garden-gate, 
 Not long will my Madie wait. 
 
 Hark ! a step is coming ; 
 
 Little heart beats fast. 
 Dimpled cheeks are rosy, 
 
 Papa's come at last. 
 Little hands are clasped so tight. 
 Eyes are fresh, and sweet, and bright. 
 
270 
 
 WAITING AT THE GATE. 
 
 " Where, oh, where's my baby, 
 Darling brown-eyed May ? 
 
 Have you seen my baby 
 Anywhere to-day ? 
 
 Oh, I must not lose her. 
 Darling, brown-eyed May. 
 
 " Her hair was like the sunbeams, 
 
 Eyes of purest brown, 
 Rosy lips that sometimes smile. 
 
 And can sometimes frown. 
 Have you seen my baby May 
 Anywhere to-day? 
 
 " What is that that's moving 
 Back of yon tall flower? 
 
 Why, it is my baby May 
 Hiding in the bower. 
 
 Rosy, brown-eyed baby May, 
 
 Who I thought was lost to-day. 
 
 " Come, my precious baby, 
 Stars are shining bright ; 
 
 Time for those wee peepers 
 To be hiding from the light. 
 
 Shut the brown eyes fast for sleep, 
 
 While the stars their vigil keep." 
 
 In her downy crib 
 
 Sleeps the baby May 3 
 Playtime now is over. 
 
 Night creeps on so gray. 
 When the morning beameth bright 
 Brown eyes o[)en to the light. 
 
 In a flower-strewn cradle 
 
 Sleeps my baby May, 
 For the tiny maiden 
 
 Sought a brighter day. 
 Little, darling baby May 
 Will waken at the dawn of day. 
 
WAITING AT THE GATE. 
 
 271 
 
 O'er a tiny casket, 
 
 In a wealth of flowers, — 
 Baby does not need them, — 
 
 She shines in brighter bowers. 
 Papa's baby, little May, 
 Wakened to a brighter day. 
 
 Last words of the winsome child : 
 
 " Papa, May will wait. 
 When you're coming home to-night, 
 
 By the garden-gate. 
 Good-night, papa darling, 
 
 May won't forget to wait." 
 
 Ah ! too sweet a flower 
 
 Was the tiny May, 
 Torn from loving hearts 
 
 For a brighter day ; 
 Sleeping in tlie coffin, 
 
 Golden-haired, wee May, 
 
 Brown eyes now are shut, 
 
 Little feet are still ; 
 No longer do they wander 
 
 Here and there at will : 
 Slumbering with the flowers, 
 
 Baby's form is still. 
 
 Perhaps some time again 
 
 Little May will wait, 
 Watching for her papa. 
 
 By the golden gate : 
 Waiting for the loved one, 
 
 Fearing he is late. 
 
 Last words of the winsome maid : 
 " Papa — May — will — wait — 
 
 When you're — coming — home — to-night- 
 By the — garden — gate. ' ' 
 
 And my baby still will wait 
 By the golden gate. 
 
 Sqjtember, 188 1. 
 
272 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 Oh, 'twas sunset on the water, 
 And 'twas sunset on the land, 
 
 And the richly crimsoned shadows 
 Fell aslant the darkening land. 
 
 Back the sun sloped crimson red, 
 Bathing all in glowing light. 
 
 Shining on the water-bed 
 
 With a wealth of golden light. 
 
 And it shone upon the water, 
 And it shone upon the land ; 
 
 And the clouds, so rich and glorious, 
 Held imprisoned an angel band. 
 
 Here it touched the dancing waves, 
 Tingeing them with crimson glow ; 
 
 While the banks of cream-white clouds 
 Look like red against the snow. 
 
 Ripple, ripple, went the water, 
 Rippling low against the side 
 
 Of the row-boat drifting onward. 
 Drifting slowly with the tide. 
 
 Drifting ! oh, the sense delicious ! 
 
 As we gently onward glide. 
 Drifting with the crimson shadows. 
 
 Drifting slowly with the tide. 
 
 Here the water roars so sullen. 
 
 Looks so black and fierce and deep, 
 
 While the gentle, rippling music 
 Lulls you into quiet sleep. 
 
DRIFTING. 
 
 273 
 
 Yonder are the crimson clouds, 
 Where the shining angels wait ; 
 
 Yonder are the pink-lined portals 
 Just outside the golden gate. 
 
 Oh, 'tis sunset on the water. 
 And 'tis sunset on the land ; 
 
 And the waters and the landscape 
 Are upheld by God's own hand. 
 
 Drifting o'er the rippling waters. 
 While the sunbeam's rosy gleams 
 
 Light upon the darkening waves. 
 With its ever crimson beams. 
 
 Drifting underneath the stars, 
 While the waters ripple, roar. 
 
 And the sunset floods its gleams 
 
 Through the darkening cottage door. 
 
 Oh, the shadows on the water ! 
 
 Oh, the shadows on the land ! 
 And the last departing beams 
 
 Shine in one long, crimson band. 
 
 Drifting ! oh, the sense delicious ! 
 
 Drifting gently with the tide. 
 While the darkening starlit water 
 
 Murmurs low against the side 
 
 Of the row-boat drifting onward ; 
 
 Drifting as we slowly glide ; 
 Drifting as the starlit heavens 
 
 Shine upon the ebbing tide. 
 
 Drifting ! oh, the sense delicious ! 
 
 Drifting 'neath the starlit night; 
 Drifting while the waters ripple. 
 
 And the stars shine clear and bright. 
 
274 
 
 FORGOTTEN. 
 
 Drifting while the silvery moonlight 
 Bathes us as we slowly glide ; 
 
 Drifting 'neath the starlit night; 
 Drifting slowly with the tide. 
 September, 1881. 
 
 FORGOTTEN. 
 
 I. BEFORE THE WEDDING. 
 
 Oh, spare not the money, mother; 
 
 Bring down the old stone jar. 
 And use the well-hoarded treasure; 
 
 I'd rather, I'd rather by far 
 
 That the old jar should be emptied 
 Than Nellie should drop one tear; 
 
 Dear little golden-haired Nellie, 
 
 Whom we've cherished for many a year. 
 
 It seems such a short time ago 
 
 That she lay, a wee ball, in my arms, 
 
 And led me around as she pleased, 
 Spell-bound by her winsome charms. 
 
 And now a month hence, mother, 
 We part with our baby girl, — 
 
 Our dear little brown-eyed Nellie, 
 With ringlets in many a curl. 
 
 Nellie, our own little Nellie, 
 
 She is growing quite out of our sight ; 
 No longer our brown -eyed baby, 
 
 But a maiden, betrothed, to-night. 
 
 Ah ! many is the time, mother. 
 
 We denied ourselves for Nell, 
 And emptied the old brown jug ; 
 
 But she has repaid us well. 
 
FORGOTTEN. 
 
 275 
 
 And now we are going to lose her, 
 
 She is growing quite out of our sight ; 
 
 No longer our brown-eyed baby, 
 
 But the maiden, betrothed, to-night. 
 
 I always thought she was fitted 
 
 For the mansion instead of the cot, 
 
 So bring down the old brown jug, 
 And spare the treasure not. 
 
 Oh, many a time she has stood just there ; 
 
 Just there by the window-pane, 
 Wliile outside the pattering of the leaves 
 
 Was mingling with wind and rain, 
 
 And wished that her lot was lighter, 
 And the times were not so hard. 
 
 Ah, well, she's no longer our baby. 
 There, mother, it is on the card, — 
 
 " Helen and Ernest St. Clare." 
 
 She wrote it but yesterday, 
 She wrote it with eyes that were dancing. 
 
 She penned it merely in play. 
 
 " ' Helen and Ernest St. Clare ;' 
 A pretty name, father, I ween ; 
 
 'Tis sweeter than Helen Adair, 
 A name that is fit for a queen. 
 
 "Ah, papa, no longer your Nellie, 
 Not brown-eyed Nellie Adair, 
 
 But a true court lady, I ween. 
 As the wife of Ernest St. Clare." 
 
 Ah, well, she's no longer our baby. 
 But a maiden, betrothed, to-night. 
 
 She belongs to the rich young planter, 
 Is slipping fast out of our sight. 
 
276 FORGOTTEN. 
 
 Ah, Nellie, my own little Nellie, 
 You will soon be a rich lady now ; 
 
 And where now rest dancing ringlets, 
 Jewels will flash on your brow. 
 
 " I will make her indeed a fine lady; 
 
 You will never regret the day 
 Wlien you ])ledged little Helen to me,"- 
 
 That is what Ernest did say. 
 
 So spare not the money, mother ; 
 
 Bring down the old stone jar, 
 And use the well-hoarded treasure. 
 
 I'd rather, I'd rather by far 
 
 That the old jar should be emptied 
 Than Nellie should drop one tear; 
 
 Our dear little sunny-haired Nellie, 
 We have cherished for many a year. 
 
 Nellie, our own little Nellie, 
 
 She is growing quite out of our sight ; 
 No longer our brown-eyed baby, 
 
 But the maiden, betrothed, to-night. 
 
 II. THE WEDDING. 
 
 'Tis Helen's wedding-night, mother; 
 
 It seems indeed like a dream ; 
 But our Helen is taking the solemn vow 
 
 Which you and I took, I deem. 
 
 Hark ! she is saying it, mother. 
 
 How lovely she looks to-night, 
 With her bridal flowers in her hair 
 
 And her dress of purest white ! 
 
 " I take thee, my Ernest, I take thee, 
 I take thee for weal or for woe, 
 
 For joy or grief, for poverty, wealth. 
 As through life's journey we go." 
 
FORGOTTEN. 
 
 277 
 
 And now 'tis Ernest's turn, mother, 
 And Nellie's hand trembles, I see, 
 
 And her eyes are moist and tearful, 
 Instead of brilliant with glee. 
 
 Ah, well, they are wedded now : 
 
 No longer my Helen Adair, 
 No longer our brown-eyed baby. 
 
 But stately Helen St. Clare. 
 
 My eyes are misty with weeping, 
 
 My heart is aching with fear — 
 She is gone, our brown-eyed Nellie, 
 
 God grant no trouble is near ! 
 
 Ah, well, they are wedded, mother; 
 
 No longer our Nellie Adair, 
 No longer our brown-eyed baby. 
 
 But lovely Helen St. Clare. 
 
 I have caught the last glimpse of the carriage 
 
 That bears our baby away ; 
 And somehow the world seems darker, 
 
 Seems shrouded, so dim and so gray. 
 
 How still and silent the house is ! 
 
 Somehow yjon wtw fancy clock 
 Does not sound so good as the old one. 
 
 With its ever cheerful tick-tock. 
 
 Ah, well, the jar is still full — 
 
 But the house is lonesome and drear — 
 
 I am sure I would it were empty 
 Than to have this aching void here. 
 
 But babies will grow to be maidens. 
 
 And maidens to thrifty wives; 
 Perhaps it were better that Nellie's young life 
 
 Was not mingled with our old lives. 
 24 
 
278 FORGOTTEN. 
 
 But wealth in its worst form is tempting, 
 And Nellie was like all the rest : 
 
 Left the " old folks" to live on alone; 
 But then perhaps it was best. 
 
 And now on the rich plantation, 
 As the wife of Ernest St. Clare, 
 
 She'll be happier far, of course, mother, 
 Than as simply — Helen Adair. 
 
 Ah, well, we have lost our baby ; 
 
 She has grown quite out of our sight ; 
 No longer our brown-eyed Nellie, 
 
 But the daughter and wife to-night. 
 
 III. AFTER THE WEDDING. 
 
 Here, mother, a letter from Helen, 
 
 'Tis the twelfth since her wedding-night ; 
 
 Wait till I draw the chair closer, 
 And we'll read it here by the light. 
 
 " Dear Father and Mother : 
 Ernest is down at the office ; 
 
 I am sitting alone to-night, — 
 Alone by a blazing, roaring fire, 
 
 Sitting alone as I write. 
 
 " Alone, did I say? Nay, father, 
 
 'Twas something I did not mean ; 
 For hidden 'mongst lace in the cradle 
 Lies my tiny, golden-haired queen. 
 
 " 'Tis Helen, a sprite of a baby, 
 
 Just six weeks old to-day : 
 Her blue eyes are fastened tight in sleep, 
 
 Blue as the sky in May. 
 
FORGOTTEN. 
 
 279 
 
 " I had not time to write before 
 
 Of the birth of your grandchild Nell 
 
 (For time flies swiftly now with me), 
 But perhaps it were just as well. 
 
 " 'Twixt parties and Q.d\h> your ' Little Nell' 
 
 Is busy from morn till night ; 
 And now there's another to care for, — 
 
 My baby with eyes so bright. 
 
 "Ah, father, if you could see me now 
 
 As the wife of Ernest St. Clare, 
 You would never know in the mother and wife 
 
 Your brown-eyed Nellie Adair. 
 
 "Ah, no, you would never recognize 
 
 In the bountiful Lady St. Clare 
 The baby who nestled low in your arms. 
 
 Your romping Nellie Adair. 
 
 "As you say, the year is ending. 
 
 And Christmas is drawing nigh; 
 Ah, yes, indeed, it is all too true, 
 
 How the years so rapidly fly ! 
 
 "Well, mother, ere Christmas evening, 
 
 Perhaps ere Christmas morn. 
 We will meet in the rude old cottage. 
 
 In the place where I was born. 
 
 " And I'll bring my little Helen, 
 
 Your little grandchild Nell ; 
 So then till Christmas morning, 
 
 Dear father and mother, farewell." 
 
 Our Helen is coming to see us. 
 
 O mother, my heart beats with fear. 
 That she's changed from our brown-eyed Nellie ; 
 
 But I would that Christmas were here ! 
 
28o FORGOTTEN. 
 
 Helen, my own little Helen, 
 
 Will she really come back to me? 
 
 My darling, winsome, wee Nellie, 
 
 With eyes that are brilliant with glee. 
 
 Ah, well, the clock is still ticking, — 
 
 Is ticking the hours away, 
 And the watching at last will be over, 
 
 'Twill usher in Christmas-day. 
 
 IV. FORGOTTEN. 
 
 How cheery the cot is to-night, mother ! 
 
 There, pile on the sticks of wood. 
 And throw the blaze in the corner 
 
 Where Nellie, the bride, last stood. 
 
 For she's coming back to us, mother, 
 
 Perhaps never again to part. 
 For our days on earth are numbered. 
 
 And Nellie was good at heart. 
 
 I know we are old and feeble. 
 
 And humble, and poor, and plain, 
 
 But our baby would never desert us — 
 Was that altogether the rain ? 
 
 Ah, no, 'twas an old man's fancy ; 
 
 I am strangely nervous to-night, 
 But that's because Helen is coming, 
 
 Our Nellie with eyes so bright. 
 
 How cheery the cot is to-night ! 
 
 How bright the dear old clock ! — 
 The clock which Ernest gave us. 
 
 With its ever lengthy tick-tock. 
 
FORGOTTEN. 28 1 
 
 Ah, well, our Helen is coming. 
 
 Hark ! our darling's here now, — 
 Our dear little brown-eyed Nellie, 
 
 With light on her pure white brow. 
 
 Ah, well, 'tis over, mother, 
 
 Our Helen is ours no more ; 
 It seems years instead of a month 
 
 Since she passed gayly out of yon door 
 
 And her baby, a bright-eyed darling, 
 Another wee brown-eyed Nell, 
 
 God grant that her baby — ah, mother, 
 Your tears are falling as well. 
 
 God grant, since she bears and rears her. 
 That her baby may always be true ; 
 
 That after the trouble's all over, 
 
 She'll not leave her as Nellie did you. 
 
 Forgotten ! a hard word to say. 
 
 But nevertheless it is true. 
 Oh, Helen, my own little daughter, 
 
 I would never have thought it of you ! 
 
 " Helen and Ernest St. Clare ; 
 
 A pretty name, father, I ween ; 
 'Tis sweeter than Helen Adair, 
 
 A name that is fit for a queen." 
 
 " I'll make her indeed a fine lady ; 
 
 You will never regret the day 
 When you pledged little Helen to me,"— 
 
 That is what Ernest did say. 
 
 Oh, beautiful Helen St. Clare, 
 
 A proud, haughty woman, I ween ; 
 
 Not the innocent Helen Adair, 
 
 But as proud and as cold as a queen. 
 24* 
 
282 FORGOTTEN. 
 
 I see you are weeping, mother, 
 
 Weeping for brown -eyed Neil. 
 Perliaps it were better, motlier, 
 
 Or perhaps it were just as well 
 
 That Helen went home without us ; 
 
 That we stayed in the home so dear, — 
 Tile home which our Nellie was born in. 
 
 Where we cherished her many a year. 
 
 Ah, well, I do not blame her; 
 
 For stately Lady St. Clare, 
 The wealthy young planter's wife. 
 
 Is not little Nellie Adair. 
 
 And she showed that she loved us, mother ! 
 
 For her words, though hard, were true: 
 "The luxurious old plantation 
 
 Is not the home for you." 
 
 How still and silent the house is ! 
 
 Somehow yon new fancy clock 
 Does not sound so good as the old one, 
 
 With its ever cheery tick-tock. 
 
 How strangely sad I feel, mother, 
 
 How sadly white you look ! 
 Come, stir the fire to a brighter blaze. 
 
 And read from the dear old book. 
 
 There stands the little stuffed rocker 
 
 Where our baby so often sat ; 
 There is the hood, and the crimson cloak. 
 
 And the tiny worn-out hat. 
 
 There is the dear little foot-stool 
 
 Where you taught her lier little prayer, 
 
 While tiie moon streamed in at the window, 
 And shone on her golden hair. 
 
FORGOTTEN. 
 
 283 
 
 Ah, well, the time has changed indeed. 
 
 How sad the wind moans to-night ! 
 It sounds like a dirge, — " Your Helen 
 
 Has grown quite out of your sight." 
 
 How strangely sad I feel, mother ! 
 
 How sadly white you look ! 
 Come, stir the fire to a brighter blaze, 
 
 And read from the dear old book. 
 
 How strangely prophetic the words are 
 Come, let me feel your warm hand ; 
 
 When we go, we both go, mother, 
 Hand in hand, to the better land. 
 
 God bless you, my own little Helen ! 
 
 How lovely you look to-night ! 
 Why, mother, it seems I am rambling, 
 
 Our Helen's grown out of our sight. 
 ******* 
 
 In the gray of the winter morning, 
 Hand in hand, in the big arm-chair. 
 
 They had passed through the open portal- 
 O cruel Helen St. Clare ! 
 
 Right in through the open window 
 The sun shone on the arm-chair, 
 
 And it fell with a tender radiance 
 
 On the locks of their snow-white hair. 
 
 O Helen, beautiful Helen ! 
 
 O cold, proud Lady St. Clare ! 
 Well may your cheeks blanch whiter, 
 
 As you sit in your easy-chair. 
 
 And read of the tranquil death 
 
 Of Bertha and Leon Adair; 
 Your father and mother forgotten, 
 
 O cruel Lady St. Clare ! 
 
284 ^ HOME PICTURE. 
 
 Forgotten, yes, solely forgotten. 
 
 No monument grand can repair 
 The damage done to two loving hearts, 
 
 O beautiful Helen St. Clare ! 
 
 O cold, proud Lady St. Clare, 
 
 As you stand in the blaze of the light, 
 
 Remember, their brown-eyed Nellie 
 Had grown quite out of their sight. 
 
 No longer their brown-eyed Nellie, 
 Not sweet little Nellie Adair, 
 
 The pride and love of a parent's heart, 
 But cold, proud Helen St. Clare. 
 
 Friday, September 30, i8Si. 
 
 A HOME PICTURE. 
 
 Outside, are the cold and the darkness, 
 Within, are the warmth and the glow ; 
 
 Within, is the glow of the firelight. 
 Without, is the gleam of the snow. 
 
 Within, is a bright home picture. 
 Without, is the chill winter gloom ; 
 
 Without, is the fast-fading twilight. 
 Within, is a warm, cheery room. 
 
 Without, is the increasing bustle 
 Of the wind on his nightly calls; 
 
 Within, is a cheery rustle 
 
 Of dresses in well-lighted halls. 
 
 Within, is a sweet home picture. 
 
 There's grandmother in her low chair, 
 With the open Bible upon her knee. 
 
 And the firelight's gleam on her hair. 
 
A HOME PICTURE. 2 85 
 
 And grandfather sits beside her, 
 
 With his wrinkled hands on liis knee. 
 
 Dear, white-haired old grandfather, 
 A happy old man is he. 
 
 Then comes the youthful father, 
 
 Snug in his cosey arm-chair, 
 With his youngest girl upon his knee. 
 
 Smoothing her golden hair. 
 
 In a farther corner 
 
 Sits the dainty little wife. 
 On her knee a baby boy ; 
 
 Happy, careless life. 
 
 Whispering low, sweet music. 
 
 In her tenderest voice, 
 Soothing him to slumber ; 
 
 Little one, rejoice. 
 
 Sink to sweetest slumber, 
 
 In mother's arms you creep ; 
 When her watching's over. 
 
 Angels guard your sleep. 
 
 Over by the blazing fire 
 
 Roy and Daisy kneel, 
 While from out their rosy lips 
 
 Comes many a laughter peal 
 
 They are roasting chestnuts ; 
 
 To them the fire's a charm. 
 Little Dot looks on with glee. 
 
 Safe in papa's arm. 
 
 And grandmother nods in her easy-chair, 
 Pleased at the childish, innocent play. 
 
 And the firelight kisses her silvery hair, 
 And it seems it were but yesterday 
 
286 A HOME PICTURE. 
 
 Since she knelt by the ruddy blaze 
 And roasted chestnuts in merry play; 
 
 And a sigh comes from grandmother's lips, 
 A happy sigh, " Alackaday !" 
 
 As it comes from the trembling lips, 
 Grandfather seeks the withered hand ; 
 
 And together, with happy thoughts, 
 They glance around at the little band : 
 
 First to the rosy, smiling babe, 
 
 Sleeping sweet on the mother's knee, 
 
 Then to Daisy and little Roy 
 
 Roasting chestnuts in merry glee; 
 
 Then to the tiny corner apart. 
 
 Where the eldest grandcliild's sitting. 
 
 With a look demure on the girlish face. 
 
 As the white fingers sweep through the knitting. 
 
 For grandmother knows, and grandfather too, 
 
 Of whom the maid is thinking; 
 And Time, with his wonderful magic art, 
 
 The same to their young days is linking. 
 
 For grandmother knows, and grandfather too, 
 That the white fingers, rapidly flitting, 
 
 Are weaving the old, old song again. 
 
 Through the delicate meshes of knitting ; 
 
 That the work which seems so small and plain 
 Becomes a rose-colored, fairy dream, 
 
 As she sits and thinks of the absent one 
 
 In the pleasant glow of the firelight's gleam. 
 
 For grandmother knows, and grandfather too. 
 That Bertha, though a youthful maid. 
 
 Has given her girlish heart away, — 
 
 On the shrine of a deeper love 'tis laid. 
 
A HOME PICTURE. 287 
 
 And grandfather knows, and grandmother too, 
 
 As they glance from the youngest born to the old,- 
 
 From the crowing babe to the maiden shy, 
 
 From the hair of brown to the hair of gold, — 
 
 'Tis only their own story told again, 
 
 A brighter web and a gayer strain. 
 If Bertha live she will grow old too. 
 
 As sure as the heavy cloud fosters rain. 
 
 Grandmother smiles, and grandfather too. 
 
 As they see the story written again ; 
 The shade and the light, the sad and the bright. 
 
 The sheaves of wheat and the golden grain. 
 
 And mother dreams of her boy's career. 
 And father dreams of his golden head ; 
 
 While Bertha dreams of her one true love. 
 Painting the future in gleams of red. 
 
 And thus the hours glide swiftly away. 
 Hours fraught with a radiance bright ; 
 
 Grandfather, grandmother, children, and sire, 
 Bathed in tlie rays of a blessed home-light. 
 
 Bertha knitting in colors bright. 
 Weaving webs in her fresh young life, 
 Little dreams, as lightly she knits. 
 How perfect her life to her gay web fits. 
 
 The curtain is drawn, the fire burns bright, 
 
 And inside, all is warmth and glow ; 
 Inside, all is warmth and light ; 
 
 Outside, all is wind and snow. 
 
 Outside, are the cold and the darkness. 
 Within, are the warmth and the glow; 
 
 Within, is the glow of the firelight. 
 Without, is the gleam of the snow. 
 
 October 24, 1881. 
 
WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 (Written after her return from Cape May.) 
 
 I WANDERED down to the sea one day, 
 
 The billows were lightly tinged with gray ; 
 
 And as I watched them roar and break, 
 
 I murmured, *' What do the wild waves say ?" 
 
 The breakers dashed, and boomed, and roared. 
 The sun shone in one sheet of gold ; 
 
 It bathed the land in a golden light. 
 
 And it smiled on the angry breakers bold. 
 
 I knelt on a rock of harsh cold stone, — 
 A rock that was chill, and cold, and gray, — 
 
 And as the waves in the sunlight shone, 
 
 I murmured, " What do the wild waves say?" 
 
 The sunbeams lit on the dark-gray land, 
 
 And they played the breakers lightly straying. 
 
 And as they met in one golden band 
 
 I wondered, " What are the wild waves saying?" 
 
 The breakers dashed with a boom and roar, 
 Looking so grand in their glory of red; 
 
 And as I knelt by the cold sea-shore 
 This is what the wild waves said : 
 
 They spoke of a cottage cheery and warm, 
 
 Of a son in sailor attire arrayed ; 
 Of a mother, old, and feeble, and sad, 
 
 Owning that beauty which never will fade; 
 
WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 289 
 
 Of a boat on the billows, lightly dancing, 
 
 Carrying away both lover and son ; 
 Of a brave, true man, and a braver heart, 
 
 Whose weary voyage had just begun. 
 
 They spoke of two aching hearts loving and weary 
 Of a prayerful mother, a brown-eyed girl ; 
 
 One with the silvery hair of age. 
 The other with hair in many a curl. 
 
 None less dear was the mother than maid ; 
 
 Both hearts sailed with the stately ship. 
 Both were full of trust as a bird, 
 
 That turns its wing for an ocean dip. 
 
 And the waves sweep on with a roar and boom, 
 And they quickly murmur, " Pansy, good-by. 
 
 We will meet again, my winsome maid, 
 If not on earth, beyond the sky." 
 
 The breakers dashed, and boomed, and roared ; 
 
 They crept on the water lightly straying ; 
 And as I knelt on the cold gray sand. 
 
 This is what the waves were saying. 
 
 ** But tell me more," I sadly cried ; 
 
 " Back, oh, breakers, back, retreat ; 
 Come not nearer, — do you hear me? 
 
 Come not nearer to my feet. 
 
 "Tell me of my bonny lover. 
 
 Firmest friend or sternest foe ; 
 Tell me, has he reached the haven? 
 
 Am I friendless here below? 
 
 " Tell me, has the brave ship conquered ? 
 
 Is my lover safe as yet ? 
 All you've told me knew I ever ; 
 
 And the waters moan and fret. 
 N t 25 
 
290 
 
 WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 "Tell ine, cruel, cruel ocean, 
 Is the brave ship's mission o'er ? 
 
 Have you stole my bonny lover ? 
 Shall I never see him more ?" 
 
 Still the breakers dashed and roared. 
 And the sun gleamed rosy red ; 
 
 As I clasped the golden sand. 
 
 This is what tlie wild waves said : 
 
 " Hush your weeping, gentle maiden ; 
 
 Braver ship ne'er sailed before. 
 Than the one your lover sailed in. 
 
 That away your lover bore. 
 
 " It has stormed upon the ocean ; 
 
 It has stormed upon the land ; 
 And the tempest, rolling wildly, 
 
 With grim death walked hand in hand. 
 
 " But the ship sails bravely onward 
 
 Till it reach a distant shore. 
 Surely such strange, misty beauty 
 
 Ne'er was dreamed before. 
 
 " Handsome men and lovely ladies, 
 Sternest men of greatest lore ; 
 
 Surely ne'er your laddie dreamed 
 
 There were such on England's shore : 
 
 " Handsome men and lovely ladies. 
 Beauty ne'er dreamed of before. 
 
 Take care, little brown-eyed Pansy, 
 Kneeling on the wild sea-sliore. 
 
 "There are foes far worse than breakers. 
 There are dangers worse than shoals ; 
 
 Better that the ocean roll on. 
 Better that it alwavs rolls 
 
WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 291 
 
 Between you and stately England ; 
 
 Between you and men of lore ; 
 For your laddie never dreamed of 
 
 The fair maids on England's sliore. 
 
 " But the ship sails bravely onward, 
 Passes through fair England's door, 
 
 Till it reach a lovely country 
 Such ne'er dreamed before. 
 
 " Handsome men and lovely ladies, 
 Sternest men of greatest lore ; 
 
 Surely ne'er your laddie dreamed 
 There were such on England's shore. 
 
 " Grand old castles, richly laden ; 
 
 Maids as fair as your bright dream. 
 Take care, trusting, dark-eyed Pansy, 
 
 Love is sometimes false, I deem. 
 
 " Handsome men and lovely ladies, 
 Sternest men of greatest lore ; 
 
 Surely ne'er your laddie dreamed 
 
 There were such on England's shore." 
 
 This is what the wild waves say. 
 
 Back, proud ocean ! now retreat ; 
 Hush your tale of cruel wisdom, 
 
 Come not nearer to my feet. 
 
 Handsome men and lovely ladies. 
 Sternest men of greatest lore ; 
 
 Surely now, my laddie did know 
 
 There were such on England's shore. 
 
 And I'll keep the little token 
 Which he gave to me that day, 
 
 When he sailed from those who loved him, 
 Sailed so far, so far away. 
 
292 
 
 WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 "Pansy darling," low he whispered, 
 
 " Often on a summer day, 
 When I'm off in grand old England, 
 
 Listen what the wild waves say. 
 
 "They will whisper, Pansy darling, 
 
 Of the lover far away, 
 Thinking of you, of you only, 
 
 As in England he does stray. 
 
 " When in England's church I worship, 
 My first prayer will be for you ; 
 
 For my darling, brown-eyed Pansy, 
 Who I know is ever true." 
 
 No, he gave me not a token, 
 
 Only that last thrilling kiss. 
 Oh ! you angry, cruel ocean, 
 
 'Twas to me a touch of bliss. 
 
 Back ! you cruel, foaming ocean. 
 
 " On a Sunday when I i^ray. 
 Go down to the sea-shore. Pansy ; 
 
 Listen what the wild waves say." 
 
 And you speak of lovely ladies, 
 Sternest men of greatest lore, 
 
 Saying ne'er my laddie dreamed 
 
 There were such on England's shore. 
 
 So go back, you cruel ocean, — 
 Back ! I bid you now retreat ; 
 
 Hush your tale of jealous sorrow. 
 Come not nearer to my feet. 
 
 II. 
 
 Back ! you cruel, foaming ocean, — 
 
 Back ! I bid you now retreat. 
 Oh ! my heart is aching, breaking ', 
 
 h ! my heart is acnnig, DreaKi 
 Come not nearer to my feet. 
 
WHAT riJE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 293 
 
 He was false, my bonny lover, 
 And the tale you told was true. 
 
 England's ladies, fair and lovely, 
 With their eyes of deepest blue. 
 
 Won him, won my bonny lover; 
 
 Such I never thought before. 
 Surely ne'er my laddie dreamed 
 
 There were such on England's shore. 
 
 Yes, she won him. Lady Bertha, — 
 Stately, cold, and proud is she, — 
 
 -Such a woman ne'er was fitted 
 For a bonny lad like he. 
 
 A true match, a sweet court lady, 
 Eyes of heaven's truest blue ; 
 
 Hair of burnished, golden sunbeams; 
 Frail as fading morning dew. 
 
 God forgive me ! yet I hate her. 
 
 Am I growing mad to-day? 
 Yes, my heart is aching, breaking, 
 
 Grieved at what the wild waves say. 
 
 Pansy! Pansy! yes, I'm Pansy; 
 
 Little Pansy with brown hair ; 
 Eyes of deeper brown and sweeter. 
 
 Beauty ? yes, an equal share. 
 
 Am I really little Pansy, 
 
 Innocent, and sweet, and fair? 
 
 Ah, no ; my heart's cold and icy. 
 Cold and icy, proud and bare. 
 
 Cruel ocean, why not take her. 
 
 Bear her far and far away. 
 As you did my bonny lover 
 
 On that fresh midsummer day ? 
 
 25* 
 
294 
 
 WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 \{ 'twere she instead of sea-weed 
 Clinging in the damp, cold sand, 
 
 Ne'er a happier, happier maiden 
 Would there live upon the land. 
 
 Am I raving? no, I think not ; 
 
 Only angry at his bride ; 
 Angry she should share his home, 
 
 Linger softly by his side. 
 
 Last night when my heart was aching 
 
 Out into the dark I went. 
 Throbbing, bursting, were my temples. 
 
 To the ocean was I bent. 
 
 As I passed the lovely mansion, — 
 His and mine it might have been, — 
 
 They were sitting there together. 
 And my heart was full of sin. 
 
 Low the gas-light streamed, and richly. 
 On her dainty, golden head, 
 
 And her eyes were like the morning, 
 And her cheeks were crimson red. 
 
 For he kissed her, and I saw him, — 
 Kissed her as he once did me ; 
 
 And I rushed, I knew not whither. 
 Downward, downward to the sea. 
 
 \\\ my mind was deadly hatred, 
 In my heart was deadly pain ; 
 
 And tlie moon shone calmly, kindly, 
 Like fresh dew-drops after rain. 
 
 And it came to me so freshly. 
 That night long, long years ago, 
 
 When he met me by the ocean, 
 Whispered, " Oh. I love you so ! 
 
WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAW. 
 
 295 
 
 "Love you, brown-eyed little Pansy; 
 
 Promise you will be my bride." 
 And I answered, — how, I know not, — 
 
 Nestled softly to his side. 
 
 Just as she did to-night. 
 
 Did I long, long years ago, — 
 
 For it seems that, unto me. 
 Though I know it is not so. 
 
 And the moon shone softly, kindly, 
 As it shone that summer night. 
 
 When it beamed on two sweet faces 
 With a tender, radiant light. 
 
 Happy, innocent, pure maiden, 
 Standing by my lover's side. 
 Thinking, dreaming of the future 
 When I would be Ernest's bride. 
 
 And she calls him husband now. 
 And she is his blue-eyed bride. 
 
 Oh, if I had but died then. 
 Standing by the ocean-side ! 
 
 Lady Bertha and Lord Ernest ! 
 
 Gracious Father ! is it meet 
 That while my heart aches and breaks 
 
 Hers should beat with rapture sweet? 
 
 How I loved him ! ay, I loved him ! 
 
 And I know he once loved me ; 
 Dearly, dearly did he love me 
 
 That night down beside the sea. 
 
 And just one little week ago 
 
 We met again ; yes, face to face, 
 
 And he told me how he loved her, 
 Lady Bertha dressed in lace. 
 
296 
 
 ^HAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 Talked of friendship ! ay, of friendship, 
 When he knew I loved him more 
 
 On that night my heart rebelled 
 Than I ever did before. 
 
 Asked me to forgive, forgive him, 
 
 And to love her for his sake. 
 I was cahn and cold as marble, 
 
 Though I thought my heart would break. 
 
 To love her and be her friend, — 
 
 Lady Bertha: yes, his wife; 
 And I curled my lips in scorn. 
 
 Told him as he loved his life 
 
 Ne'er to speak to me again ; - 
 
 Strangers henceforth would we be, 
 
 And forever we were parted, 
 Down beside the moonlit sea. 
 
 Gracious Father, how I loved him ! 
 
 What was that in his brown eyes 
 Made my heart beat faster, quicker, 
 
 Made it throb with glad surprise? 
 
 Could it be he did not love her? 
 
 Married her for wealth and power? 
 Married her, a gentle maiden, — 
 
 Then I'd scorn him from this hour. 
 
 Back, proud ocean ! back, I tell you ! 
 
 Come not nearer, now retreat ; 
 Hush your cruel, bitter murmur, 
 
 Come not nearer to my feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Dearest Pansy : 
 
 Since you left the world-wide sea-shore. 
 
 Sought the busy city street, 
 I've heard little of you, Pansy, 
 Little of you, darling sweet. 
 
WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 297 
 
 " Hark ! the bells are tolling, tolling, 
 
 Sadly, sadly do they toll, 
 For another form is stiffened, 
 
 Dead and gone another soul. 
 
 " Perhaps you've heard the name, dear Pansy : 
 
 Lady Bertha Lee St. Clare. 
 If there ever lived an angel 
 
 She was one, so sweet and fair. 
 
 "Gentle, loving, winsome, lovely, 
 All that love and art could spare, 
 
 Each combined to make a nature • 
 Innocent, and pure, and fair. 
 
 " Handsome, rich, and good Sir Ernest : 
 But they say he thought much more 
 
 Of a little brown-eyed maiden 
 Living by the wild sea-shore. 
 
 " But perhaps 'twas only fancy. 
 
 For he was both brave and kind, 
 Good and true, and kingly, noble, 
 
 All of these combined. 
 
 " But she's dead. The Lady Bertha 
 
 Lies in fairest state and grand ; 
 All the world seems deep in mourning 
 
 For the lady of the land. 
 
 "And she leaves a little daughter, — 
 
 Pansy, so I think they said ; 
 Three years old, a brown-eyed maiden, 
 
 With a sunny, gold-brown head. 
 
 " And they say he loves her dearly, 
 
 All because the little name 
 Was hers whom he worshipped clearly; 
 
 Yours and hers are just the same. 
 
298 WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 "Pansy, fresh and sweet and pretty, 
 'Tis a name we seldom hear. 
 
 Fresh and sweet, and pure, and lovely, 
 All of these are you, 7tia chere. 
 
 " By the by, the good Sir Ernest, 
 And his fairy little daughter 
 
 Sail next week for grand old England, 
 Are about to cross the water. 
 
 " 'Twas the Lady Bertha's birthplace, 
 And they sail next week, I hear ; 
 
 He'll not live it over, think I, 
 Never will return, I fear. 
 
 " Well, well. Pansy, ere I close 
 Let me state you why I write ; 
 
 Ere you sink to misty nothing 
 Let me see your face so bright. 
 
 " We were friends before I married. 
 
 Married, — well, oh, let that be; 
 All I ask, next week, refuse not. 
 Let me see you by the sea. 
 So adieu, ma belle. 
 Yours in friendship, 
 
 " Madcap Nell." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, my dearest, dearest ocean. 
 Once, once more your face I see. 
 
 We're alike, oh, stormy ocean. 
 Stormy both are you and me. 
 
 Nell is sleeping. Though 'twas midnight, 
 Yet I could not well withstand 
 
 To steal softly down and see you, — 
 My old ocean, stormy, grand. 
 
WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 299 
 
 Ah ! too well do I remember 
 When I last did wildly kneel 
 
 On the damp and wild sea-shore, 
 Angry, bitter did I feel. 
 
 Now I kneel upon the sand, 
 
 Clasp my hands as wont to pray, 
 
 While I listen to your raving, 
 Listen what the wild waves say. 
 
 Ah ! they speak of tempest stilled, 
 Speak of peace once more within ; 
 
 Speak of cleansing, pure soul-cleansing. 
 Freedom from that bitter sin 
 
 Of hatred. Yes, a grave lies now between, 
 A small grave with daisies sown ; 
 
 A small grave, a sacred spot. 
 Where the lilies are half blown. 
 
 Hark to what the wild waves say : 
 Yes, they speak of hatred stilled • 
 
 Tell how first a grave was made 
 
 Before two hearts with love were filled. 
 
 Gentle, gentle Lady Bertha, 
 
 Left she queenly England's land, 
 
 Left the courts of noble ladies. 
 To take Sir Ernest by the hand. 
 
 Left all England's stately mansions, 
 
 Saw the waters roll between 
 All that she held fairest, dearest. 
 
 Nobles, ladies, and her Queen. 
 
 Yonder in the sunny church-yard 
 
 Lies the dainty woman fair; 
 Closed the blue eyes now forever. 
 
 Smooth the silken }j;olden hair. 
 
300 
 
 WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 Pansies and forget-me-nots 
 
 Crown the silent, lovely spot ; 
 Sacred, hallowed, is the graveyard, 
 
 Sorrow, trouble, enter not. 
 
 " Ernest, you love Pansy Westvvood ; 
 
 Love her dearly, — yes, far more 
 Than the maid you met in London, 
 
 Wedded on fair England's shore. 
 
 " So, when cold and still my form is, 
 
 When my baby's motherless, 
 Take and wed your wildvvood Pansy, 
 
 And may England's God you bless. 
 
 "Take and wed your brown-eyed first love, 
 
 Place this ring upon her hand ; 
 'Tis the one you gave me, Ernest, 
 
 When we wed in England's land. 
 
 " When you wed your Pansy Westwood, 
 When you make her your fair bride. 
 
 Take my child and yours, my Ernest, 
 Over to fair England's side. 
 
 "Though she's yours and Pansy Westwood's, 
 She is mine and yours, you know ; 
 
 Tell her of the one who loved her 
 When I'm cold beneath the snow. 
 
 "When I'm dead and gone, my Ernest, 
 
 Take and wed your Pansy fair; 
 She who has the lips of crimson 
 
 And the waving, raven hair. 
 
 " Take and wed your wildvvood Pansy ; 
 
 You'll be happier, yes, far more. 
 With her than your timid Bertha, 
 
 Her you wed on England's shore. 
 
WHAT THE WILD WAVES SAID. 
 
 301 
 
 "Ask her to be kind to Pansy, 
 Our wee Pansy kneeling there ; 
 
 Her who has her mother's features 
 And her father's waving hair. 
 
 " Ask her to be kind to Pansy, 
 When my baby's motherless ; 
 
 Then go wed your Pansy West wood. 
 And may England's God you bless." 
 
 Back ! oh, back, reproachful ocean ! 
 
 Come not nearer to my feet. 
 Hush your cruel, bitter murmurs, 
 
 Nevermore those words repeat. 
 
 For I'll love the little Pansy, 
 
 Cherish hers and Ernest's child ; 
 
 Cherish golden-haired, wee Pansy, 
 Child of her the undefiled. 
 
 For if angel lived on earth 
 
 'Twas my Ernest's English bride. 
 
 'Twas for him she left her birthplace; 
 'Twas for love of him she died. 
 
 Back ! oh, back, relentless ocean ! 
 
 Gracious Father, is it meet 
 That while her heart's stilled forever 
 
 Mine should swell with rapture sweet ? 
 
 Farewell, oh, my stormy ocean, 
 Doubly blessed indeed am I, 
 
 With my handsome, bonny husband, 
 Crowned also with that sweet tie 
 
 Of fair motherhood, and holy. 
 
 Yes, I know a grave lies there, 
 And a woman sleeps within, — 
 
 England's maiden, sweet and fiiir. 
 26 
 
302 
 
 A KII TEN'S TROUBLES. 
 
 Now, indeed, we're almost parted ; 
 
 When I sail for England gay, 
 I will come down to the sea-shore, 
 
 Listen what the wild waves say. 
 
 Ah ! the ripples gently murmur, 
 
 " Blessings rest on your bright head ! 
 
 Bless you, happy wife and mother !" 
 That is what the wild waves said. 
 
 Now the sun is rising, rising. 
 And it shines in gleams of red, 
 
 And the tale is told and ended. 
 That is what the wild waves said. 
 
 Hallow-eve, 1881. 
 
 A KITTEN'S TROUBLES. 
 
 " Only a kitten !" 
 
 Yes, that's what they say ; 
 " Good for naught 
 
 But to sleep and play." 
 
 One minute I'm fondled, 
 
 Loved, and caressed, 
 And I think 
 
 " Was there ever a kitten so blessed?" 
 
 Next minute I'm scolded: 
 
 " Such an ungrateful kit !" 
 Now, dear little folks, 
 
 I don't like it one bit. 
 
 One day I was happy ; 
 
 I clearly remember. 
 They said it was " Christmas," 
 
 / say 'twas December. 
 
A KITTEN'S TROUBLES. 
 
 303 
 
 'Twas my birthday, — 
 
 My first one, I think ; 
 I opened my eyes 
 
 With a purr and a blink 
 
 To see such a sight 
 
 As ne'er kit saw before; 
 
 'Twas a Christmas-tree, 
 Reaching from ceiling to floor. 
 
 The room was full, 
 
 And children were sittin', — 
 Ah, well, such a sight 
 
 For an embarrassed kitten ! 
 
 How I would have got through 
 
 I never can tell, 
 If it had not been 
 
 For a child they called Belle. 
 
 But even then 
 
 My troubles begun ; 
 Such a torment 
 
 There never was under the sun 
 
 As that horrid fellow 
 
 Whom they call Hal, 
 1 don't like him one bit. 
 
 Nor I never shall. 
 
 He tied my tail 
 
 To a chair one day, 
 As down on the rug 
 
 I peacefully lay. 
 
 The more I squirmed 
 
 The more he danced ; 
 And what I should have done 
 
 If Belle had not chancetl 
 
304 
 
 A KITTEN'S TROUBLES 
 
 To pass the door, and heard 
 
 My piteous wail, 
 I never could tell you ; 
 
 She untied my bruised tail, 
 
 And held me in 
 
 Her dimpled arms, 
 And soothed me 
 
 With her winsome charms. 
 
 " Only a kitten !" 
 
 That's what they say ; 
 " Good for naught 
 
 But to sleep and play." 
 
 I remember 
 
 One snowy day. 
 When I was full 
 
 Of sport and play, 
 
 I chanced to wander up the stair, 
 
 And in the attic door; 
 When lo, a glittering thing I spied 
 
 Upon the attic floor. 
 
 I gayly played and danced, 
 And spent a charming day ; 
 
 When lo, came Belle's inquiring voice, 
 " Where is my kitty, pray?" 
 
 I heard her coming up the stairs, 
 
 And in the attic door; 
 " Where is my darling kitty kin ?" 
 
 She spied me on the floor. 
 
 She caught me in her arms. 
 
 Then cried, " O kitty kin ! 
 You darling, blessed kitten, 
 
 You've found Aunt Kate's lost pin ; 
 
A KITTEN'S TROUBLES. 
 
 305 
 
 " The one she lost so long ago, 
 And thought she'd never find ; 
 
 Oh, I'm the happiest girl alive, 
 My darling kitty kind !" 
 
 I've heard them talk so long ago 
 
 Of a red-letter day ; 
 Now, surely that was one to me. 
 
 Now, don't you think so, pray? 
 
 That day I was fondled, 
 
 Loved, and caressed, 
 And I thought, " Was there ever 
 
 A kitten so blessed?" 
 
 For even Hal left off 
 
 That horrid, hateful lay, 
 Of singing all around the house, 
 
 " What are kittens good for, pray?" 
 
 Then Belle was, oh, so happy ! 
 
 And I was happy, too ; 
 But ah ! before the day was o'er 
 
 My purr was changed to mew. 
 
 I down the cellar wandered. 
 And through the cellar door ; 
 
 And something white I spied 
 Upon the cellar floor. 
 
 It was a pan of cream ; 
 
 I never stopped to think, 
 But knelt I down beside the pan. 
 
 And began to purr and blink. 
 
 Such a tempting sight 
 
 Surely kit ne'er saw before ; 
 Such a pan of snowy cream 
 
 Upon the cellar floor. 
 ! 26* 
 
3o6 A KITTEN'S TROUBLES. 
 
 I don't exactly know 
 
 Just what happened next ; 
 But to all such tempted kittens 
 
 I write this little text : 
 
 " O kittens, if you wander 
 Down through the cellar door, 
 
 Oh, never drink the cream you find 
 Upon the cellar floor." 
 
 I was sick for one long week, — 
 
 Sick almost unto death ; 
 And all the household frowned on me, 
 
 Down unto baby Beth. 
 
 When I again grew better, 
 
 Hal soon began that lay ; 
 He sung it in my dizzy ears: 
 
 "What are kittens good for, pray?" 
 
 I'll tell you one more tale. 
 
 And that will end my lay; 
 The scene is laid in church. 
 
 And on a winter day. 
 
 Oh, cook was cross one night, — 
 
 'Twas Saturday, I think ; 
 She spurned me with her foot, 
 
 That made me mew and blink. 
 
 And Belle had gone to sleep, 
 With one hand on her chin ; 
 
 And I was left alone, 
 A wretched kitty kin, 
 
 I had to leave the kitchen. 
 Then sought Hal's easy-chair ; 
 
 But soon as I was cosey, 
 I, kitty, was not there. 
 
A KITTEN'S TROUBLES. 
 
 307 
 
 At last I, almost frantic, 
 Crept up the parlor stairs, 
 
 To see if I could find 
 
 Any easy-cushioned chairs. 
 
 What it was 1 fell asleep in 
 
 I did not care to know, 
 But when I fully wakened 
 
 I was not at home, and lo, 
 
 I found I wjis at church, 
 
 In Belle's best seal-skin coat ; 
 
 And visions of a pleasant sleep 
 Through my mind began to float. 
 
 But I was rudely wakened. 
 For Belle began to scream. 
 
 And interrupt the preacher, — 
 'Twas silly now, I deem, — 
 
 While I, indignant kitten. 
 
 Sprang angrily away. 
 Indulging in the pleasant thought 
 
 I'd come another day. 
 
 And there was great commotion, — 
 Such a noise I never heard ; 
 
 I was the hero of the hour, 
 For they never heard a word 
 
 Of what the preacher said ; 
 
 All eyes were fixed on me ; 
 Now, why I should be stared at 
 
 I really cannot see. 
 
 At last I 'scaped their scrutiny. 
 And along the rich church floor 
 
 I sped with hasty footsteps, 
 
 And vanished through the door. 
 
3o8 ^^A T BESSIE SA W IN THE COALS. 
 
 Ah, well, I really am abused ! 
 
 If others to church can go. 
 Why should not a sinful kitten ? 
 
 For now they call me so. 
 
 I lost my pretty ribbon, 
 
 I lost my little bell ; 
 Why I'm so unfortunate 
 
 I really cannot tell. 
 
 I really cannot tell you 
 
 What sorrow happened next ; 
 
 But to all unlucky kittens 
 I write this little text : 
 
 " O kittens, do be peaceful ; 
 
 We're a sinful set, I know. 
 But kittens should be kittens, 
 
 And to church they cannot go." 
 
 I've told you my worst troubles, 
 
 And I can truly say 
 That kits were only made 
 
 To sleep, to eat, to play. 
 
 So now adieu, my children ; 
 
 I'm fondled, loved, caressed, 
 And there never was another 
 
 Kitten that has been so blessed. 
 
 November, 1881. 
 
 WHAT BESSIE SAW IN THE COALS. 
 
 The air was bitterly cold without. 
 
 And the snow was falling in piles of white. 
 
 'Twas a bleak, chilly night in December, 
 And 'twas also Christmas night. 
 
WHAT BESSIE SAW IN THE COALS. 
 
 309 
 
 Bessie Gray had been loaded with presents, 
 
 A beautiful Christmas-tree, 
 Dolls, coaches, and story-books ; 
 
 She was happy, as well she might be. 
 
 The curtains were closely lowered, 
 
 The chair to the fire was rolled, 
 The gas was dimly burning, 
 
 And without were the wind anti cold. 
 
 Bessie lay like a ball on the sofa, 
 
 A merry, wee maid of eight, 
 With eyes as blue as the summer sky 
 
 And a curly golden pate. 
 
 Surely no little girl was so happy 
 
 As Bessie that Christmas night. 
 As she lay curled up on the sofa 
 
 And gazed in the coals so bright. 
 
 She'd been reading a Christmas story. 
 In a book bound in blue and gold 
 
 (Her papa had given it to her), 
 Of maidens and knights so bold. 
 
 Of fairies, and goblins, and hobgoblins, 
 Of witches, all withered and old ; 
 
 Of dear little red-lipped children, 
 With blue eyes and hair of gold. 
 
 The book held a strange fascination 
 
 For a sensitive child like Bess ; 
 No matter how many weird stories. 
 
 She liked it none the less. 
 
 So as Bessie lay on the sofa 
 
 And gazed with bright eyes in the grate, — 
 Now, will you believe it, dear children ? 
 
 'Tis almost too odd to relate, — 
 
3IO 
 
 WHA T BESSIE SA W IN THE COALS. 
 
 Right there 'mongst the coals of crimson 
 Rose a castle all stately and grand, 
 
 With ever so many odd windows, 
 
 By the leaves of the tall trees fanned. 
 
 There were queer little moss-eaten turrets, 
 And high up a queer little tower, 
 
 Over which hung topmost of all 
 A very queer little flower. 
 
 'Twas neither a blossom nor lily; 
 
 'Twas neither a rose white nor red ; 
 But the queer little flower hung over the tower, 
 
 As if all its life were quite dead. 
 
 I do not think 'twas a pansy, 
 
 Or even a very wild rose, 
 But the top was as red as red could be. 
 
 Like some poor little frost-bitten nose. 
 
 Now, while Bessie gazed in amazement. 
 Right in through the moss-covered gate 
 
 Came the queerest of queer little women, 
 Hobbling along sure as fate, 
 
 Right toward the stately castle. 
 
 Right toward the steps of the tower 
 
 That led to the poor little blossom. 
 That led to that queer little flower. 
 
 Her gown was both short and scanty, 
 
 Her form was exceedingly small. 
 And her hat was as high as a stove-pipe ; 
 
 Now, that was the queerest of all. 
 
 She hobbled up the short stairway. 
 And in through a queer little door. 
 
 Where the queer little flower drooped sadly, — 
 Drooped down to the tower floor. 
 
WHAT BESSIE SAW IN THE COALS. 
 
 311 
 
 One touch of her withered finger, 
 And the flower turned into a maid ; 
 
 The most lovely of all lovely maidens, 
 In a fairy-like dress arrayed. 
 
 Her hair was like woven sunbeams, 
 
 Her eyes were of violet blue ; 
 And she was as fair as a princess. 
 
 From her sunny head to her shoe. 
 
 Just then, — now was it not too bad ? — 
 
 I really think 'twas the grate ; 
 But a coal dropping suddenly downward. 
 
 Made the lover one minute too late. 
 
 For that queerest of queer little women 
 Changed the maiden back to a flower ; 
 
 As the lover rode on toward the castle, 
 There she stood leaning over the tower. 
 
 And the queerest of queer little witches 
 Chuckled gladly, " One minute too late;" 
 
 Only one, and her brave little lover 
 
 Would have entered the old broken gate. 
 
 And there hung the queer little blossom. 
 Drooping sadly over the tower ; 
 
 Poor little deluded maiden. 
 
 Why must she change into a flower? 
 
 And then Bessie read the queer story 
 
 Hiding away in the grate : 
 The flower was a beautiful maiden, 
 
 Doomed there by a hard, cruel fate. 
 
 And that queerest of queer little women 
 Was a witch who lived up in the tower, 
 
 Who had changed the bright little maiden 
 Into that queer little flower ; 
 
312 
 
 WHAT BESSIE SAW IN THE COALS. 
 
 And the spell could only be broken 
 By her lover, if he entered the gate 
 
 Before she turned back to a flower ; 
 But alas I he was one minute late. 
 
 Only once in a year the queer woman 
 
 Brought the maid from the queer little flower; 
 
 All the rest of the year it hung sadly 
 Right over the edge of the tower. 
 
 And a sad little song it kept wafting 
 Right into the fresh summer breeze. 
 
 That a train of bright-winged fairies 
 Carried lovingly over the trees. 
 
 Again that queer little woman 
 
 Hobbled in through the moss-covered gate, 
 And clambered up the short stairway ; 
 
 When riding along sure as fate 
 
 Came a horseman, the doomed maiden's lover; 
 
 And just as she changed from the flower 
 He rode in through the old broken gate, 
 
 Rode right on up to the tower. 
 
 The birds flew off from their nests, 
 
 And, with a glad, happy cry. 
 Joined the band of bright-winged fairies 
 
 Hiding away in the sky. 
 
 And that queerest of queer little women 
 Changed into a bat ; with a screech. 
 
 She flew through the moss-covered tower, 
 Away from the flower-maid's reach. 
 
 And the maiden still stood in the tower, 
 
 With eyes of violet blue, 
 An(i hair of fretted sunbeams, 
 
 That hung from her head to her shoe. 
 
WHAT BESSIE SAW IN THE COALS. 
 
 Z'^Z 
 
 And in her hand was a blossom, — 
 
 A dainty snow-white flower, 
 With a sad little droop to its petals, 
 
 Just like the one in the tower. 
 
 And that queerest of queer little lovers 
 Knelt down in tlie moss-covered tower, 
 
 And, taking the sad little blossom, 
 Taking the tiny white flower, 
 
 He showered its snowy petals 
 
 Right down in the fresh summer grass. 
 When up sprang a thousand white roses 
 
 As fair as the flower lass- 
 Then taking the hand of his white rose, — 
 
 Now was it the fault of the grate? — 
 But a coal dropping suddenly downward 
 
 Crumbled the tower, sure as fate ; 
 
 Crumbled the frowning castle, 
 
 Crumbled the moss-covered tower 
 
 Where had stood the maid and her lover. 
 Where had drooped the queer little flower. 
 
 And mamma's voice called, *'Come, Bessie; 
 
 Wake up, my darling sleepy-head ; 
 The fire is fast going out, — 
 
 'Tis now high time for bed. 
 
 "You weren't asleep? you only 
 
 Were reading the coals so red? 
 Come, Bessie, come, my blue-eyes, 
 
 'Tis high time now for bed. 
 
 " You read a pretty story 
 
 In the glowing coals so red ? 
 'Twas about a lovely castle, — 
 
 Why, you darling sleepy-head, 
 27 
 
314 
 
 LADY MAY'S DREAM. 
 
 " 'Twas papa's book of fairy-tales 
 
 Affected that wee head ; 
 Come, Bessie, come, my blue-eyes, 
 
 'Tis high time now for bed." 
 
 You see that Bessie's mamma 
 Called her a '• sleepy-head," 
 
 And told her 'twas the fairy-tales. 
 f'She should have been in bed." 
 
 But Bessie knows, and we do, too, 
 That mamma's foolish head 
 
 Didn't see the pretty scene 
 In the glowing coals so red. 
 
 But papa smiles at blue-eyes' tale, 
 And mamma does so, too ; 
 
 But secretly the fairies know 
 What Bessie told was true. 
 
 November 25, 1881. 
 
 LADY MAY'S DREAM. 
 
 Things had gone wrong at the hall all day ; 
 
 Nothing had suited the Lady May. 
 
 From the morning bright to the evening chill 
 
 All was wrong at the house on the hill. 
 
 The fires were too low, the rooms too cold ; 
 
 \\\ short, such trouble had never been told. 
 
 Things had gone wrong at the hall all day ; 
 
 The morn was bitter, and chill, and gray, 
 
 And the wind swept on with a mournful sigh 
 
 Through the leaves of the oak-trees tall and high. 
 
 Lady May, in her chamber of blue 
 
 (A pretty picture from head to shoe). 
 
 Reclined in her easy-cushioned chair; 
 
 A beautiful woman, stately, fair. 
 
 With a wealth of richly sun-kissed hair, 
 
LAD V MA Y'S DREAM. 
 
 315 
 
 And a pair of eyes, of matchless blue, 
 
 That wistfully looked you through and through ; 
 
 A dainty woman, scarce nine times three, 
 
 A woman as fair as you'd wish to see; 
 
 A woman envied far and near 
 
 As the bride of a stately, handsome peer; 
 
 For rich indeed was the Lady May, 
 
 And vast indeed was her queenly sway. 
 
 The wind blew chill, and bitter, and cold ; 
 
 'Twas autumn ; the leaves had turned to gold : 
 
 The sun gleamed in through the curtains fair 
 
 And touched the Lady May's golden hair ; 
 
 And it kissed the carpet of dainty blue. 
 
 And it kissed the curtains of matchless hue 
 
 That covered a cnidle ; within, a boy, 
 
 The Lady May's only pride and joy, 
 
 The sole heir of the countless land. 
 
 From the oak-trees tall to the mansion grand ; 
 
 And it swept from the forehead the sunny hair, 
 
 And it kissed t!ie lips, a dewy pair, 
 
 And it awakened a smile in the baby eyes. 
 
 And it raised a cry of glad surprise ; 
 
 But still th« Lady May sat in her chair. 
 
 While the sunlight kissed her golden hair; 
 
 And it showed how cold were the eyes of blue. 
 
 And how proud the lips of matchless hue. 
 
 Tired and wearied, the Lady May, 
 
 Tired of all the world that day; 
 
 Tired of even her baby boy, 
 
 Her only pride and her only joy; 
 
 For under the matchless eyes of blue 
 
 A mocking light shone through and through ; 
 
 Under the bosom so white and warm 
 
 She carried a heart of bitter storm ; 
 
 For oft when smiles wreathed the lips of red, 
 
 The Lady May wished, " If I were but dead I" 
 
 For under the smiling mask she wore, 
 
 There was bitter grief to her heart's deep core. 
 
 Beautiful — yes, was the Lady May, 
 
 But chill and bleak as a winter day ; 
 
■ 16 LADY MAY'S DREAM. 
 
 Beautiful — yes, was the Lady May, 
 
 And wide indeed was her queenly sway. 
 
 'Twas autumn ; the leaves had turned to gold : 
 
 Some worshipped the woman so proud and cold ; 
 
 Some said, " Her heart is made of stone," 
 
 But others loved her and her alone. 
 
 But always, from out the lips of red, 
 
 Came one cry, " If I were but dead !'' 
 
 But none knew of the tale untold. 
 
 'Twas autumn ; the leaves had turned to gold : 
 
 The Lady May sat in her easy-chair, 
 
 And the sun shone on her burnished hair; 
 
 And the baby sobbed with pitiful cry, 
 
 And the sun hid under clouds in the sky; 
 
 At last, with haughty, impatient tread, 
 
 The Lady May parted the curtains red, 
 
 And rang with impatience a tiny bell. 
 
 Soon appeared at the open door 
 
 A woman ; with careful tread she bore 
 
 The baby away, and the Lady May 
 
 Reseated lierself, in the sunlight's ray. 
 
 While the sunny sky became overcast, 
 
 And the wind roared in one mighty blast; 
 
 And the snow-flakes fell on the stately hall. 
 
 And the wind roared througli the oak-trees tall ; 
 
 And the Lady May rose from her easy-chair, 
 
 And wearily combed her golden hair. 
 
 Wearily donned the dress of blue, 
 
 That gracefully swept the dainty shoe, 
 
 Wearied, prepared for her gracious lord, 
 
 'J'o dine at the sumptuous, luscious board ; 
 
 For tired indeed was the Lady May, 
 
 Tired of all the world that day. 
 
 Even at dinner, her baby boy. 
 
 Crowing with life and infiint joy, 
 
 Failed to elicit the faintest smiles, 
 
 Though he exhausted his baby wiles — 
 
 From the lips of the dainty Lady May, 
 
 Who was tired of all the world that day. 
 
 Even her lord, when to the hunt he went, 
 
 Failed to elicit the slightest comment ; 
 
LAD V MA Y'S DREAM. 3 1 7 
 
 But little cared he, and little cared she, 
 
 For handsome Lord Clare, was a hunter he ; 
 
 And she was the wearied Lady May, 
 
 Who was tired of all the world that day. 
 
 Wearied, she sought her handsome room, 
 
 Lowered the curtains, and in the gloom 
 
 Sank in her easy-cushioned chair. 
 
 While the firelight played on her golden hair, 
 
 And kissed the lips, a crimson pair, 
 
 And warmed the cheeks of marble hue, 
 
 And brought a fresh and softened dew 
 
 To the eyes of wearied, hardened blue. 
 
 And the snow fell on the stately hall, 
 
 And the wind moaned in the oak-trees tall, 
 
 And still the Lady May sat in her chair. 
 
 While the firelight played on her braided hair, 
 
 And it played around the lips of red, 
 
 While the Lady May wished, "If I were but dead !" 
 
 But while she sat in the firelight's gleam. 
 
 She floated away in a rosy dream : 
 
 No longer the wearied Duchess May, 
 
 Thinking the world so dim and gray, 
 
 But a happy maiden, gay and free, 
 
 Swinging under the apple-tree; 
 
 While the sunlight gleams through the fretted leaves. 
 
 And 'round her a brilliant halo weaves. 
 
 The breezes lift her golden hair, 
 
 And kiss the lips, a crimson pair ; 
 
 The birds build lightly above her head, 
 
 The sunbeams play in gleams of red 
 
 Around the darkening cottage door, 
 
 And shine upon the polished floor. 
 
 Only a maiden, gay and free, 
 
 Swinging under an apple-tree. 
 
 The scene changes: a summer night. 
 
 The stars are shining clear and bright ; 
 
 Under the sky, near the brooklet's flow. 
 
 Two lovers are pacing to and fro. 
 
 And the moonbeams shine through the fretted leaves, 
 
 And 'round the two a halo weaves : 
 
3i8 
 
 LADY MAY'S DREAM. 
 
 While not far oflf, in the waving grain, 
 
 The birds take up the happy strain 
 
 Of the "old, old story" told again ; 
 
 But the lovers heed not the fliglit of time 
 
 Until the bells peal forth a chime, 
 
 And twelve strokes ring in the summer air ; 
 
 Then drawing to him the head so fair, 
 
 The soldier parts the golden hair, 
 
 And presses a kiss, oh ! sweet and light, 
 
 On the high, smooth forehead fresh and white; 
 
 Then taking the small, white, dainty hand. 
 
 On it he places a pearly band : 
 
 And a star shoots forth a silvery dart, 
 
 As the girl's lips whisper, " Till death iis part !" 
 
 Then he presses a kiss on the lips so red. 
 
 And fondly smooths the golden head. 
 
 Only the stars look down and see 
 
 The parting under the apple-tree. 
 
 The soldier moinits the restive steed, 
 
 And soon is lost in the marshy reed ; 
 
 And only the stars the parting see 
 
 Under the bougiis of the apple-tree. 
 
 The scene is changed : a ball-room fair. 
 
 And a simple maiden with golden hair; 
 
 A room with rare exotics filled ; 
 
 (The maiden's innocence is chilled) 
 
 'Neath the chandelier's streaming light 
 
 A duke is bending his dark eyes bright, 
 
 And pleads for the hand of the maiden fair, 
 
 And fondly smooths her golden hair, 
 
 And does what only the stars did see 
 
 The real knight do 'neath the apple-tree, 
 
 Paints tlie future in gleams of red, 
 
 While lower sinks the golden head ; 
 
 Tells her how both far and near 
 
 She'll be honored as wife of a peer; 
 
 And lower sinks the golden head. 
 
 And quiver sweet the lips of red. 
 
 And quick the scene is changed, and she 
 
 Stands 'neath the gnarled old apple-tree. 
 
LADY MAY'S DREAM. ^19 
 
 Again the scene is changed, and she 
 
 Becomes a bride, oh ! fair to see ! 
 
 Is envied far, is envied near. 
 
 The wife of Clare, the rich old peer. 
 
 And quick the slim and dainty band 
 
 Is cast from off her lily hand. 
 
 A slender Triton sheds its tears 
 
 O'er the tribute of past years, 
 
 And gracefully the golden head 
 
 Seeks the duke's shoulder as its bed, 
 
 And a diamond shines on the dainty hand 
 
 Where once had glistened a pearly band ; 
 
 And grieved, the stars looked down to see 
 
 The sorrowful old apple-tree. 
 
 The scene is changed : a brid.d veil 
 
 Falls lightly o'er the face so pale. 
 
 A hundred people grace the halls : 
 
 The music rises, and then falls. 
 
 While small, white, dancing, tripping feet 
 
 Keep low rhyme with music sweet. 
 
 The scene is hushed : " The bride is here !' 
 
 She leaneth on the gray-haired peer, 
 
 And kindly doth the bridal veil 
 
 Screen the lily face so pale. 
 
 Again the words "Till death us part !" 
 
 Why doth the bride change color, start ? 
 
 Why doth she draw the bridal veil 
 
 More closely round her face so pale? 
 
 The twinkling stars up in the sky. 
 
 Ask them, oh ! they can answer why ; 
 
 Can tell you that this festive scene 
 
 Is not so holy — no, I ween — 
 
 As that the stars looked down to see 
 
 Under the gnarled old apple-tree. 
 
 The scene changes : the war is through ; 
 
 The bride is gay in satin white. 
 
 The diamonds shine in resplendent light; 
 
 The music rises, the music falls, 
 
 There is true mirth witliin those walls, 
 
 And a slender Triton sheds its tears 
 
 O'er the tribute of past years. 
 
^2o LAZ>V MAY'S DKEAM. 
 
 The scene changes : the war is through, 
 One soldier's eyes are moist with dew, 
 As he thinks of the meeting that will be 
 Under the gnarled old apple-tree ; 
 Of the gentle maiden waiting there, 
 With the soft blue eyes and the sunny hair. 
 Hark, the regiment has come ! 
 Hear the beating of the drum ! 
 Hear the music of the fife ! 
 And the gray-haired peer's young wife 
 Leaves the drawing-rooms so gay, 
 And seeks the fresh midsummer day. 
 ******* 
 
 But only the stars look down and see 
 The meeting under the apple-tree. 
 ***** * * 
 
 Only the stars look down and see 
 The soldier's grave 'neath the apple-tree. 
 And the peer's fair-haired bride 
 Seeks the fountain's fairy side. 
 Bares her dimpled, jewelled arm, 
 To bring forth the long-lost charm, — 
 To bring forth the lost pearl band 
 That once graced her lily hand ; 
 And while reaching she awakes, 
 And the wealth of white snow-flakes 
 Falling on the peer's grand hall. 
 Falls u])on her as a pall, 
 For it was her life's hard dream ; 
 For the golden, glittering gleam 
 Of a pile of sunny gold, — 
 That was why her life was sold. 
 Beautiful? yes, was the Lady May, 
 But cold and chill as a winter day; 
 For often from out the lips of red 
 Came one cry, " If I were but dead !" 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 In the room where the Lady May 
 Bartered her fresh young life away, 
 
SPJilNG. 
 
 In the room she came as bride, 
 That was where the duchess died. 
 
 :}: ^ :Js 5|c ^ :{: ^ 
 
 And only the stars looked down to see 
 The double grave 'neath the apple-tree; 
 And a silvery Triton shed its tears 
 O'er the fragments of past years. 
 
 Sunday, December 4, 188 1. 
 
 321 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 All over the meadow 
 
 The daisies are springing, 
 All over the earth ■ 
 
 Is the glad spring-tide ; 
 Way down in the hollow 
 
 The bluebells are ringing, 
 While under the ferns 
 
 The shy violets hide. 
 
 Now thick o'er the woodland 
 
 Are the buttercups sprinkled. 
 And under them all 
 
 A green carpet is laid ; 
 And over their heads 
 
 The green leaves are all wrinkled, 
 As they send a soft whisper 
 
 Adown through the glade. 
 
 Way off in the thicket 
 
 The songsters are singing. 
 
 While the mother-bird softly 
 Broods over her nest ; 
 
 And gently above her 
 
 The green leaves are flinging 
 
 A shadow of refuge and rest. 
 
322 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Adown on the hill-side 
 
 The shadows are creeping, 
 And silently, softly, falls 
 
 The spring night. 
 And over it all, the clear 
 
 Moonlight is sweeping 
 In a brilliant 
 
 And radiant light. 
 
 All over the earth 
 
 The sweet zephyrs are playing, 
 And gently the blue-bells 
 
 Close their tired eyes ; 
 And thick o'er the marshes 
 
 The fire-flies are straying. 
 While each little bird 
 
 To its downy nest hies. 
 
 All over the meadows 
 
 The daisies are springing, 
 And under the dew 
 
 The shy violets hide ; 
 Way down in the hollow 
 
 The bluebells are ringing, 
 All over the earth 
 
 Is the glad spring-tide. 
 
 Siinday, January 8, 1882. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 All over the woodland 
 
 The roses are blooming, 
 All over the earth 
 
 Is the sweet summer hush ; 
 Way up 'mongst the azure 
 
 The white clouds are looming, 
 While up through the trees 
 
 Pours the song of the thrush. 
 
SUMMER. 
 
 m 
 
 Way off in tlie thicket 
 
 The little brook's creeping, 
 While green grows the grass 
 
 On its damp sheltered side; 
 And over the edge 
 
 The low willow is weeping, 
 While over its bosom 
 
 The lily-buds glide. 
 
 Way off in the distance 
 
 The green corn is growing, 
 
 And the fruit hangeth low 
 On the boughs of the tree ; 
 
 Through the bright golden grain 
 
 ■ The soft wind is blowing, 
 
 While nearer and nearer 
 Comes the hum of the bee. 
 
 Abreast on the ocean 
 
 The proud ships are riding. 
 While loud and then soft 
 
 Conies the song of the sea; 
 And over its surface 
 
 The white gulls are gliding. 
 So airy and free. 
 
 Now up through the portal 
 
 The storm-god is flying. 
 And o'er the blue sky 
 
 Is spread a black pall ; 
 And sadly and harshly 
 
 The dreary wind's crying, 
 While soothingly, quickly, 
 
 The fresh rain-drops fall. 
 
 Then magically, gently. 
 The flowing clouds scatter. 
 
 And over the earth 
 
 Smiles a sunbeam's soft ray, 
 
324 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 While through heaven's door-way 
 The stars gently patter, 
 
 And into the past 
 
 Glides the midsummer day. 
 Wednesday, January i8, 1882. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 All over the woodland 
 
 The green leaves are turning, 
 All over the earth 
 
 Is the dim autumn haze ; 
 Way down by the brooklet 
 
 The aster-rod's burning, 
 While bathed in the siuilight 
 
 The gorgeous wood lays. 
 
 Now off in the tree- top 
 
 The robin is singing, 
 While his mate nestles low 
 
 In the soft downy nest ; 
 And the summer birds southward 
 
 Their bright way are winging, 
 And the sun, crimson red, 
 
 Sinks low in the west. 
 
 Now mournfully, sadly. 
 
 The autumn wind's blowing. 
 While shrill comes the cry 
 
 Of the lone whip-poor-will; 
 And by its moist banks 
 
 The calm river is flowing. 
 While the song of the nightingale 
 
 Floats o'er the hill. 
 
 Now off in the woodland 
 The chestnuts are browning, 
 
 While thick on the trees 
 Hangs the over-ripe fruit ; 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 325 
 
 And darkly, like spectres, 
 The grim trees are frowning, 
 
 While, freed from restraint, 
 Comes the owl's dreary hoot. 
 
 Now down at the sea-side 
 
 The season is over, 
 Though the breakers roll in 
 
 With the same steady roar ; 
 And now to his home 
 
 Speeds the unhappy rover, 
 Pronouncing the world and himself 
 
 "All a bore." 
 
 Now thick o'er the marshes 
 
 The fire-flies are straying. 
 While muffled and sad 
 
 Comes the bleat of the sheep ; 
 While with the gold leaves 
 
 The sweet breezes are playing, 
 And the world and Dame Nature 
 
 Are sinking to sleep. 
 
 All over the woodland 
 
 The green leaves are turning, 
 All over the earth 
 
 Is the dim autumn haze ; 
 Way down by the brooklet 
 
 The aster-rod's burning, 
 While in misty moonlight 
 
 The softened wood lays. 
 
 Sunday, February 19, 1882. 
 
 28 
 
326 WINTER. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 All over the woodland 
 
 The snow-flakes are flying, 
 While down on the hill-side 
 
 A white carpet is spread ; 
 And fierce 'round the farm-house 
 
 The winter wind's crying, 
 Proclaiming in shrieks 
 
 That autumn has fled. 
 
 Now thick o'er the meadow 
 
 The white down is sprinkled, 
 While the trees are all shrouded 
 
 In mantles of pearl ; 
 And the brooklet, now bound 
 
 In ice fetters, is wrinkled. 
 While the snow drifts along 
 
 In one deep, dusty whirl. 
 
 Now over the landscape 
 
 The winter night's creeping. 
 While the shutters and doors 
 
 Are all barred 'gainst its power ; 
 While through chink and crevice 
 
 The gusty wind's sweeping. 
 And the snow still falls 
 
 In a thick, pearly sliower. 
 
 All over the farm-house 
 
 Merry voices are chattering; 
 The curtains are drawn, 
 
 And the fires blaze away ; 
 While up-stairs and down-stairs 
 
 Light feet are pattering. 
 Pleased tliat old Winter 
 
 Has now come to stay. 
 
MAMMA'S BLOSSOM. 
 
 327 
 
 All over the city 
 
 The snow-flakes are falling ; 
 To some bringing gladness, 
 
 To some bringing pain ; 
 The poor shiver sadly, — 
 
 The flakes are appalling ; 
 The rich scarcely know 
 
 If 'tis snow or 'tis rain. 
 
 All over the city 
 
 The winter winds fluster ; 
 They spare not, — the cold 
 
 Is unfelt by the warm — 
 They shriek 'round the corners 
 
 In hurry and bluster, 
 Caring little for those 
 
 That are out in the storm. 
 
 All over the woodland 
 
 The white snow is flying, 
 While down on the hill-side 
 
 A white carpet is laid ; 
 And over the landscape 
 
 The moonlight is lying, 
 In patches of light 
 
 And in patches of shade. 
 
 Sunday, February 19, 1882. 
 
 MAMMA'S BLOSSOM. 
 
 The meadows are strewn with daisies, 
 Are laden with buttercup gold ; 
 
 The air is sweet with the perfume 
 Of flowers over the wold. 
 
328 
 
 MAMMA'S BLOSSOM. 
 
 Heigh-ho ! m}' darling wee lassie, 
 Come gather the violets blue ; 
 
 Come pluck the white-robed daisies, 
 Just fresh with the heaven-sent dew. 
 
 Come play in the bright spring sunshine, 
 My lassie scarce three years old ; 
 
 Come gather the blue-robed pansies, 
 And pluck the buttercup gold. 
 
 The meadows are strewn with daisies. 
 Are laden with buttercup gold ; 
 
 And the sweet spring wind from heaven 
 Brings perfume from over the wold. 
 
 The trees are bursting their fetters. 
 Are putting forth leaves again; 
 
 And now among the green branches 
 Twitters the baby wee wren. 
 
 I gather the modest violets, 
 
 I gather the daisies fair, 
 And I place them with loving fingers 
 
 On my blossom's golden hair. 
 
 I gather her into my bosom, — 
 Would I could always do so ! 
 
 Would I could shield her from all 
 Of life's fierce winds that blow ! 
 
 Tired of plucking the daisies, 
 Tired of the buttercup gold ; 
 
 Dear little fresh spring blossom, 
 How sweet is thy baby hold ! 
 
 Gently she lies on my bosom, 
 The daisy-crowned head at rest ; 
 
 Of all the treasures spring spared me, 
 My blossom is surely the best. 
 
 January, 1882. 
 
POLLY, THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE. 329 
 
 POLLY, THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE. 
 
 In a little brown cot by the sea-shore 
 
 Lives Polly, the fisherman's wife; 
 A sweet little blue-eyed woman, 
 Living a joyous life. 
 
 Oh, Polly, blue-eyed Polly ! 
 
 She's as fair as fair can be ; 
 But she's always a word, a kiss, 
 And a smile, 
 For the fisherman off 
 On the Dee. 
 
 She dresses the crowing baby ; 
 
 Can cook, and dust, and sweep ; 
 Always a busy wee mother, 
 She never has time to weep. 
 Polly, blue-eyed Polly ! 
 
 As thrifty as thrifty can be; 
 But she's always a word, 
 A kiss, and a smile, 
 For the fisherman off 
 On the Dee. 
 
 Always up in the morning, 
 
 Up at the peep o' day, 
 Dusting and sweeping and cooking. 
 And singing away so gay. 
 Polly, bright-eyed Polly ! 
 
 She's gay as a lark, is she ; 
 But she's never too gay 
 Or busy 
 
 To withstand the kiss 
 From me. 
 
 At night when I come from my labor, 
 I peep in the window before 
 
 28* 
 
330 POLLY, THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE. 
 
 I enter the charmed circle, 
 I enter the low, closed door. 
 Polly, bright-eyed Polly ! 
 
 She's happy as happy can be; 
 But she's always a smile, 
 A kiss, and a hug, 
 For the fisherman off 
 On the Dee. 
 
 The fire will be burning brightly, 
 
 The kettle be hissing away, 
 And Polly be rocking the cradle. 
 Wherein our wee baby lay. 
 Polly, red-cheeked Polly ! 
 
 A bright little matron she; 
 But she's never too busy 
 With baby, 
 To withhold the kiss 
 From me. 
 
 The spinning-wheel's always busy, 
 
 And Polly is busy, too ; 
 Spinning away in her russet gown. 
 And airily tapping her shoe. 
 Polly, bright-eyed Polly ! 
 
 She's sweet as a rose, is she; 
 But she's always a word, a 
 Kiss, and a smile. 
 For the fisherman home 
 From the Dee. 
 
 Sometimes when the sea is heavy, 
 
 And heavily falleth the rain, 
 Before I enter my cottage • 
 I gaze through the misty pane ; 
 And Polly will be at the 
 
 Spinning-wheel, 
 Spinning so busily, 
 ♦* And yet I can see she is thinking 
 
 Of the fisherman off 
 On the Dee. 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 Zl^ 
 
 And then I pass through the door-way, 
 
 And Polly, she springs to my arms, 
 And I, the rough, bronzed seaman. 
 Am not a match for her charms. 
 Polly, blue-eyed Polly ! 
 
 A gay little matron she ; 
 With always a hug, a kiss. 
 And a smile, 
 For the fisherman oft 
 On the Dee. 
 
 And after the supper is over. 
 
 Why, Polly and baby and me, 
 We sit by the blazing fireplace, 
 
 While the waves dash off on the sea. 
 Polly, bright-eyed Polly ! 
 
 A gay little mother she ; 
 With always a smile, 
 A kiss, and a hug, 
 For the fisherman home 
 From the Dee. 
 
 January, 1882. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The green leaves have gathered new glory, 
 
 Are clad in russet and brown. 
 And the autumn winds chant a new story, 
 
 Speak sadly of winter's fierce frown. 
 
 The birds are preparing for flight, 
 Are soaring to brighter climes ; 
 
 I watch as they fade in the height — 
 Their voices the sweetest of chimes. 
 
 The trees are robbed of their fruit. 
 The fields of the bright golden grain, 
 
 The wind is sad as a lute. 
 
 As it moans through the half-broken pane. 
 
332 
 
 VOID OF HOPE. 
 
 The garden is stripped of its roses, 
 Their perfume is withered and dead \ 
 
 The bee in his hive now reposes, — 
 The glory of summer has fled. 
 
 In the thicket the katydid's singing 
 Katy-did, katy-didn't, more shrill; 
 
 Whip-poor-will through the wood is ringing. 
 While the autumn wind wails o'er the hill. 
 
 The garden is robbed of its glory, 
 The fields are robbed of their grain ; 
 
 But while one is told in a story, 
 The other is piled in the rain. 
 
 The wind, with a ruthless hand, 
 
 Scatters the leaves at his will ; 
 While the autumn stars shine in a band, 
 
 And the autumn wind wails cold and shrill. 
 
 Fiercely, it bursts through the rafter, 
 ^ Fiercely, it wails at the door ; 
 
 But within, all is gayness and laughter, 
 While without, the autumn winds roar. 
 
 Wednesday, January i8, 1882. 
 
 VOID OF HOPE. 
 
 Void of hope ! Naught but darkness above me, 
 Though the blue sky hangs over all ; 
 
 How dark is the pathway before me, 
 
 While the trees spread above like a pall ! 
 
 Void of hope ! How calm is the river. 
 How silent, how dark, and how deep ! • 
 
 'Twould be well to lie there forever, 
 'Neath the water so peaceful asleep. 
 
VOID OF HOPE. 
 
 333 
 
 Void of hope ! The wind moans in the tree-tops; 
 
 'Tis sad and as sweet as a lute ; 
 Void of hope ! It brings no sweet memories, 
 
 Save that of a long-broken flute. 
 
 Void of hope ! The world lies before me, 
 
 'Tis dark and as cold as the river ; 
 How the wavelets leap on to the ocean ! 
 
 How they dance, and ripple, and quiver ! 
 
 Void of hope ! 'Tis so with my life-blood : 
 
 It surges and heaves like the sea; 
 There off in the darkening heaven 
 
 Flies a bird so gladsome and free. 
 
 Void of hope ! Little bird, like me, also, 
 
 Your home is out under the sky ; 
 But, unlike me, at winter's fierce tokens 
 
 You off to the southward hie. 
 
 Void of hope ! Off there lies the city. 
 With its surging and restless crowd ; 
 
 The rich and the poor together, 
 The beggar, the millionaire proud. 
 
 The lady sweeps by in her carriage ; 
 
 'Tis scarce heard, the faint, wailing cry, 
 The pauper laid low on the crossing. 
 
 As the prancing horses dash by. 
 
 Only one life less in the city. 
 
 Only one form out of the crowd ; 
 They still surge onward together. 
 
 The beggar, the millionaire proud. 
 
 Void of hope ! The stars shine above me, 
 
 The river rolls on as before ; 
 One step, one plunge, and one rustle, 
 
 And forever closed is life's door. 
 
334 
 
 VOW OF HOPE. 
 
 Void of hope ! Nothing to live for, 
 
 No one to love or love ine ; 
 Like the ripples rushing forever 
 
 On, on, to the tumultuous sea. 
 
 Void of hope ! Alone in the city, 
 
 No home, and nothing to love; 
 Beneath, the fast-rushing river, 
 
 The cold, frowning sky above. 
 
 Void of hope I How calm is the river ! 
 
 How silent, how dark, and how deep ! 
 'Twould be well to lie there forever, 
 
 From the tumult so peaceful asleep. 
 
 'Twould be only one less in the city, 
 
 Only one less in the crowd, 
 One less to suffer and pity ; 
 
 More room for the millionaire proud. 
 
 Void of hope ! How the winds sigh and shiver ! 
 
 'Twould be only one short, silent leap; 
 'Twould be well, the soft winds would quiver, 
 
 To lie there so peaceful asleep. 
 
 Void of hope I One less in the city, 
 
 One less in the fast-surging crowd, 
 One less to suffer and pity ; 
 
 More room for the millionaire proud. 
 
 Void of hope ! She was somebody's darling: 
 
 How silken the soft, golden hair ! 
 Perhaps it has once been caressed 
 
 By a mother's hand loving and fair. 
 
 Void of hope ! Tired of the warfare. 
 
 Rashly and wilfully wild ; 
 Brush back the hair from her forehead. 
 
 Though she erred, she was "somebody's child." 
 
LOVE'S ENCHANTMENT. 
 
 335 
 
 Only one less in the city, 
 Only one less in tlie crowd ; 
 
 One less to suffer and pity, — 
 
 More room for the millionaire proud. 
 
 January 39, 1882. 
 
 LOVE'S E:NCHANTMENT. 
 
 Nellie, darling, how I love thee ! 
 
 Oh, I love thee, maid so fair ! 
 Ay, I even love thy forehead. 
 
 With its silken fringe of hair. 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, how I love thee ! 
 Poet's pen could ne'er portray ! 
 Oh, I love thee, Nellie, darling ! 
 Dost thou love me, dear one, say ? 
 
 Oh ! I love the tiny brooklet 
 
 Where we wandered 'neath the moon, 
 
 And the dusky babes of night 
 Lit their starry lamps too soon. 
 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, etc. 
 
 Oh ! I love the whispering breezes, 
 
 For they seem to talk to me 
 Of the dusky nights of summer, 
 
 When we wandered by the sea. 
 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, etc. 
 
 O my darling, could I pencil, 
 
 I would write of tender eyes, 
 Wistful, sweet, and fresh, and winning. 
 
 As just culled from Paradise. 
 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, etc. 
 
33^ 
 
 LOVE'S ENCHANTMENT. 
 
 I would write of crimson lips, 
 Hair of silken, golden brown ; 
 
 Eyes that now can smile upon you, 
 Then again upon you frown. 
 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, etc. 
 
 Write of sweet, coquettish glances 
 That fast hold you in love's thrall ; 
 
 If I had a thousand kingdoms, 
 At your feet I'd lay them all. 
 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, etc. 
 
 E'en last month, in misty August, 
 When we trod the mazy dances. 
 
 Why, your very touches thrilled me. 
 You enthralled me with your glances. 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, etc. 
 
 And I even love the sunbeams, 
 'Cause they nestle in your hair; 
 
 And I envy the soft breezes. 
 
 For they kiss your cheeks so fair. 
 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, etc. 
 
 And it thrills my very life-blood 
 To e'en hold your dimpled finger; 
 
 If you wandered 'mongst the shadows, 
 There forever I could linger. 
 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, etc. 
 
 I could die if you but willed it. 
 And you kissed me ere I went ; 
 
 If you did but say, "I love you," 
 I could die and be content. 
 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, etc. 
 
 And I love your very name — 
 Nellie, — was there ever sweeter ? 
 
 (Darling, canst thou say the same ?) 
 No name ever was completer. 
 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, etc. 
 
LITTLE NELL'S VALENTINE. 
 
 337 
 
 I could die if you but willed it, 
 
 And you kissed me ere I went ; 
 If you did but say, " I love him," 
 
 I could die and be content. 
 Chorus. — Nellie, darling, how I love thee ! 
 Poet's pen could ne'er portray ! 
 Oh, I love thee, Nellie, darling! 
 Canst thou love me, dear one, say? 
 
 February 13, 1882. 
 
 LITTLE NELL'S VALENTINE. 
 
 So you ask for a story, my nestlings, 
 A legend of Valentine's day? 
 
 No, Edith, don't ring for the candles, — 
 I love the dim twilight so gray. 
 
 Ah, Harry, don't fidget, my bairn, 
 For grandma is old, you know; 
 
 Her hair is no longer golden. 
 But like to the driven snow. 
 
 And Bessie, creep closer, my darling, 
 Come here, my fair blue-eyed pet ; 
 
 Though grandma is old and weary. 
 There's room in her arms for you yet. 
 
 A story? yes, yes, my wee Bessie, 
 A legend of Valentine's day? 
 
 The hero be like to the oak-tree, 
 
 The maid to some sweet, graceful fay ? 
 
 Well, now for this story of Cupid, 
 That mischievous, sweet little sprite, 
 
 That weaves you into love's meshes, 
 And binds you there fast and tight. 
 
 w 2y 
 
338 
 
 LITTLE NELL'S VALENTINE. 
 
 There, Harry, don't fidget, my darling; 
 
 Hush ! now for grandmamma's story. 
 Well, long years ago, little Bess, 
 
 Saint Valentine's day rose in glory ; 
 
 Not blustery, nor windy, nor cold, 
 
 But a perfect Saint Valentine's day ; . 
 
 For Cupid, that elf-king so bold. 
 Hid in each sunbeam's soft ray. 
 
 Little Nell was lonesome and dreary ; 
 
 There were tears in her eyes, on her cheek ; 
 She was heart-sick, and lonely, and weary. 
 
 And the day seemed dreary and bleak. 
 
 For Nell was an unloved orphan, 
 
 And was old for her ten childish years, 
 
 And the brown eyes, so wistful and trusting, 
 Were not used to smiles, but to tears. 
 
 Nell's home was an old, darksome garret. 
 Where the rats scampered over the floor. 
 
 And the wind whistled in through the windows, 
 And the snow drifted under the door. 
 
 Nell's eyes were wistful and trusting. 
 Her hair like a sunbeam's soft ray, 
 
 But the poor little heart-sick begga 
 Never heard of Saint Valentine's day. 
 
 So on Saint Valentine's morning, 
 
 When a sunbeam crept under the door 
 
 And wakened our heroine Nellie, 
 Asleep on the bare attic floor. 
 
 It brought her no thought of the missive 
 E'en now travelling fast on its way ; 
 
 It brought no thought to the sad-eyed child 
 That this was Saint Valentine's day. 
 
LITTLE NELL'S VALENTINE. 
 
 339 
 
 Little Nell, wearied and restless, 
 
 Rose from her hard, dreary bed. 
 And crept to the old, empty cupboard, 
 
 Where lay a small crust of bread. 
 
 Half famished, the poor child ate it, 
 
 Then crept down the attic stair ; 
 Out to the half-awake city 
 
 Nell wandered, she knew not where. 
 
 Out to the half-awake city ! 
 
 There were tears in her eyes, on her cheek ; 
 She was heart-sick, and lonely, and weary, 
 
 And the day seemed dreary and bleak. 
 
 Hark ! " Nell, little Nell !" comes a cry ; 
 
 \\iho is this barefooted lad in the street ? 
 "Nell, little Nell; here I come, little Nell!" 
 
 Did ever words sound more cheering or sweet? 
 
 "Willie ! O Willie !" two hands are upraised, 
 Two pair of eyes beam with happiness sweet; 
 
 Two hearts are beating, so glad at the meeting; 
 Two little waifs are out in the street. 
 
 "Nell, little Nell, guess what I've brought you? 
 
 It cost me a fourpence, my earnings this week." 
 Nellie's bright eyes are uplifted and happy. 
 
 Saint Valentine's day is no longer bleak. 
 
 "I can't guess it, Willie. Oh, won't you please tell me?" 
 Quick as a flash, like a sunbeam's soft ray. 
 
 Come the words spoken so gently, so tender, 
 "Nell, little Nell, it's Saint Valentine's day." 
 
 " Saint Valentine's day !" the brown eyes are clouded. 
 
 "O Willie, I really don't know what you mean." 
 "There, little Nell, don't cry; I will tell you. 
 
 Don't cry any more, my own little queen. 
 
340 LITTLE NELL'S VALENTINE. 
 
 " There is a story, O Nellie, my darling, 
 
 About some good knight who died long ago; 
 
 Mamma, she told me, but I have forgotten ; 
 This, little Nell, is all that I know: 
 
 " In the windows are bright, pretty papers, 
 Painted all over in pink, red, and blue; 
 
 People, they send them to those they love dearly ; 
 Here is 7ny valentine, Nellie, for you." 
 
 Quick as a flash the package is opened, 
 
 In it a marvel of paper and lace ; 
 Here is a boy with eyes bright and tender, 
 
 There is a girl with a beautiful face. 
 
 "Nell, little Nell, do you like it, my darling? 
 
 Let me read you the words, little sweet." • 
 
 There on the crossing they stand, unheeding 
 
 The rushing and panting of horses' swift feet. 
 
 Only one moment ; a swift cry of warning. 
 
 On the boy's breast sinks the soft, golden head ; 
 
 Swift rush the horses, there's death in their pathway, 
 Nellie and Wdlie, the beggars, are dead. 
 
 " Willie, O Wdlie !" two hands are upraised, 
 
 Stilled forever are four little feet. 
 Two hearts have ceased beating, so glad at the meeting, 
 
 Two little waifs alone in the street. 
 
 Only one moment ; a quick cry of warning. 
 Clasped in Nell's fingers that tribute of love, 
 
 Over her face flits a soft ray of sunshine, 
 While tender angels bend from above. 
 
 ******* 
 
 There, darlings, I've told you my story, 
 
 My tale is ended and told. 
 Little Nellie and Willie have entered 
 
 The beautiful gates of gold. 
 
ACROSTIC. 
 
 341 
 
 There, darlings, I've ended my story, 
 
 Don't grieve any more, pets, I pray; 
 May to-morrow rise in a glory. 
 
 Like that other Saint Valentine's day ! 
 Sunday, February, 1882. 
 
 ACROSTIC. 
 
 Ladders of trial are stepping-stones to heaven, 
 Or by such ladders do we mount to God ; 
 To purify the gold, it passes through the furnace, 
 To i)urify the heart, it passes 'neath the rod. 
 In his great wisdom God does all things best; 
 E'en after earth's worst sorrow comes heaven's eternal 
 rest. 
 
 Sunday, March 5, 1882. 
 
 THE WINDOW OVER THE WAY. 
 
 I'm only a lonely bachelor. 
 
 No longer youthful and gay ; 
 But I gaze with eyes that are tearful 
 
 At the window over the way. 
 
 At night, when the rain falls sadly, 
 
 And twilight steals on so gray, 
 I sit and gaze through my window 
 
 At the cheerful one over the way. 
 
 And my thoughts fly backward, far backward, 
 
 To a long-past summer day, 
 When I clasped a maid to my heart, as fair 
 
 As the mother over the way. 
 29* 
 
342 
 
 THE WINDOW OVER THE WAY. 
 
 When blue ejes looked trustingly into mine, 
 
 When red lips to mine were prest : 
 But, alas ! the grim destroyer came 
 
 And stole her away from my breast, 
 
 She drooped ere the wedding-bells rang their sweet tunes, 
 Ere the ringlets of gold for the bridal were drest ; 
 
 Ere long we will meet, face to face, heart to heart, 
 In that place where the weary find rest. 
 
 And to-night I sit lone at my window, 
 
 And gaze at the one o'er the way ; 
 I watch, through the half-drawn curtain, 
 
 The youthful, the happy, the gay. 
 
 And this is the picture I see tliere : 
 
 A mother, with calm, peaceful face, 
 Rocking to sleep on her bosom 
 
 A mjstery of sweetness and lace. 
 
 Dear mother I which is the sweeter, 
 
 The cherub just sent fresh from God, 
 Or the one who has seen the sin of this life, 
 
 And bent under the chastening rod ? 
 
 There are patience and trial on the older face, 
 
 On the baby's the look of heaven ; 
 The baby has lived but one short year. 
 
 The mother, six times seven. 
 
 The father sits by the ruddy blaze 
 
 With his baby boy upon his knee ; 
 There's an earnest light in the dark eyes bright. 
 
 The boy sees what no others see; 
 
 For his innocent brain is peopled 
 
 With children of other spheres ; 
 You can tell by the light in his tender eyes 
 
 That his thoughts are beyond his years. 
 
THE WINDOW OVER THE WAY. 
 
 343 
 
 Then over there by the table 
 
 Sits the fairest of all the fair ; 
 'Tis a little girl, with starlit eyes, 
 
 And a wealth of sun-kissed hair. 
 
 There's a halo around her forehead, 
 There's a winsome light in her eyes; 
 
 She only needs the angels' wings 
 To waft her away to the skies. 
 
 O mother ! you worship your children ; 
 
 O father! guard them with care; 
 For there's only a line between this world 
 
 And the beautiful one over there. 
 
 O father ! slight not your children, 
 
 For they might step out of your reach; 
 
 And list to the angels speaking 
 
 In the guise of your children's speech. 
 ******** 
 
 Again I sit lone at my window, 
 But my heart is heavy to-night ; 
 
 For lightly drawn is the curtain, 
 And totally gone is the light. 
 
 Hark 1 do I hear her singing, — 
 
 The little girl over there? 
 No, for the cofifin-lid is closed 
 
 Over the golden hair. 
 
 When the curtain again Is raised some night, 
 Shall I see the dark-eyed boy ? 
 
 No, for the angels opened the gate, 
 And he entered eternal joy. 
 
 Only one left to the mother; 
 
 Oh, guard her well with care ! 
 For there's only a shadow between this life 
 
 And the endless one over there. 
 
 February 21, 1882. 
 
344 
 
 THERE'S A FATHER ABOVE. 
 
 THERE'S A FATHER ABOVE. 
 
 Dear friend, there's a heaven above us, 
 
 Though the earth may be dark where we tread ; 
 
 There are angels who watch us and love us, 
 Though the sun be obscured overhead. 
 
 Though our best friends despise and discard us, 
 Though all love seems turned into hate, 
 
 There is One who can watch and guard us, 
 Who has shaped out our life and our fate. 
 
 When there seems no room on earth for us, 
 
 Only that under the sod, 
 There is one Friend to love and watch o'er us, 
 
 And that is our Father and God. 
 
 March 8, 1882. 
 
 TO LOTTIE. 
 
 Let trials come, be brave, my friend, 
 Or anguish, grief, or sorrow ; 
 
 For God will wipe away your tears 
 In heaven's bright to-morrow. 
 
 March 8, 1882. 
 
HE IS RISEN. 
 
 345 
 
 HE IS RISEN. 
 
 (Suggested by being at the Delaware Avenue Baptist church, and see- 
 ing above the sepulchre the words above.) 
 
 He has risen from the tomb, 
 He has left the chilling gloom 
 
 Of His prison ; 
 And the angels sing victorious, 
 Swelling loud the anthem glorious, 
 
 " He is risen." 
 
 And the Easter-bells are telling 
 With their music, rise and swelling, 
 
 " He is risen." 
 Pealing, singing, music gay. 
 Rose the Lord on Easter-day 
 
 From His prison. 
 
 And the flowers whisper lowly, 
 " He who is the Christ and holy, 
 
 He has risen ;" 
 And around Him glory shone, 
 Him who rolled away the stone 
 
 From the prison. 
 
 And the rippling wavelets tell it, 
 And the very winds they swell it, — 
 
 " He is risen." 
 Carry it o'er land and sea: 
 Rose the glorious Deity 
 
 From His prison. 
 
 " He is risen from the tomb !" 
 Sing the angels; left the gloom 
 
 Of His prison. 
 He who is so meek and lowly. 
 He, the Christ-child pure and holy, 
 
 " He has risen." 
 
346 
 
 MOONBEAMS. 
 
 And the angels sing victorious, 
 Swelling loud the anthem glorious, 
 
 " He is risen." 
 Swelling loud the tuneful lay : 
 Rose the Lord on Easter-day 
 
 From His prison. 
 
 And should we no less than they 
 Sing aloud the tuneful lay, 
 
 " He is risen" ? 
 He who left the chilling tomb, 
 He who burst the bonds and gloom 
 
 Of His prison. 
 
 Nay, we'll bend our knees before Him, 
 We will worship and adore Him, 
 
 Lord of all. 
 And when He gently calls us home, 
 We will gladly, gladly come 
 
 At His call. 
 
 April 24, 1882. 
 
 MOONBEAMS. 
 
 The moonbeams creep in at the window, 
 
 Creep in through the curtains of lace. 
 And they shine on the form of the sleeper, 
 
 Touch lightly the marble face. 
 They kiss the stray, sunny ringlets 
 
 That fall o'er the forehead so white ; 
 And they drop on the little white casket. 
 
 With a radiance tender and bright. 
 They shine on the white robe of satin 
 
 That enfolds the frail little form, 
 And they try to bring warmth to the fingers 
 
 That never again will be warm. 
 
MOONBEAMS. 347 
 
 And they are to the heart-broken mother, 
 
 Who has patiently bent 'neath the rod, 
 They are messengers out of the gateway, — 
 
 Messengers straight from God. 
 And she bows her head softly, sadly, 
 
 Close to her little one's breast, 
 As she whispers lovingly, meekly, 
 
 " My Father's will is the best." 
 Then they glide through the attic window 
 
 To the school-boy sleeping there. 
 And they bring a smile to the features 
 
 Of the boyish face so fair; 
 For he smiles as he dreams of the future, 
 
 Of the gold with its glittering sheen ; 
 What matter to him as he sleepeth 
 
 Of tlie weary years between ? 
 Then they go to the field of battle. 
 
 And they kiss the living and dead, — 
 The pompous gray-haired soldier. 
 
 And the boy with his golden head. 
 And the sentinel smiles as he thinketh 
 
 Of the cot by the river-bank. 
 Of the dear old mill, and the river itself, 
 
 Where the grass grows tall and rank. 
 It is home, it is home to the soldier; 
 
 Let him smile, let him laugh, while he may, 
 For ere the flowers of the morning 
 
 Greet the light of the new-born day 
 The lips will be closed forever. 
 
 The weary feet be at rest. 
 The dark eyes closed to the sunshine 
 
 And his hands folded over his breast. 
 And now the pure little moonbeams' 
 
 Mission is nearly o'er, 
 And in their dresses of misty white 
 
 They float through the starry door. 
 The deeds that were done in the silent night 
 
 Have stolen their life away ; 
 But the fragrance of all that is just and pure 
 
 Is left for the unborn day. 
 April 29, 1882. 
 
348 SHEPHERD, HOLD ME IN THY BOSOM. 
 
 SHEPHERD, HOLD ME IN THY BOSOM. 
 
 Jesus, hold me in thy bosom, 
 
 Hold me tight ; 
 For the world is dark and dreary, 
 
 Dark as night. 
 
 And the night-wind never ceases 
 
 Its sad cry. 
 Shepherd, hold me in thy arms 
 
 Or I die. 
 
 And the clouds hang dark and heavy 
 
 Overhead. 
 " I will hold them in my bosom," 
 
 Thou hast said. 
 
 "I will hold them tight and fast, 
 
 Weary sheep ; 
 I will wipe their tears away 
 
 When they weep." 
 
 good Shepherd, hold my hand, 
 
 Hold it fast. 
 For the night comes on so dreary, 
 Day is past. 
 
 And the deep, deep sky 
 
 Is overcast. 
 Shepherd, take me to thy bosom. 
 
 Hold nie fast. 
 
 1 am lonely, and I cannot 
 
 See the light; 
 
 But I cling unto thy hand, — 
 
 Hold me tight. 
 
SHEPHERD, HOLD ME IN THY BOSOM. 34^ 
 
 And my tears are falling fast, 
 
 And except 
 Thou hold me, I will stumble, — 
 
 Tliou hast wept. 
 
 Flash the lightning, and the thunder 
 
 Roareth loud. 
 And I cannot see the lining 
 
 To the cloud. 
 
 But I know that thou art there. 
 
 Hold me fast 
 Till the thunder pass away. 
 
 And the blast. 
 
 Shepherd, hold thy bleeding lamb. 
 
 Thou hast bled. 
 "I will bind their bleeding wounds," 
 
 Thou hast said. 
 
 dear Shepherd, hold me tight, 
 
 Lest I stray, 
 In the darkness, from the light, 
 Far away. 
 
 For I've sinned, and thou hast brought me 
 
 Home again ; 
 Thou who suffered for me. 
 
 And wast slain. 
 
 Shepherd, hold me in thy bosom, 
 
 Hold me tight. 
 In thy precious blood, O Shepherd, 
 
 Wash me white. 
 
 1 am weak, and thou art mighty, 
 
 And I flee 
 To the one who bled and suffered 
 All for me. 
 
 30 
 
.35° 
 
 ALMOST. 
 
 Now I hear the sad night-wind : 
 
 Hear it cry ; 
 But my heart beats cahn and peaceful; 
 
 Thou art by. 
 
 Ah, I see the clouds grow darker, 
 
 Chill and bare ; 
 But I see the silver lining 
 
 Over there. 
 
 Flash the lightning, roar the thunder, 
 
 Thou art by. 
 What have I to fear, O Shepherd ? 
 
 Thou art nigh. 
 
 Shepherd, hold me in thy bosom. 
 
 Hold me tight. 
 In thy precious blood, O Shepherd, 
 
 Wash me white ; 
 
 So' that when the conflict's over 
 
 Down below, 
 I may say, " My Father washed me 
 
 White as snow." 
 
 So that when my sky no longer's 
 
 Overcast, 
 I may dwell forever with Thee, 
 
 Home at last .' 
 
 May 12, 1882. 
 
 ALMOST. 
 
 Almost set is my earthly sun. 
 Almost finished the life begun ; 
 Almost over the trouble and trial, 
 The patience, hope, and self-denial. 
 Almost up to the dreary tomb, 
 Almost — either to heaven or doom. 
 
THE LOST VISION. 
 
 351 
 
 Almost over the bitter sorrow, 
 The watching and waiting for the morrow; 
 Ahnost over the smiles and sighing, 
 Almost close to the love undying. 
 Almost up to the golden portal, 
 Almost — one of the souls immortal. 
 Almost through this world of care, 
 Almost home to the one over there. 
 Almost beyond the living and dying, 
 The earthly smiles and the earthly crying. 
 Almost past the meeting and parting ; 
 Almost healed the wounds that are smarting. 
 Almost over the trials forever. 
 The aching heart and the vain endeavor. 
 Almost over the watching and waiting, 
 Almost through the loving and hating. 
 Almost finished the warfare and strife, 
 Almost through the unfinished life. 
 Almost up to the golden portal, 
 Almost home — to the life immortal. 
 
 Monday, May 22, 1882. 
 
 THE LOST VISION. 
 
 An artist wandered in the woods one day: 
 
 His eyes were dark and deep ; his hair was gray ; 
 
 His face was bronzed with wind, and summer's heat ; 
 
 The very flowers seemed to bow beneath his feet ; 
 
 For he was noble, he was great and good. 
 
 Of gentle parentage and gentle blood. 
 
 His heart so brave was long unused to fears ; 
 
 His eyes so dark were long since closed to tears. 
 
 And still he wandered on that summer day, 
 
 Through woods so tliick that not one single ray 
 
 Of sunlight pierced them througli. 
 
 The stately trees rocked to and fro, 
 
352 
 
 THE LOST vision: 
 
 The winds, they murmured soft and low; 
 The leaves were dense as far as eye could go, 
 
 Yet overhead was not a glimpse of blue. 
 The summer winds, they tossed the artist's hair, 
 The summer breezes kissed his cheeks so fair, 
 
 And all was dim and still within the wood. 
 It was noonday in the outer world, 
 The Sun-God all his fiery darts unfurled. 
 
 Refreshed, the artist murmured, "It is good." 
 On, on, he wandered, till he found what he had sought, — 
 A brook ; and making of his hand a cup, he quaffed a 
 
 cooling draught ; 
 Then laying down his pencil and his book. 
 He also laid his head beside the brook. 
 Yes, he, the great and wondrous man of fame 
 (The very world was ringing with his name), 
 Lay down beside the rippling, murmuring stream, 
 And floated down Time's current in a dream. 
 He dreamed, and, as he dreamed, more restless grew, 
 While through the dense leaves overhead peeped one single 
 
 jjatch of blue. 
 He dreamed, and, as he dreamed, he sighed, he smiled, 
 And murmured low, "Sweet Innocence, pure, undefiled, 
 Methinks the angels must have blessed the holy child." 
 Then all the music of his voice died 'way in pain ; 
 His words no longer to the ear were plain. 
 He smiled and tossed his arms, as if he would fain 
 
 Embrace some vision in the air unseen, and woke. 
 He clas|)ed the pencil in his nerveless hand, 
 And gazed as if enraptured into some mystic land, 
 
 But could not make one solitary stroke. 
 As he gazed into the stream 
 There again he saw his dream, — 
 Saw the slender, sylph-like maiden. 
 Drooping lashes, dewy-laden; 
 Saw the dead-gold hair a-gleaming 
 'Neath the bosom of the water. 
 And he murmured, " Am I dreaming?" 
 Then, as if the vision seeming, 
 Heard him, still as ever was the stream, 
 Vanished, vanished, was his dream ; 
 
THE LOST VISION. 
 
 353 
 
 But the air was full of sighing, 
 
 And the mournful winds seemed crying, 
 
 Calling plaintive for the vision. 
 And the artist took his pencil, 
 And with all the strength of manhood 
 Tried to paint the sylph-like maiden, 
 
 While the streamlet laughed derision. 
 But he struggled all in vain. 
 And his heart sank down in pain, 
 For his pencil laughed derision. 
 Vanished, vanished was the vision ; 
 And the artist took his knapsack 
 
 And walked slowly through the wood ; 
 Gazing backward at the brooklet, seeming, 
 
 Something whispered, "It is good." 
 Though our hero looked up quickly, 
 
 Naught he saw within the wood, 
 Save a solitary squirrel 
 
 Storing up his winter food. 
 
 T^ '?' T^ -l' -J- 'P 
 
 It was noonday, one year later. 
 
 And the artist in his studio lonely sat j 
 
 'Neath his head a silken cushion, 
 'Neath his feet a costly mat. 
 
 And his room was like a bower, 
 
 And he like a wilted flower, 
 
 Drooping for the long-sought shower. 
 
 Scattered 'round were lovely faces. 
 
 Painted on bewitching vases; 
 
 Here a portrait, there a painting; 
 Here a maiden meek and lowly, 
 There the Christ-child pure and holy, 
 
 Fit to cheer a heart that's fainting ; 
 
 Little cliildren, fresh and winning. 
 
 People sinned against and sinning ; 
 
 Kings and queens with hardened faces, 
 
 Dressed in satins, jewels, laces ; 
 
 People of all sorts and races ; 
 
 Gatherings on the golden Rhine ; 
 
 All the lovely, pure, divine. 
 
 Thought the artist, "These are mine;" 
 
354 
 
 THE LOST VISION. 
 
 Nay, though in his hands a painting, 
 Yet he saw it not ; his fainting 
 
 Heart rebelled against the spell that bound him tight ; 
 For through all, he saw a maiden, 
 Drooping lashes, dewy-laden, 
 
 And two eyes as dark as night. 
 When the power of genius bound him, 
 Yet for all the world around him, 
 If the queen had for it crowned him. 
 
 He could never paint the vision. 
 Yet she seemed to stand beside him, 
 And her fingers seemed to guide him, 
 Though his very own defied him ; 
 
 And his pencil laughed derision. 
 He had read the book's last pages ; 
 Had been praised by priests and sages, 
 Won a name 'twould live for ages ; 
 
 Nothing seemed to satisfy. 
 "I must paint the vision fair, 
 Round her forehead and her hair 
 Weave a crown a queen might wear. 
 
 Then contented I can die." 
 He had travelled everywhere; 
 Women met he, passing fair 
 
 Who had praised him to his face. 
 But the vision never yet 
 In his travels had he met 
 
 Who had satisfied his grace. 
 'Twas evening, an evening chill and gray ; 
 And 'neath the gaslight's streaming, brilliant ray, 
 
 In St. Aubyn our hero artist sat. 
 The theatre was thronged from aisle to aisle, 
 People were nodding, giving smile for smile; 
 It kept the artist bowing all the while. 
 
 While now and then he heard the smaller chat : 
 "The Madame Leonora, so she gives her name." 
 Again, " The world is ringing with her fame ; 
 As lovely as a vision, so they say ; 
 Was twenty, one year ago this May." 
 But here the music struck a glorious strain. 
 
THE LOST VISION. 
 
 355 
 
 The curtain rose ; and from a deep green wood 
 
 Came forth a maiden ; underneath a snood 
 
 A wealth of golden tresses fell 'most to her feet ; 
 
 Her eyes were dark as night, her glances fearless, sweet ; 
 
 Her hands were clasped, her eyes gazed far away. 
 
 As if she strayed where mortals could not stray. 
 
 And all around her did the music float. 
 She wore two snow-white roses in her hair, 
 And not a jewel graced her form so fair. 
 
 Except a clasp of pearls around her throat. 
 She was to those who heard her singing there, 
 A spirit for this sin-clad earth too fair; 
 But to the artist 'twas his vanished vision ; 
 No longer did his pencil laugh derision. 
 He saw her lovely face, he heard her voice, 
 'Twas as an angel, bidding him rejoice; 
 He heard the pathos of her wondrous singing, 
 But to his canvas was his spirit winging ; 
 He heard the wail, the sob, the sad despair. 
 The curtain dropped, the singer was not there, 
 But all the time he saw her face so fair. 
 He reached his home ; the light burnt hour by hour; 
 He painted his ideal while in his power. 
 All his soul burned, was inspired, 
 And he labored, never tired, 
 Till from off the canvas brought he forth a famous painting. 
 
 Artist's dream, and poet's story. 
 
 Heralded all around by glory, 
 Fit to cheer his heart when fainting. 
 
 'Twas the portrait of a maiden. 
 
 Drooping lashes, heavy-laden. 
 And eyes like purple pansies all half blown ; 
 
 'Twas a childish face and bearing, 
 
 All the lovely features wearing 
 The trusting frankness of a child half grown. 
 
 All her form was wrapt in glory. 
 
 And her own face told its story ; 
 She is trustful as a child. 
 
 She knows nought of grief or sorrow, 
 
 All the world's a glad to-morrow. 
 She is pure and undefiled. 
 
356 THE LOST VISION. 
 
 All the sky above was blue, 
 
 And the ground was wet with dew ; 
 All around was love and glory. 
 
 'Twas a sweet flower, Nature's moulding; 
 
 All its leaves she was unfolding. 
 'Twas a poet's lovely story. 
 And at last the artist slept, 
 And the moonbeams idly crept 
 * Above his face sublime in glory, 
 
 Conscious he'd achieved a painting 
 Fit to cheer a heart when fainting, 
 
 That could rival brush or story. 
 In his dreams he saw her quaintly 
 Sitting, with her forehead saintly 
 
 Crowned with flowers not full blown ; 
 And he murmured, " Emblem meet 
 Of the maiden fair and sweet, 
 
 Who is not a woman grown." 
 Ere the sunbeams in the morning 
 Crept into his room, adorning 
 
 It with cheering brightness. 
 He was up and he was doing, 
 While the doves outside a-cooing 
 
 Could not match his heart for lightness. 
 Was not this his heart's desire? 
 Had his spirit burned with fire, 
 Reaching up to something higher, 
 All these weary years for naught? 
 Had a spirit stood beside him. 
 Cheerful, patient, calm, to guide him, 
 To point upward, cheer and chide him, 
 But to find him what he sought? 
 And at last the conflict's ended ; 
 His proud spirit had unbended. 
 Hope, despair, and triumph blended, 
 
 Formed at last a picture quaint ; 
 'Twas a maiden meek and lowly. 
 Face Madonna-shaped and holy, 
 All her features wearing solely 
 
 Love and pureness, like a saint. 
 
THE LOST VISION. 
 
 35 7 
 
 'Round her were the waters gleaming, 
 But she stood a maiden, dreaming. 
 While the brilliant sun was beaming 
 
 In a glittering, golden sheen ; 
 Ah, she was a vision saintly, 
 And the artist, smiling quaintly, 
 
 Called her simply Madeline. 
 Now, as if the charm was broken. 
 Or as if the picture'd spoken. 
 
 Suddenly the world awoke ; 
 Not to find the artist famous, — 
 
 That was done, oh, years before, — 
 But to find him kneeling stilly 
 
 Just inside the studio door; 
 Kneeling there before ids easel. 
 
 In the sun's bright, golden sheen ; 
 Kneeling there beside the vision. 
 
 By his finished Madeline. 
 With the last stroke of his pencil 
 
 Drew he his last noble breath ; 
 He had drawn the vanished vision, 
 
 And had closed his eyes in death. 
 He had drawn the vision fair, 
 'Round her forehead and her hair 
 Wove a crown a queen might wear. 
 
 And at last was satisfied. 
 He had read the book's last pages ; 
 Had been praised by priests and sages; 
 Won a name 'twould live for ages; 
 
 And contented he had died. 
 When the first fair beams of morning 
 Crept into his room, adorning 
 
 It with loving brightness, 
 It had kissed fair Madeline, 
 And the dead man too, I ween. 
 
 And the noble head of bowed and silver whiteness, 
 Bowed with seventy years of glory. 
 'Twas the old, old touching story. 
 
 Bowed with glory, not with shame, 
 There before his Madeline. 
 
358 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 In the sunlight's brilliant sheen 
 He had died, the man of fame. 
 
 Kneeling there beside his easel, 
 In the sunlight's golden sheen, - 
 
 Kneeling there beside the vision, 
 By his finished Madeline, 
 
 With a smile upon his face. 
 
 He had run his earthly race. 
 May 26, 1882. 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 Hear the crying of the wind, 
 
 Dreary wind, 
 Hear the sighing of the wind. 
 
 Weary wind. 
 Hear the sobbing and the tlirobbing. 
 Hear the shrieking and the creaking, 
 Hear the moaning and the groaning 
 
 Of the wind. 
 Hear the crying and the sighing 
 
 Of the wind. 
 
 Hear the whirling of the wind. 
 
 Surly wind. 
 Hear the purling of the wind. 
 
 Burly wind. 
 Hear the creeping and the sweeping, 
 Hear the raging and the waging, 
 Hear the rustling and the bustling 
 
 Of the wind. 
 Hear the shaking and the quaking 
 
 Of the wind. 
 
 Hear the hurrying of the wind, 
 
 Gusty wind, 
 Hear the scurrying of the wind, 
 
 Dusty wind. 
 
GOOD-NIGHT, BABY^ GOOD-NIGHT. 359 
 
 Hear the quivering and the shivering, 
 Hear the wavering and the quavering, 
 Hear the rattling and the battling 
 
 Of the wind. 
 Hear the howling and the growling 
 
 Of the wind. 
 
 Hear the prowling of the wind, 
 
 Eerie wind. 
 Hear the howling of the wind, 
 
 Dreary wind. 
 Hear the rapping and the tapping. 
 Hear the racing and the pacing, 
 Hear the rumbling and the mumbling 
 
 Of the wind. 
 Hear the muttering and the fluttering 
 
 Of the wind. 
 
 1882. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT, BABY, GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night; 
 The lilies are clothed in their dresses of white, 
 The bluebells are shutting their eyes up tight, 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night. 
 The boats glide softly over the deep. 
 The wavelets ripple and murmur and sweep. 
 The mermen and mermaids are going to sleep. 
 
 The moon is coming up over the heiglu. 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night. 
 
 Good -night, baby, good -night ; 
 The fire-flies are lighting their lanterns red, 
 The birdies are cuddled up safe in their bed. 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night. 
 
360 GOOD-NIGHT, BABY, GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 The doves are singing their loving coo, 
 The owl is shrieking tu-whit, tu-whoo, 
 The fairies are bathing their faces in dew. 
 
 The day is pluming its wings for flight. 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night. 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night; 
 All dressed for Dreamland in misty white, 
 Come, shut up your loving brown eyes so bright. 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night. 
 The flowers have gone to bed long ago, 
 The jolly old moon is laughing, I trow ; 
 He thinks you are sound asleep, I know. 
 
 And into Dreamland have taken your flight; 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night. 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night; 
 The wind is sighing among the corn, 
 The hunter is blowing the bugle-horn, 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night. 
 The bells are ringing up in the steeple, 
 Are ringing their tunes out clear and bright, 
 Listen ! I hear the fairy people, 
 
 And the violets whisper, half in fright, 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night. 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night. 
 Was there ever before such a wakeful sprite ! 
 The wind is angry ; he's blown out the light. 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night. 
 The buttercup's nodding her golden crown, 
 The daisy is trying hard not to frown, — 
 Ah, drooping now are the curls of brown ! 
 
 Into Dreamland he's taken his flight, 
 
 Good-night, baby, good-night. 
 
 Friday, June 23, 1882. 
 
BABY MA Y ASL EEP. 3 6 1 
 
 BABY MAY ASLEEP. 
 
 Eyelids softly closed down 
 O'er two eyes of deepest brown. 
 
 Breathing regular and sweet, 
 Two wee pink and dimpled feet. 
 
 Four white teeth, a pearly row ; 
 Forehead pure and white as snow, 
 
 Over which, a silken crown, 
 Droppeth golden ringlets down. 
 
 Two pink cheeks as plump as peaches j 
 Little hand, that ever reaches 
 
 After some unbidden treasure ; 
 Dainty ears, that in a measure 
 
 Are akin to fairy shells. 
 Where the Naiad softly dwells. 
 
 One wee dimple, hide-and-seek 
 Playing with the rosy cheek. 
 
 Pink-tipped toes, that shyly hide 
 'Neath the night-dress, as a bride 
 
 Screens her lily face so fair 
 'Neath her veil or 'neath her hair. 
 
 Golden lashes, dropping down 
 O'er the eyes of hidden brown. 
 
 Two red lips methinks to kiss 
 Would be like a touch of bliss. 
 31 
 
362 
 
 A BIT OF SCANDAL. 
 
 Two fair arms of ivory whiteness, 
 
 If you touch them, touch with lightness. 
 
 Golden head bowed softly down. 
 Closed tight the eyes of brown. 
 
 Summer sunshine drooping o'er her; 
 Baby May ! I do adore her. 
 
 What a picture lying there, 
 
 While the sunshine glints her hair ! 
 
 See the ringlets drooping down 
 O'er her forehead like a crown. 
 
 Ne'er a fairer can she wear, 
 Till she wears one over there. 
 
 Sleep on, baby, fair of face; 
 You are nearer now to grace 
 
 Than you'll ever be again, 
 
 Till you've passed the years of sin. 
 
 And you sleep that blessed sleep 
 From which none e'er wake to weep. 
 
 Sleep on, golden-tressed fay ; 
 Sleep on, baby, while you may. 
 
 Friday, June 23, 1882. 
 
 A BIT OF SCANDAL. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 " A HANDSOME man ?" Oh, yes, indeed ; 
 
 Why shouldn't he be handsome? 
 But I wouldn't be in his wife's shoes. 
 
 No, not for any ransom. 
 
A BIT OF SCANDAL. 
 
 363 
 
 " An unkind husband ?" No, my dear; 
 
 But then so stiff and chilling. 
 Now, Nellie never was that way, — 
 
 Was always sweet and willing. 
 
 But now she holds her head quite high, — 
 You know she's worth a million ; 
 
 To me 'twould make no difference 
 If she were worth a billion. 
 
 We played together many a time, 
 When she was old Grey's daughter; 
 
 But now she counts her carriages, 
 Has diamonds of first water. 
 
 Old Grey, he was a drinking man, 
 
 And Nellie was a beauty, 
 She was the only child he had ; 
 
 But then she did her duty. 
 
 She never left him to the last, 
 
 Though the old squire adored her; 
 
 Before she'd leave him there to die 
 She'd seen the earth closed o'er her. 
 
 Well, old Grey died; the squire he tried 
 Right hard, right hard to get her; 
 
 But then the millionaire stepped up, 
 And — well, he wouldn't let her. 
 
 Their wedding was a simple one, 
 
 But such a grand reception ! 
 To use my dear friend Nellie's words, 
 
 " 'Twas quite beyond conception." 
 
 He gave her for a wedding gift 
 
 Oh, such a diamond pin ! 
 For my part, to spend money so 
 
 I think is just a sin. 
 
364 
 
 A BIT OF SCANDAL. 
 
 " Not for a wealthy banker's wife?" 
 Oh, well, she's old Grey's daughter, 
 
 If she can count her carriages 
 And diamonds of first water. 
 
 Now, Harry gives me all I want, — 
 
 You've seen my opal ring? 
 If I do say so myself, 
 
 'Tis quite a costly thing. 
 
 I told you that I've seen her boy ; 
 
 By her I mean Nell Weston ; 
 "Is he as handsome as my own?" 
 
 My dear, why, what a question ! 
 
 But just between you and me, 
 
 He looks just like old Grey : 
 The very eyes, the very hair. 
 
 What did I hear you say? 
 
 You're going? Well, I do declare, 
 
 How fast the minutes fly ! 
 An hour and ten, it isn't fair, — 
 
 There, darling, do not cry. 
 
 You have no little tease like mine ; 
 
 You go, — good-by, my dear ; 
 You'll never mention what I've said? 
 
 But then I have no fear. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 She's gone. What did you say, Jeannette ? 
 
 A caller, — Mrs. Weston ? 
 I cannot see her in this guise, 
 
 Jeannette, 'tis out the question. 
 
 Well, bring my silk ; now fix my hair ; 
 
 There, bring my rouge and ring, 
 And bracelets, for she'll have her own, — 
 
 Her diamonds, spiteful thing ! 
 
A BIT OF SCANDAL. 365 
 
 What has she on, my dear Jeannette? 
 
 Her violet silk ! Dear me ! 
 I've been dressing all this time ; 
 
 The clock is striking three. 
 
 Why, Nellie, how are you, my dear? 
 
 (She's worn her diamond ring !) 
 I'm very glad to have you here. 
 
 (And bracelets, spiteful thing!) 
 
 You came to ask me out to ride. 
 
 (Oh, what a lovely feather !) 
 I think I really can't accept. 
 
 Although 'tis charming weather. 
 
 You cannot put your riding off. 
 And dine with us to-night? 
 
 You cannot? why, I am displeased, 
 And call it quite a slight. 
 
 What watering-place are you, my dear, 
 
 A-going to this season? 
 Not any ! I'm surprised, ma chere. 
 
 (I think I know the reason.) 
 
 To Europe you are going ; ah, 
 
 I'd never cross the water, 
 Though Harry pleads with me to go. 
 
 (To Europe, — old Grey's daughter !) 
 
 Next week you sail ; how very soon ! 
 
 We part then for the season : 
 Farewell. Ah, now she's gone; 
 
 I think I'd lose my reason 
 
 If she had stayed five minutes more. 
 
 To Europe ! old Grey's daughter ! 
 And I must languish down the shore. 
 
 While she's across the water. 
 31* 
 
366 TBE HORSES' TALK. 
 
 There, take away my ring, Jeannette, 
 And hush that baby's crying. 
 
 He isn't well? I do not care. 
 And would not if he's dying. 
 
 I'll spoil ray face for Dora's ball ? 
 
 That's so ; you're right, Jeannette. 
 I'll have a talk with Hal to-night, — 
 
 Don't let the baby fret. 
 
 And next week I will have that pin 
 And diamonds of first water. 
 
 What talk 'twill make when she is gone 
 To Europe, — old Grey's daughter ! 
 
 Monday, July 3, 1882. 
 
 THE HORSES' TALK. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 Said a city horse to a country horse, 
 
 One day as they stood together, 
 " The temperature is at blood heat ; 
 
 Indeed, it is fearful weather." 
 
 Said the country horse to the city horse, 
 
 " The heat here is alarming ; 
 But out in the country, where I live, 
 
 The weather indeed is charming." 
 
 Said the city horse, impatiently, 
 " The flies are a dreadful bother." 
 
 Said the country horse, with a thoughtful neigh, 
 "Well, yes, I think so, rather." 
 
 Said the city horse, with a sidelong look, 
 
 " What do you do this weather?" 
 Said the country horse, good-naturedly, 
 
 "I browse among the heather, 
 
THE HORSES' TALK. 
 
 367 
 
 "And rest beneath the chestnut's shade, 
 Or take a bath in the hill-side brook ; 
 
 And when I have done a haril day's work, 
 I sleep the next in some shady nook." 
 
 "What !" said the city horse, aroused, 
 " I hope you're not compelled to work?" 
 
 "Of course," said the other, contemptuously; 
 " I never was taught to be a shirk." 
 
 " Oh, dear me !" said the city horse, 
 VVitli a scornful toss of his plaited tail; 
 
 " If I worked very hard indeed, 
 
 I would soon be worn as thin as a rail. 
 
 "Pray, who owns you?" asked the city horse. 
 With a scornful look at the country steed. ' 
 
 "My master," the country horse replied, 
 "Is a good old man named Doctor Reed." 
 
 "A doctor's horse !" said the dainty bay, 
 With a sidelong look at the worn old gig; 
 
 " I might have known, if I'd only thought, 
 That none but a doctor could own that rig. 
 
 "Now, whether you'd like to know or not, 
 
 My owner is Miss Olive Brown ; 
 The only child of a rich old heir. 
 
 And the pet of all the folks in town. 
 
 "I've naught to do but ride her out 
 
 To some picnic or some ball, — 
 To canter along the sandy beach. 
 
 And finish up with an evening call. 
 
 " Oh, 'tis an easy life indeed ; 
 
 I never did one hard day's work. 
 Indeed, 'tis true, my country friend, 
 
 That I was born to be a shirk." 
 
368 
 
 THE HORSES' TALK. 
 
 " I do not think, my city friend," 
 Tlie country steed now grave replied, 
 
 " To be a dawdle or a shirk. 
 
 Should be your boast or be your pride. 
 
 " The tables turn, ray city friend. 
 
 And when at least you think they may. 
 
 The time may come when you may wish 
 You'd not spent all your life in play." 
 
 They parted then, the horses did. 
 
 And each one took his different road ; 
 
 The country horse the gig before. 
 The other with a lighter load. 
 
 They met again ere two years passed. 
 But, oh, how different now were they ! 
 
 The country horse was fat and sleek, 
 But worn to bones the dainty bay. 
 
 Miss Olive, in some wild caprice, 
 Had sold her favorite pet away: 
 
 And more than once the spoiled horse wished 
 He'd not spent all his life in play. 
 
 Said the city horse, with a morbid neigh, 
 "I'm 'most worn out with this awful strife. 
 
 Now you have scarcely naught to do ? 
 My last days are my worst in life." 
 
 " My friend," the country horse replied, 
 " If you would never try to shirk. 
 
 Your master would not be unkind. 
 
 And not so hard would be your work. 
 
 "And now, my friend, all you can do 
 
 Is, try to get accustomed to. 
 And patient be with work and strife, 
 
 And not so hard will be your life." 
 
ODE TO THE MOON. 369 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 My friends, if you have trials in youth, 
 Why, like the country horse, forsooth, 
 In after-days may come the rest. 
 And your last days may be your best. 
 
 July, 1882. 
 
 ODE TO THE MOON. 
 
 Moon, fair moon, riding up in the height; 
 Moon, brilliant moon, fairy queen of the night ! 
 What shall the burden of my song to you be, 
 As you sail serene in your azure sea? 
 
 Tell me what makes you hide your face 
 ' Midst the billowy clouds of fringed lace? 
 Is it the glance of some falling star 
 As it shoots by in its aerial car? 
 
 Perhaps 'tis your own sweet face in the broek 
 That makes you blush as you bend to look ; 
 Or the rapt glance of some maiden fair. 
 As she shyly looks from her tressed hair. 
 
 You are not vain, fair queen of the night; 
 That I can tell by your glances bright. 
 You woo the flowers with tender kiss, 
 And fill the lover's soul with bliss. 
 
 Moon, tender moon, down toward me bend! 
 Your face indeed is the face of a friend. 
 You shine on her as well as on me. 
 Though between us rolls the crashing sea. 
 
 You have seen sorrow, that I can tell ; 
 Anguish and pain and pity as well. 
 Pity me, moon, bright moon, as you ride. 
 And carry the light of your face to my bride. 
 
 y 
 
370 
 
 ODE TO THE MOON. 
 
 'Twas you that taught me how dear was my love; 
 'Twas by you I swore, as you sailed above, 
 That naught but death could part us, — my bride, — 
 And now I am here, and she on yon side. 
 
 They buried her there, down by the sea. 
 
 Where often you saw us, my darling and me ; 
 
 And my life seemed to die with my darling's last breath. 
 
 And I prayed and I longed for the grim angel death. 
 
 Moon, fairy moon, in your aerial flight, 
 Tell me, O radiant queen of the night. 
 Often such sorrow as mine do you see ? 
 What makes you look with such pity on me? 
 
 Why do you hide your face 'neath the cloud? 
 Though you are gentle, you surely are proud; 
 Else why hide your beautiful face from me, 
 When yours is the face I most like to see? 
 
 Moon, fairy moon, the stars in yon throng 
 Bend to you, bow to you, floating along. 
 Are they, fair moon, expressing their love 
 When they twinkle and shimmer in heaven above? 
 
 Moon, fairy moon, dream of the poet 
 Art thou, O queen of the night ; dost thou know it ? 
 The summer winds hasten with tidings to thee. 
 And all for thee, love, is the song of the sea. 
 
 When thou bend'st to the water to kiss it good-night, 
 Dost thou hear it murmur and splash with delight? 
 The winds and the flowers, the sea and the poet. 
 Worship thee, moon, fairy moon ; dost thou know it ? 
 
 Thou lullest the mariner into calm sleep ; 
 Thou closest the eyelids too heavy to weep ; 
 Thou lightest the pain, bringest hope to the heart. 
 In sorrow and joy thou hast a part. 
 
A LITTLE DREAMER. 371 
 
 Moon, fairy moon, riding up in the height, 
 Thy splendor is paling ; 1 bid thee good-night. 
 But when the stars herald the tidings of light. 
 Then wilt thou come again, O goddess so bright ! 
 
 1882. 
 
 A LITTLE DREAMER. 
 
 Little one, of what dreamest thou 
 
 Upon thy grassy pillow? 
 What sweet thought brings the light to thy brow, 
 
 And makes thy heart heave like the billow? 
 
 Friday, July 21, 1882. 
 
 If I could express the meaning. 
 And speak freely of my love, 
 
 'Twould be deeper than the ocean, 
 And as true as God above. 
 
 He gave me all my heart could wish. 
 But never one word of love ; 
 
 Ah, many a time I've lain on the grass, 
 While the daisies swayed above ! 
 
 May your trials be few, my friend. 
 On your path grow brightest flowers ; 
 
 May the night-times of your life 
 Be as calm as youth's bright hours ; 
 
 May those eyes, so bright and tender. 
 Never dim with tearful showers. 
 
372 
 
 A WITHE J? ED ROSE. 
 
 UNFINISHED POEMS. 
 
 A WITHERED ROSE. 
 
 Only a withered rose-bud : 
 
 Withered, and dried, and old ; 
 But I would not toss it downward, 
 
 Not for a crown of gold. 
 
 For the heart of that tiny rose-bud 
 Holds the hope of my life within ; 
 
 It does not whisper like other buds, 
 Sadly, "what might have been," 
 
 But it whispers what will, and shall be ; 
 
 It tells of the golden past, — 
 Of the hours that were so fraught with love, 
 
 So sweet that they could not last. 
 
 It tells of the wondrous summer days 
 When we wandered among the corn ; 
 
 Ah ! then it was that all life's sweets 
 Within my heart were born. 
 
 What is life to the orphan? 
 
 A weary waste of days, 
 When not a glimmer of blessed light 
 
 Gleams through the dreary haze. 
 
 I was a lonely orphan, 
 
 Unloved, and I loved no one ; 
 And many a time I sadly wished 
 
 That my earthly race were run. 
 
ALPHABET OF THE SEASONS. 
 
 373 
 
 But there came one day to the village 
 
 A blue-eyed, ragged lad; 
 The wide, wide world that stretched around 
 
 Was the only home he had. 
 
 I was the squire's niece Eunice. 
 
 He was a stern, grave man ; 
 And it always seemed to me 
 
 That he was under some heavy ban. 
 
 ALPHABET OF THE SEASONS. 
 
 A is for the azure clouds, 
 
 Floating everywhere ; 
 B is for the bluebells, 
 
 Nodding in the air. 
 C is for the cherry-blooms, 
 
 Hanging high and white; 
 D is for the daisies, 
 
 Witii their faces bright, 
 E is for the eglantine, 
 
 With its fragrant flower; 
 F is for the modest ferns, 
 
 Hiding from the shower. 
 G is for the golden-rod. 
 
 Fainting in the sedges; 
 H is for the heliotrope, 
 
 Hiding by the hedges. 
 I is for the invalid, 
 
 The lily of the valley; 
 J is for the creeping-jenny, 
 
 Everywhere you sally. 
 K is for the Kenilworth, 
 
 The ivy on the wall ; 
 L is for the snow-white lily, 
 
 Standing straight and tall. 
 
374 
 
 A VERY REMARKABLE MAN. 
 
 A VERY REMARKABLE MAN. 
 
 There was a remarkable man, 
 Who lived in the hotel De Chan, 
 Which is down in the south of Japan, 
 
 Now, a tale I'll relate — 
 Which is true, sure as fate — 
 About this umbrageous young man. 
 
 He wooed two pretty young girls, — 
 Some said for their beautiful curls ; 
 But I'll tell you the truth, if I can. 
 
 One had a most curious fan. 
 
 And that very unhappy young man 
 
 Said, I'll have that fan if I can. 
 
 But, alas for that beautiful fan ! 
 But, alas for that unhappy man 1 
 Who no longer lives down in Japan, — 
 
 Bold, umbrageous, wretched young man ! 
 He stole that most beautiful fan ; 
 Then he took to his heels, and he ran. 
 
 But others they ran, and ran fast. 
 
 But they found him a wretched outcast, 
 
 And almost a-breathing his last. 
 
 They found him, — ay, yes, indeed ; 
 
 But his clothes had 'most gone to seed. 
 
 You'd never have known he was Chinaman breed. 
 
 Go, give this miserable fan 
 
 To the girl who lives in Japan ; 
 
 Tell her sometimes to think of the man, — 
 
DAISY'S DREAM. 
 
 375 
 
 Of that wretched, umbrageous young man, 
 Who lived in the hotel De Chan, 
 'Way down in the south of Japan. 
 ****** 
 
 DAISY'S DREAM. 
 
 I WAS lying under the willow, 
 
 When a song floated over my head, — 
 
 A song of sweet music and laughter, mamma. 
 That loved the tall roses red. 
 
 And a cloud swept lightly above me, 
 
 Carried by fairies, it seemed ; 
 There were fairies with pearly wings, mamma, 
 
 Aud jewels that sparkled and gleamed. 
 
 There were rose-colored clouds of beauty, mamma, 
 
 And 'way up in the sky was a star ; 
 It twinkled and sparkled and laughed, mamma, 
 
 And it seemed above me so far. 
 
 A DREAM OF THE MONTHS. 
 
 Methinks that as I slept, last night, 
 I saw the twelve months pass me by ; 
 
 Some with a smile of keen delight. 
 And others with a bitter sigh. 
 
 I dreamed that in my dream I stood 
 Upon the bridge ; and as I stood, 
 
 I felt a rush of icy air, 
 
 While suddenly, from out the wood, 
 
376 
 
 A DREAM OF THE MONTHS. 
 
 Before my half bewildered gaze, I 
 
 Saw a stately figure rise, 
 With icy mantle, round him wrapt, 
 
 With frozen head and glittering eyes. 
 
 "I am the king of months," cried he, 
 
 " All others follow in my train, 
 I hold great power in my hand, 
 
 I make the poor cry out with pain. 
 
 " I take the shelter from their heads ; 
 
 I freeze the life-blood in their veins; 
 I torture them till life is gone. 
 
 And they lie down in earth's cold beds. 
 
 "I hold great power in my hand ; 
 
 Of smiles and sunshine I am chary. 
 Dost know me now?" he shrilly cried, — 
 
 "The king of months — old January?" 
 
 I shivered at his hollow tone ; 
 
 But as he passed into the wood 
 The sound of footsteps nearer came, — 
 
 Upon the bridge another stood. 
 
 He was all powdered o'er with snow, 
 
 And hung with garlands of bright holly; 
 
 His step was stately, grave, and slow ; 
 His face was shining, round, and jolly. 
 
 "And who art thou?" amazed I cried. 
 
 Audacious, I had broke the spell. 
 "Forgotten me?" the old month cried, 
 
 " When thou wast young thou knew me well. 
 
 " I am the month that brings the snow, — 
 That brings the sleigh-rides gay and jolly; 
 
 That brings the warmth and winter glow, 
 The sled-rides and the brilliant holly. 
 
A DREAM OF THE MONTHS. 377 
 
 " I bring that dear old-fashioned day 
 The children love, Saint Valentine's, — 
 
 When dying embers burn again, 
 
 And cold hearts warmed by simple lines. 
 
 " When those apart are joined again, 
 When smiles and kisses are not chary; 
 
 And now you know me?" gay he cried, — 
 "I am the month of February." 
 
 His footsteps scarce had died away 
 When there appeared a curious form ; 
 
 His mantle torn, his hair awry. 
 As if he'd been exposed to storm. 
 
 " I am the month of March," he cried, 
 
 In surly voice and sulky look. 
 "I'll teach the flowers a thing or two. 
 
 And I'll shut up that saucy brook." 
 
 His voice was fierce, his looks were wild. 
 
 His tones in growling died away ; 
 In figure he was scarce a child, — 
 
 A child that did not mean to play. 
 
 He glowered at me with surly looks. 
 Then turned, and with a noisy war, 
 
 "Winter's gone — but March is here," 
 And followed those that went before. 
 
 Then came a maiden all in white. 
 
 With modest form and gentle smiles. 
 I glanced at her, amused all at 
 "Her half-coquettish, maiden wiles. 
 
 She glanced at me, half shy, half sweet, 
 And murmured, "I am April, dear, 
 
 I bring the dainty crocus-buds 
 
 From out the ground so brown and sere. 
 
378 
 
 A DREAM OF THE MONTHS. 
 
 " I bring the fresh, green, yielduig grass, 
 The day when shepherds come so far, — 
 
 The lovely, lovely Easter morn, 
 
 The bright and early morning star." 
 
 I watched her flitting lightly onward, 
 With crocus-buds bound in her hair ; 
 
 "And sure," thought I, " though May is charming, 
 Sweet April may lay claim to fair." 
 
 And now I heard the sweetest music, 
 
 Entrancing, coaxing me away; 
 And through a mist of rainbow colors 
 
 Came forth the bonny month of May. 
 
 She dropped her rose-crowned head of golden. 
 And dropped two rose-buds at my feet ; 
 
 Then murmured, "I am May," so lightly. 
 In tones half frightened, shy, and sweet. 
 
 She stopped, and flung a shower of roses 
 
 Into the gayly floating stream ; 
 Then smiled so archly, and was going; 
 
 And then methinks that in my dream 
 
 I cried, " O lovely month of roses, 
 
 Pray do not go away so soon !" 
 But off 'midst the silver-crowned mountains 
 
 A voice cried, " May goes, cometh June." 
 
 It was enough : no words were needed ; 
 
 The silence was itself the sweetest tune. 
 I watched, and through the ever-silvery vapors 
 
 Came silently the month of roses — June. 
 
 Beneath her feet were brightest roses scattered, 
 And buds were woven in her golden hair. 
 
 While fell around her form a cloud of sunshine, 
 And rippled lightly o'er her arms so bare. 
 
CHRISTMAS-E VE. 
 
 379 
 
 " I am the month of June," she said ; 
 
 Then lightly bowed her golden head, 
 And dropped one rose-leaf fair and sweet, 
 
 And then passed on with noiseless feet. 
 
 All other months had something said ; 
 
 She had but bowed her royal head ; 
 Old Winter's bride — fair Summer's queen — ■ 
 
 Had passed into the strange unseen. 
 
 Now coming on through lightning-flashes, 
 Through thunder, wind, and rain and blast, 
 
 With angry frowns and wrinkled forehead. 
 The next month now came hurrying past. 
 
 " I am July !" she cried, and frowning. 
 While every word to thunder turned, 
 
 And downward heavy rain came pouring, 
 And all around the liiihtninii burned. 
 
 I- 
 
 CHRISTMAS-EVE. 
 
 'TwAS Christmas-eve, and the bells were ringing, 
 The street-lamps their brilliant lights were flinging 
 
 Across the pavements of spotless white. 
 Relieving the dark of the winter night. 
 
 The rich, in their furs so warmly drest, 
 Were hurrying home to the dear home-nest. 
 
 The poor, neither richly clad nor warm. 
 Were battling weakly against the storm. 
 
38o 
 
 CHRISTMAS-E VE. 
 
 For the snow was falling in gusty whirls, 
 Robing the earth in a dress of pearls ; 
 
 Powdering the streets with snowy white, 
 And adding a charm to the winter night. 
 
 'Twas Christmas-eve, and the bells were ringing; 
 Inside the churches were music and singing, — 
 
 Singing the anthems for Christmas morn. 
 That glorious day when the Christ was born. 
 
 Little Leon's fingers were numb and cold, 
 
 And powdered with snow were the curls of gold. 
 
 A beautiful child so thinly clad, 
 With wistful eyes so dark and sad; 
 
 An angel face and a slender form. 
 Too frail to be out in such a storm. 
 
 He had been to many a house that day. 
 For some to sing, for some to play. 
 
 He has now turned from his weary chase, 
 With a pitiful look on his childish face. 
 
 For only five pence in his pockets lay, — 
 It was all he had earned that wintry day. 
 
 Poor, sad little orphan ! His mother was dead ; 
 No home, — not even a place for his head. 
 
 Poor child ! with uplifted face to the sky. 
 
 He thought of the One that could hear his weak cry. 
 
 He thought of the One in the low cattle-shed ; 
 He thought that Child had no place for his head. 
 
 So he prayed, as he struggled on through the snow, 
 '^ Father, lead me where I should go !" 
 
CHRISTMAS-E VE. 
 
 381 
 
 A burst of rmisic comes over the street, 
 A ray of light streams doVvn at his feet, 
 
 While " Glory to God !" floats to him there, 
 And " Glory to God !" rings on the air. 
 
 The music ceases ; he gropes for. the door, 
 And steps half frightened along the floor, 
 
 And enters a pew, and bows his head. 
 For " Let us pray," the minister said. 
 
 When the prayer is over he raises his face ; 
 There are people there in jewels and lace. 
 
 Again bursts forth the glad refrain, 
 Over and over and over again. 
 
 " Glory to God !" the orj^han sings; 
 "Glory to God !" the anthem rings. 
 
 Curled in the pew so snug and warm. 
 The child thinks not of the raging storm 
 
 Till the glorious anthem dies away, 
 
 And the hours move on toward Christmas-day. 
 
 The people pass through the open door, 
 ****** * 
 
382 
 
 SHE SWEETLY WENT TO SLEEPr 
 
 Sunday, September lo, 1882. 
 
 "SHE TURNED OVER, AND SWEETLY WENT 
 TO SLEEP." 
 
 She fell asleep. 
 
 Pray do not weep : 
 She's left earth's keenest sorrow. 
 
 To tears and sighs 
 
 She's closed her eyes : 
 She'll wake in heaven to-morrow. 
 
 2. 
 
 * [For sixteen years, 
 Through hopes and fears, 
 
 She bravely bore her crosses. 
 The empty room. 
 Death's chilling gloom, — 
 
 Heaven's gain for her, our losses.] 
 
 Scarce three years old. 
 
 The hair of gold 
 Drops lightly o'er the dimpled shoulder. 
 
 She's slept, I know, 
 
 But never so ; 
 For sleeping now, she's older. 
 
 3- 
 
 She'll never wake, 
 Nor never take 
 The kiss 
 
 *In the above, Fannie's last poem, the first two verses were written and 
 read to her mother, who said, " Fannie, that seems as if you were writing 
 about yourself." When found among her unfinished poems, pencil-marks 
 had been drawn through the second verse, and the next one written in- 
 stead. It is copied just as she left it. 
 
TO HER FRIEND AND PLAYMATE. 
 
 l^Z 
 
 In memory of Fannie, the following selections were 
 composed by her mother. 
 
 TO HER FRIEND AND PLAYMATE. 
 
 Thy little friend and playmate dear 
 Has left this world for another sphere; 
 And many years may roll between 
 Before you two shall meet again. 
 
 She in her heavenly home above, 
 She in her heavenly home of love. 
 Will not forget thee, as she said, 
 Although she's numbered with the dead. 
 
 Her love will ever stronger grow. 
 As through the heavenly spheres she'll go. 
 She'll think of thee in her home so fair, 
 She'll think of thee she loved so dear; 
 
 Think of the times she spent on earth. 
 Will think of thee in her heavenly birth; 
 She'll think of thee in her home above. 
 Will think of thee in her home of love. 
 
 She'll think of thee in the mansions bright. 
 She'll think of thee with pure delight. 
 And long for thee her joys to share 
 In her bright liome so pure and fair. 
 
 "Forget me not," slie said at the last. 
 As tlwough the portals of death she passed, — 
 Passed on to dwell in her home on high ; 
 Passed on where pleasures never die. 
 
384 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Passed on to dwell with the saints above, 
 Passed on to dwell with God in love ; 
 Passed on to dwell with the angels bright, 
 Passed on to dwell where there is no night. 
 
 Many were the joys that are now gone by ; 
 Greater they will be when you'll meet on high,- 
 When you meet upon the other shore. 
 When you meet where parting will be no more. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 The shining angels doth around her stand ; 
 
 She is now amid that bright, happy band, 
 
 Covered with the overflowing spirit of God, 
 
 Borne on the heavenly plains to trod. 
 
 Amid the happy band she doth forever go. 
 
 On, on, and upward in knowledge forever to grow. 
 
 Her brother, so pure in beauty, is there. 
 
 And at her fair side her glory doth share. 
 
 Thus, hand in hand through the ranks they go, 
 
 Entwining all glory around their fair brow. 
 
 They now are by the great Shepherd led. 
 
 And by His Spirit forever are fed. 
 
 With the Son of the King in glory they shine, 
 
 On those beautiful banks so pure and divine. 
 
 The glorious robes of their Saviour they wear ; 
 
 Oh, think of the beauty they now with Him share ! 
 
 No more a wanderer or exile from home, 
 
 Safe unto the kingdom of heaven they've come. 
 
 With the glorified saints and angels on high, 
 
 There dwell our dear children in the fulness of joy. 
 
 The bright angel band doth around them go. 
 
 Leading to the banks where pure waters flow. 
 
 The knowledge of God amid those fair bowers 
 
 Fills their soul with bliss and heavenly powers. 
 
RESTING. 385 
 
 RESTING. 
 
 She is resting, resting now, 
 With a crown upon lier brow; 
 She who was so fair of face 
 Is resting now in God's embrace. 
 
 Resting now upon that shore 
 Where deatli will trouble her no more 
 Where pain and sickness cannot come 
 To mar the peace of her fair home. 
 
 Resting there beyond all strife ; 
 Resting from this painful life; 
 Resting upon the crystal shore, 
 Where pleasures are forevermore. 
 
 Resting upon the plain of life ; 
 Away from all pain and bitter strife; 
 Resting upon the other shore ; 
 Resting now, her sufferings o'er. 
 
 Resting beyond this mortal gloom ; 
 Resting where sorrow cannot come ; 
 Resting through one eternal day ; 
 God has wiped all tears away. 
 
 She is resting, resting now, 
 A heavenly halo around her brow ; 
 Resting now in God's embrace, 
 A heavenly halo around her face. 
 
 3i 
 
386 
 
 HEFEAFTER. 
 
 HEREAFTER. 
 
 When we've laid off this tenement of clay, 
 
 To purer worlds on high shall soar away, 
 
 Our joy will there be unspeakably bright, 
 
 And all our sorrows there be turned to light. 
 
 The realms of glory there on high we shall behold, — 
 
 The many mansions of eternal light ; 
 New beauties will ever to our sight unfold, 
 
 As we pass on through realms so bright. 
 The Shepherd of the glorious flock we there shall see; 
 He is the one that will forever welcome thee. 
 One glance of love from His all-powerful eye 
 Will fill our souls with ecstasies on high. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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