I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world, at best, is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness -N. P. Willis. STILL Sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; And blackberry vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen, Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing! Long years ago a winter sun It touched the tangled golden curls, For near her stood the little boy His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered ;As restlessly her tiny hands. The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt 6 I'm sorry that I spelt the word : I hate to go above you, Because," the brown eyes lower fell, Because, you see, I love you!" Still memory to a gray-haired man He lives to learn, in life's hard school, Like her, because they love him. -John G. Whittier. JEANIE MORRISON. I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way, But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' lang syne. |