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Then she-whom both his faith and fear enchanted

Far beyond words to tell,
Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted

The art he had that knew to blunder so we'l

Shyly drew near, a little step, and mocking,

“Shall we not be too late For tea?” she said. “I'm quite worn out with

walking: Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you-open

the gate?”


SOMETHING lies in the room

Over against my own;
The windows are lit with a ghastly bloom

Of candles, burning alone, -
L'ntrimmed, and all aflare
In the ghastly silence there!

People go by the door,

Tiptoe, holding their breath,
And hush the talk that they held before,

Lest they should waken Death,
That is awake all night
There in the candle light!

The cat upon the stairs

Watches with flamy eye
For the sleepy one who shall unawares

Let her go stealing by.
She softly, softly purrs,
And claws at the banisters.

The bird from out its dream

Breaks with a sudden song,
That stabs the sense like a sudden scream;

The hound the whole night long
Howls to the moonless sky,
So far, and starry, and high.


Lord, for the erring thought
Not into evil wrought:
Lord, for the wicked will
Betrayed and baffled still:
For the heart from itself kept,
Our thanksgiving acccpt.

II. For ignorant hopes that were Broken to our blind prayer: For pain, death, sorrow, sent Unto our chas ement: For all loss of seeming good, Quicken our gratitude.


ONCE on my mother's breast, a child, I crept,

Holding my breath; There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept

At the dark mystery of Death.

Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest,

Spent with the strife, -
O mother, let me weep upon thy breast

At tie sad mystery of Life!


He falters on the threshold,

She lingers on the stair: Can it be that was his footstep?

Can it be that she is there?

Without is tender yearning,

And tender love is within; They can hear each other's heart-beats,

But a wooden door is between.


Weakly good-natured and kind, and weakly good

natured and vicious, Slender of body and soul, fit neither for loving nor hating.

- The Pilot's Story.

In youth there comes a west-wind

Blowing our bloom away, —
A chilly breath of Autumn

Out of the lips of May.
We bear the ripe fruit after,-

Ah, me! for the thought of pain! -
We know the sweetness and beauty
And the heart-bloom never again.

- Pleasure-Pain.
All the long August afternoon,

The little drowsy stream
Whispers a melancholy tune,
As if it dreamed of June
And whispered in its dream.

-In August.
Alas! with Time dear love is Dead,

And not with Fate. And who can guess

How weary of our happiness
We might have been if we were wed?

- Sweet Clover.

MARCH. Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and

tangles, Lion-like, March cometh in, hoarse, with tem

pestuous breath, Through all the moaning chimneys, and thwart

all the hollows and angles Round the shuddering house, threatening of winter and death.

-In Earliest Spring.

I sing in March brief bluebird lays,

And hope a May, and do not know:

May be, the heaven is full of snow,-
May be, there open summer days.

- Prelude,
Out they burst with their singing,

Their singing so loud and gay;
They made, in the heart October,
A sudden ghastly May.

-While She Sang.

ART. Art is not ours, O friend! but if we are not hers, we are nothing.

- Pordenone.

THE POET'S FRIENDS. The robin sings in the elm;

The cattle stand beneath, Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes

And fragrant meadow-breath.

They listen to the flattered bird,

The wise-looking, stupid things; And they never understand a word

Of all the robin sings.


Without, and going from the room, and never

Departing, did depart
Her steps; and one that came too late forever

Felt them go heavy o'er his broken heart.
And, sitting in the house's desolation,

He could not bear the gloom, The vanishing encounter and evasion Of things that were and were not in the room.


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They are sweetly sleeping,
Daffodil and Buttercup
Still are silence keeping.
Sing, then, low, softly blow,
Whisper sweetly, softly-so.

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family of six girls. Her mother, dreaming over her first child, used to wish there might be a writer in the family, and, as if in response to the unspoken desire, Ione began scribbling verses at an early age. She is a person of warm sympathies, ready tact, possessing much of that charity which in the Book of books is writ “ Love." In 1872 her parents removed to Catskill village, N. Y., and shortly after, Ione was married to G. Howard Jones, a young lawyer of that place, where, with their two children, aged nine and eleven, they now reside.

Mrs. Jones is one of the best of companions, possessing a keen and ready wit and a quiet sense of humor, appreciating all thạt is interesting in human life. From childhood she has indicated the possession of many gifts, and now uses pen, brush, and piano or violin (and housewifely broom,) with readiness. Her first verses were published in 1884, and though she has written chiefly in a lighter vein, some of her unpublished poems show deeper channels of thought which speak of wider scope for her future work.

E. F. B.

There now.

So now. Listen to the clatter! Pink Arbutus stirs in bed And wonders what's the matter. All the icy fleets set free, Down the streams are rushing ; Toward the everlasting sea Wildly, madly pushing. Blow, then, blow! Let them go! Winter's reign is o'er, we know.

Up hill, down dale,
Over moor and mountain;
Shout and sing “Awake! 'Tis spring!”
Burst forth, O laughing fountain!
Bend, tall elms, your graceful heads!
Swing low, O) weeping willows!
Stretch, little blades of grass; for March
Has come to air your pillows.
Arouse, O, Pine! Awaken Larch!
And greet spring's trumpeter-brave March.


Fair young mother, with children three, What may the names of your jewels be? Whisper, I pray, the secret to me.

A MAN can build a mansion

And furnish it throughout;
A man can build a palace,

With lofty walls and stout; A man can build a temple,

With high and spacious dome; But no man in the world can build

That precious thing called Home.

My first-born treasure is brave and bold, Warlike and blustering. In him behold March, my soldier! in pride be it told.

It is the happy faculty

Of woman tar and wide, To turn a cot or palace

Into something else beside-
Where brothers, sons and husbands, tired,

With willing footsteps come;
A place of rest, where love abounds,

A perfect kingdom-Home.

Fickle and wild, running over with fun,
Her tears born of rain-drops, her smiles of the sun,
Is dear little April-my sweet, wayward one.
Enshrouded in flowers from her head to her feet,
Comes my own dainty darling in contentment

sweetMay. Of all blessings, my own most complete.

And the fair young mother, on time's swift wing, With her jewels so rare, passed on; and the ring Of their footfalls was all that was left me of



BOLD March! Wild March!
Oh! you saucy fellow!
Even though your voice is rough.
We know your heart is mellow.
Hush! You'll wake the children up,

A NOVEMBER DAY. A DAMP gray blanket hides the mountain's blue,

The day is sad and long; The East Wind blows no hint of sunshine through,

And hushed the wild bird's song.

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