THE PRETTY MAID OF KISSIMMEE.-JOEL BENTON, Upon the cars-in spirit gay, As rapturous as could be- Who lives in Kissimmee. Her eyes were like the sapphire's blue, Her hair was flowing free, She asked if I was going too, To Kiss-to Kissimmee. I never knew the town before, And she had charms and gold galore— We talked with most amazing speed, And still she urged, "I trust, indeed, I am not often dashed, I'm sure, Nor prudish can I be, But think I blushed when she said "You're Now going to Kissimmee." The cars were full—I tried to say (She sat so close to me): "Is there a tunnel on the way?" "Now by old Ponce de Leon's shade- I thought, "I'll kiss this pretty maid Reaching a tunnel near a curve. She cried with vigorous shout "O maiden of the pretty face, You said, (although I ask for grace,) "I could not stand a hint like that And my mistake you see." She smiled-and smoothed her ruffled hat- SHADOWS ON THE SNOW.-I. EDGAR JONES. A woman watched the falling snow Through window panes in plants embowered; O'er carven drifts that whitely towered While comfort reigned within the room A woman watched the falling snow Where starving children, wan and wild, "How terrible the snow!" she said. A woman watched the falling snow As forests bent before the gale, She caught her darlings in her arms, Her wife-heart stirred with wild alarms; "God grant his ship be safely led! How treacherous the snow!" she said. A woman watched the falling snow, Who struggled through the city's street; Hers all the anguish outcasts know SBB Faint, hungry, saw through lighted panes A woman watched the falling snow, Her frozen body racked with pains; As ghostly drifts are mounting white; Where snow-flakes, gently round her form, As though to shield her from the storm. And there they found her cold and dead. WE ALL KNOW HER.-TOM MASSON. She warbled the soprano with dramatic sensibility, She shed great tears of sorrow for the heathen immorality, For real unvarnished culture she betrayed a great propensity; Her Tuesday-talks were famous and her Friday-glimmers great. She grasped at electricity with mental elasticity, and But with the calm assurance of her wonderful capacity, And while she dealt on density, or space and its immensity, With such refined audacity, her mother darned the socks! BROUGHT BACK.-JOHN F. NICHOLLS. She wandered alone at midnight, through alley and court and street, Through the heart of the wealthy city, yet starving for food to eat; Still on, though her feet were weary, and the wintry wind blew keen, Whilst her heart was nearly breaking at thought of the "might have been." Through her mind old scenes are passing, so vivid and quick and clear; She can see the stile where Harold first met her and called her "dear; And the old, sweet country village, where she lived in the days gone by. And where not a pang of sorrow e'er caused her a tear or sigh. Then again does her fancy paint her a picture of that gay scene, When the wedding bells rang sweetly, and she was a sailor's queen. But the vision melts, and quickly there flits through her haunted mind The sight of her love departing, and leaving her sad behind. He had gone to his duty bravely, away o'er the salt blue sea; “Oh, God!” she prayed when he left her, "bring Harold again to me." But months went by and he came not, and now two years had fled; She had lost all hope, and mourned him as one who was surely dead. She had wed against parents' wishes, they'd renounced her long ago, And poverty's strong hand forced her to take to the needle and sew; But she who had loved the country, and thrived in its pure, fresh air, Soon pined in the crowded city, penned up in a workroom there. Still on did she wander slowly, till, weary and well-nigh spent, Into one of the broad recesses on London Bridge she went, And peering just over the coping, she strains her eyes to scan The place beneath where swiftly the cold, black river ran. What horrible thoughts are coming! They tell her a leap in there Will ease her of all life's burdens, its pain and want and care Only one leap," she murmurs; "no more to be starved, oppressed; May be I shall meet my Harold in the far-off land of rest.” She sprang on the bridge's coping, and gave just a glance a round. No one in sight! 'Twas lucky! But her sharp ear caught a sound. 'Twas a footstep coming quickly. passed her by? No, she would plunge that instant. her die? Should she wait till it What matter who saw But a voice cries, "Hold! for God's sake!" She starts, and falls from the ridge, Not into the rushing river-not on to the hard, stone bridge; But a man's strong arms have caught her, she is gently raised to her feet; She turns, and they both are startled as soon as their glances meet. "Harold!" "Why, Bess, my darling!" The husband and wife have met. What pen can describe the gladness such meetings as these beget? Bess hardly believed her senses; she felt so supremely blest, As her weary head lay pillowed on her sailor-husband's breast. He told how his ship had foundered, how he managed to reach a shore, Where he eked out an existence for eighteen months or more, Till rescued, he came to England to search for his poor young wife, And how he at last had found her, and brought her back to life. NORA MULLIGAN'S THANKSGIVING PARTY.*--LOUISE H. SAVAGE. "Oh, wusha thin, tis the sore thrubble that's kim ter mesilf this toime, an' jist wait a bit till I be tillin' yez, an' say how yer harrts 'll be achin' wid sympathy fer me misfortins. The misthress wor the cause av it arl, bad *Written expressly for this Collection. |