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hat when the mortals vex us, as often they ar tain,
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 blun
der. 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. McVerge MILLER.
I am sitting alone by the desolate hearth-stone,
Reading their letters while memories flow,
Like "echoes of harpstrings" that broke long ago;
Loved ones and lost ones,—they number but seven;
Four who have passed through the portals of heaven.
Jamie was a ming from over the sea,
Coming to home and to mother and me.
Here is another for Jamie's pet sister,
Some pitying stranger had written to me:
Under the beautiful, sorrowful sea.
Bertha who wedded the heir of the Grange;
Beautiful Bertha, but altered and strange.
Dear little Bertha, so gentle and fair-
Bertha's affection and Bertha's despair.
Haughty and stately, and cold as the snow,
And sigh for the heart lying broken below; It seems like a dream that her fair jeweled fingers
In bitterness traced the few lines that I read: “Come to me, sister, I seem to be dying,
I loved bim, 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,
Lula who would be an actress, she said; Silver-voiced Lula who flitted with summer
Where is she? where is she? living or dead! Never a word from the wilful young rover,
The joy or the grief of her fate is untold ;
Lula the darling lost lamb of the fold.
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;
Dreams on a drearier pillow to-night.
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-
And gushes of feeling are shaking my breast.
In sorrowful retrospect over the past,
Of anger that sunders our hearts to the last; 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,
I, who am gray-haired and wrinkled and old; I am scarcely so brave as my poor little Bertha
Who trampled her sorrow and wedded for gold; Poor ringlet! poor letter! good-bye, lonely pledges
That torture my soul with such hopeless regret, For never again will I gaze on the pages
Where the love and the hopes of a lifetime have set! Where is the ribbon? There, tie up the letters!
Sorrowful records of home's scattered band. "Tis lonely without them-I weary of waiting
To clasp them again in a happier land.
I am the last and the loneliest now,
The last lonely leaf autumn hangs on the bough.
DE QUINCY'S DEED.-HOMER GREENE
By permission of the Author. Red on the morn's rim rose the sun;
Bright on the field's breast lay the dew;
Grasped by the brave and true.
Came ere the day was through.
Blast from the bugle and quick command;
Sat with the reins in hand,
Eager to sweep the land.
We or the foe, shall win this day.”
Of splendor, he led the way,
For the mad sport of the fray.
Whirls, like a storm cloud, up the hill ;
Clang of the steel rings shrill,
Hearts in the hot race thrill.
See! from an open cottage lane
Sallies a child, where the meadow dips; Only a babe with the last refrain
of the mother's song on its lips.
Fearless, the little one trips.
Killed ? It is naught if the day be won.
What has De Quincy done?
Struck back saber and gun.
Throwing their riders from stirrup to mane.
Down from his saddle he bends to where
The little one fronts the train,
Falls on his cheek like rain.
Kisses and leaves her with vanquished fears,
Surge of his troops through tears.
On him and his men for years.
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."
“ But you wouldn't have to get around. Papa could get a big table an' you could set on it and
“ Hush !”
have to pay to go out?”
you 1999 “ Yes." “Why don't you have to pay to go out ?" " If you don't