That when the mortals vex us, as often they ar› tain, Still, since my word is given, my thoughtless vow I will, I give the keen and subtle sting to you, O queen, and yet, In the wound it shall remain. Oh, behold your heartless choosing Is a bane and not a blessing! for you perish with its using!" The queen was very sorrowful and saw with pain and wonder, That in her selfish wishing she had made a wretched blunder. She saw, what all the years since then have been most surely proving, That gain is to the giver and love is for the loving; That blows strike back, that haters for hating but the worse are; That curses evermore come back and dwell beside the curser. -Good Cheer. CHERISHED LETTERS.*-MRS. ALEX. MCVEIGE Miller. I am sitting alone by the desolate hearth-stone, Like "echoes of harpstrings" that broke long ago; Four who have passed through the portals of heaven. Here is the letter all post-marked and blackened, Idolized Jamie, our blithe brother Jamie, From the author's revised manuscript by permission. Here is another for Jamie's pet sister, Some pitying stranger had written to me: Here is the missive from Bertha, our beauty, Beautiful Bertha, but altered and strange. I am keeping this record of Bertha's first sorrow, I see her sometimes in the pride of her grandeur, I loved him, I lost him, I would I were dead!" This in its envelope war-worn and tattered Is a letter from father to her he loved best,Father who died on the red field of honor With liberty's blood flowing out from his breast. Glad was the hour when the wild shout of victory Swelled at the nation's high heart like a flood, But costly the triumph, ah, dear was the victory Bought at the price of my father's best blood. Here is the tear-blotted farewell from Lula, Under the turf daisy-starred and fresh springing, My dearest has folded her hands on her breast. They wanted new angels to praise Him in heaven, And mother, dear mother was called with the rest Ah, but I missed her through long nights of anguish, Choking with sobs that I could not repress, While the fair, golden head of poor motherless Lily Nestled to sorrowful sleep on my breast. Here is the message that Lily was dying, Mother's sweet baby I reared as my own; Seventeen summers the angels had lent her, Then Lily, the bride of a twelvemonth, was flown. I kissed her cold lips, and I kissed her dead baby, Lily's fair baby, and robed them in white; And the fair, golden head that once slept on my bosom Dreams on a drearier pillow to-night. I am keeping this one for the sake of my lover, The loving and loved of my youth's perished May: And here is the ringlet whose gold matched my tresses Ere trouble and time turned the golden to gray. Something about it-a thought of caresses, A waft of the perfume he fancied the best— Touches the spring of a grief unforgotten, And gushes of feeling are shaking my breast. Ah, me, when the sad tears of mem'ry are flowing What trifles they seem that have made up the measure A word lightly spoken, a ring and a ringlet Sent back to the hearts that could prize them no more, And the fate of two proud loving hearts has been written And life's lonely problem is-how to endure? Pshaw! this is weakness, I thought I was braver, Where the love and the hopes of a lifetime have set! Where is the ribbon? There, tie up the letters! I was their first-born, their comfort, their darling, Waiting to go when the Father shall call me,— The last lonely leaf autumn hangs on the bough. DE QUINCY'S DEED.-Homer Greene, Red on the morn's rim rose the sun; Loud on the sweet air rang the call, Blast from the bugle and quick command; Spur to the steed's flank, fears in thrall, "Straight to the hill-top! Who's there first, He and his white steed both athirst For the mad sport of the fray. "Charge!" What a wild leap! One bright mass Whirls, like a storm cloud, up the hill; Hoofs in a fierce beat bruise the grass, Clang of the steel rings shrill, Eyes of the men flash fire as they pass, See! from an open cottage lane Sallies a child, where the meadow dips; Straight in the path of the charging train, Under the iron hoofs! Whose the fault? Killed? It is naught if the day be won. On! to the "Halt!" How he thunders it! "Halt!" What has De Quincy done? Checked, in a moment, the swift assault, Struck back saber and gun. “Back!" till the horses stand pawing the air, Throwing their riders from stirrup to mane. Down from his saddle he bends to where Lifts her with care till her golden hair Bears her from harm as he would his child, The fight? Did they win it? Aye! victory smiled IN THE DIME MUSEUM. A woman, on whose face deep lines had traced the words, "old without age," walked about in a dime museum leading a boy. "Hoo, wee!" the boy exclaimed, "look there." "That's the fat woman." "What made her so fat?" "I don't know." "Eating so much?" "I don't know, I tell you." 66 "Why?" "Because I don't want to be so fat." "Does it hurt?" "No-I think not." "Then why don't you want to be so fat?" "Because I couldn't get around." "But you wouldn't have to get around. Papa could get a big table an' you could set on it and "Hush!" "Why?" "If you don't hush I'll take you out of here." "Do you have to pay to go out?" "No." "But you had to pay to come in, didn't you?' "Yes." "Why don't you have to pay to go out?" "If you don't |