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And when a snow-flake finds a tree,
“Good-day!" it says, Good-day to thee!
Thou art so bare and lonely, dear,
I'll rest and call my comrades here."

But when a snow-flake, brave and meek,
Lights on a rosy maiden's cheek,
It starts, “How warm and soft the day!
'Tis summer!” and it melts away.

There is a time between our night and day,

A space between this world and the unknown,

Where none may enter as we stand alone Save the one other single soul that may; Then is all perfect if the two but stay.

It is the time when, the home-evening flown, And "good-nights" sped in happy household

tone,
We look out from the casement ere we pray.

Into the world of darkness deep and far
We gaze-each depth with its own deepest star,
That brightens as we turn, nor yet recedes
When we would search it with our sorest

needs,-
O holy living-ground from heaven won!
O time beyond the night when day is done!

WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS. Two little sorrel blossoms, pale and slender,

Lean to each other in the cool, tall grass; The crowding spears with gallant air and tender, Shield them completely from the sun's fierce

splendor, Till harmlessly an angry wind might pass. And I stand smiling with a sudden whim: • The little innocents! Now am I sure

They think them in a forest grand and dim,

The mighty grass coeval with their birth,– Shut from the world, from every ill secure, And where their thicket ends, there ends the

earth!"

A PHILOPENA. All day the Princess ran away, All day the Prince ran after; The palace grand and courtyard gray Rang out with silvery laughter. “What, ho!” the King, in wonder, cried, “What means this strange demeanor?" "Your Majesty," the Queen replied, "It is the Philopena! Our royal daughter fears to stand Lest she takes something from his hand; The German Prince doth still pursue, And this doth cause the sweet ado.” Then, in a lowered voice, the King: “I'll wage he hath a weeding ring. Our royal guest is brave and fair They'd make, methinks, a seemly pair!"

But still the Princess ran away,
And still the Prince ran after,
While palace grand and courtyard gray
Rang out with silvery laughter.

CH

CHARLES G. WHITING. "HARLES GOODRICH WHITING was born

at St. Albans, Vt., January 30, 1842, being the eldest child of Calvin and Mary (Goodrich) Whiting. Mr. Whiting's parents removed to Massachusetts when he was four or five years old, and he has lived all his life, save for a year in Southern New Jersey, within twenty-five miles of Springfield. He went to school very little, on account of delicate health, worked in a paper mill, on a farm, kept country store, and in fact did whatever came to hand in the common Yankee sashion. Having acquired a little Latin, a little French, and a good general acquaintance with history and English literature, he began the business of life when he was twenty-six years old by getting a place as reporter on the Spring field Republican. On that journal he has remained ever since, a period of twenty-one years, excepting for a year and a half spent at Albany, N. Y., in 1871-2, upon the Albany Times,-now an able Democratic journal conducted, as then, by T. C. Callicot. Mr. Whiting has been since February, 1874, literary writer and general editorial writer on the Springfield Republican, which department has the reputation of being one of the best appearing in any daily paper in this country. On the organization of the Republican company in 1878, after the death of the celebrated Samuel Bowles, he became a partner of the company. He has published one book “The Saunterer," containing selections of prose and verse. September, 1885, he wrote an ode of considerable length, irregular and unrhymed, for the most part, for the dedication of a soldiers' monument in Springfield. In acknowledgment the Grand Army Post of that city presented him an elaborately printed and bound copy of the ode, and this he regards as the principal honor of his life. Mr. Whiting is a member of the Authors Club, New York.

N. L. M. TRAILING ARBUTUS. WHEN the gray air breathes chill in early spring,

And coldly fall the cheerless sunset gleams; When the sere grasses rustle, whispering

Of life that is, of death that only seems; When the wild wind soughs in the weaving wood,

With secret summoning of bud and leaf, And wails along the bare and withered rood

As in an ecstasy of lonely grief, Then, springing from decaying fern and sedge,

First signal of the new-awakening earth,-
On sunny slopes along the forest edge,

Surprising with its loveliness their dearth
The blessed arbutus but half conceals
The tender beauty its perfume reveals.

THE STARS.

THEY wait all day unseen by us, unfelt;

Patient they bide behind the day's full glare; And we who watched the dawn when they

were there, Thought we had seen them in the daylight melt, While the slow sun upon the earth-line knelt.

Because the teeming sky seemed void and bare,

When we explored it through the dazzled air, We had no thought that there all day they dwelt. Yet were they over us, alive and true, In the vast shades far up above the blue,The brooding shades beyond our daylight ken

Serene and patient in their conscious light, Ready to sparkle for our joy again,

The eternal jewels of the short-lived night.

CHEERFULNESS.
What though the dust of earth would dim,

There's a glorious outer air
That will sweep through my soul if I let it in,

And make it fresh and fair.
Dear God! let me grow from day to day,

Clinging and sunny and bright!
Though planted in shade, Thy window is near,
And my leaves may turn to the light.

-My Window-Ivy.

TRUST.
Why not take life with cheerful trust,

With faith in the strength of weakness ?
The slenderest daisy rears its head
With courage, yet with meekness.

A sunny face

Hath holy grace,
To woo the Sun forever.

- Trust.
MAY.
For there is promise in the air,

And murmurous prophecy;
All breathless and with lifted arms,
Stand waiting shrub and tree.

-A Song of May.

POVERTY. “I'm a poor little fellow, with no one to teach me;

But my soul is a new one -- fresh from God; And He gave me something so brave and holy,

It never can turn to an earthly clod. The birds never sing, ‘Little Willie is ragged!' Nor the flowers, He will soil us. Take him

away!' But they 're glad when I happen to look and to

listen, And the blue sky is over me night and day."

- IVillie.

In

The Human Tie

"As if life

were not sacrect, too.

George Elich

our way,

Totters before

ud

"Speak tenderly. For he is dead, " we say:

with gracions hand smooth all his roughened past And fullest measure of reward forecast, forgetting naught that gloued his brief day Yet when the brother, who, along Prone with hundeus, heartwain in the shifi

how we search his life, ( Censure and Oh, weary are the paths of earth, and hard! dict living hearts alime' are ours to guard. at least begrudge nok to the sare distraughtThe reverenta silince

Suma pilzung Thoughts Life, too, is paced, and he less

fengines Who says: "He ers, but a renderly! He lives

Mary Maped Dodge

stemily punish white

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Suffuse with crimson veins, that pass

To melt in mellow haze.

O'er the great hills a ruddy sea

The cloud-rack lifts and un

Above aerial headlands rise, Glowing with hues that change and flee

To faint in orange skies.

There, like a pilgrim band, depart

Of russet clouds a lessening train,

That as in distant heights they wane Quick into delicate flame out-start,

And die in splendid pain.

Watch how the deeper fires die out;

The clouds that thicken down the west

Dark on the sombre Catskills rest; Gray grow the mountains round about,

And dim Taconic's crest.

From the broad valley comes no sound;

But in the thicket's close retreat

The birds sing drowsily and sweet; The twilight throbs with peace profound,

Peace for the soul most meet.

Now draw the infinite heavens near;

And swiftly blending into white

The last tints deepen into light Intense and tremulously clear,

Day's message to the night.

BLUE HILLS BENEATH THE HAZE.

BLUE hills beneath the haze
That broods o'er distant ways,
Whether ye may not hold
Secrets more dear than gold, -
This is the ever new
Puzzle within your blue.

Is 't not a softer sun
Whose smile yon hills have won?
Is 't not a sweeter air
That folds the fields so fair?
Is 't not a finer rest
That I so fain would test?

THE EAGLE'S FALL.
The eagle, did ye see him fall?—

Afight beyond mid-air
Erewhile his mighty pinions bore him,
His eyry left, the sun before him;

And not a bird could dare
To match with that tremendous motion,
Through fire and flood, 'twixt sky and ocean,-

But did ye see the eagle fall?

And so ye saw the eagle fall!

Struck in his flight of pride
He hung in air one lightning moment,
As wondering what the deadly blow meant,

And what his blood's ebb tide.
Whirling off sailed a loosened feather;
Then headlong, pride and flight together,-

'Twas thus ye saw the eagle fall!

Thus did ye see the eagle fall!

But on the sedgy plain,
Where closed the monarch's eye in dying,
Marked ye the screaming and the vying

Wherewith the feathered train,
Sparrow and jackdaw, hawk and vulture,
Gathered exulting to insult your

Great eagle in his fall?

FOR RONALD IN HIS GRAVE.

On are the heavens clear, ye say?

Oh is the air still sweet?
Oh is there joy yet in the day,

And life yet in the street?

I thought the sky in tears would break,

I thought the winds would rave,
I thought that every heart would ache

For Ronald in his grave.

Oh Nature has a cruel heart

To smile when mine's so sore! Oh deeper stings the cruel smart

Then e'en it did before!

How can the merry earth go dance,

And all the banners wave,
The children shout, the horses prance,–

And Ronald in his grave?

SUNDOWN MOUNTAIN.
BEYOND the mountains' dusky mass

The sun his warm descent delays;
The lowering cloud his loath last rays

The far thing beckons most,
The near becomes the lost.
Not what we have is worth,
But that which has no birth
Or breath within the ken
Of transitory men.

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