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And when a snow-flake finds a tree,
But when a snow-flake, brave and meek,
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
Into the world of darkness deep and far
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
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,
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,-
Surprising with its loveliness their dearth
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.
There's a glorious outer air
And make it fresh and fair.
Clinging and sunny and bright!
With faith in the strength of weakness ?
A sunny face
Hath holy grace,
And murmurous prophecy;
-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."
The Human Tie
"As if life
were not sacrect, too.
"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
while we may
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
Is 't not a softer sun
THE EAGLE'S FALL.
Afight beyond mid-air
And not a bird could dare
But did ye see the eagle fall?
And so ye saw the eagle fall!
Struck in his flight of pride
And what his blood's ebb tide.
'Twas thus ye saw the eagle fall!
Thus did ye see the eagle fall!
But on the sedgy plain,
Wherewith the feathered train,
Great eagle in his fall?
FOR RONALD IN HIS GRAVE.
On are the heavens clear, ye say?
Oh is the air still sweet?
And life yet in the street?
I thought the sky in tears would break,
I thought the winds would rave,
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,
And Ronald in his grave?
The sun his warm descent delays;
The far thing beckons most,