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VI.

Ah me! the facts 'twould just let fly,
Suppose it had the power!
Of courtin' chaps, when on the sly,
They turned it back an hour;
Of weddin's-holdin' tender yet,
The bride's last virgin grace;

Of fun'rals-where it peeped to get
A good look at The Face;

It knows the inside-out o' folks-
An' Nature's every freak;

I'd write a book, if I could coax
That wise ol' clock to speak!

VII.

Still straight as any gun it stan's
Ag'in the kitchen wall;

An' slowly waves its solemn han's
Outlivin' of us all!

I venerate some clocks I've seen,
As e'en a'most sublime:
They form revolvin' links between
Etarnity an' time.

An' when you come to take the pains
To strike a dreamy streak,

The figurative fact remains,

That all the clocks can speak.

WILL CARLETON.

-Ladies' Home Journal, September, 1889.

PASSPORT TO PARADISE.

To Lucullus, the Patron Saint of Cooks, who was wise enough to feed his Singers on Nightingales' Tongues.

"I never expect any sense worth listening to from a man who never dares talk nonsense."

-COLERIDGE.

My blessed wife! (and may her kind increase)
Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace,
Thinking some better way to bless mankind;
To give them healthful bodies, strength and mind;
To have them loving, patient, thoughtful, kind;
To make men love their homes; firmer bind
The wife and husband; home to make so good
That nothing's wanted but the daily food.
Again she slept; then saw within her room
A clean, neat, cook-stove, and a fire in bloom,
Near which Saint Peter stood, with book of gold.
Exceeding neatness made Frou Percy bold,
And to the Saint within the room she said:
"What writest thou?" Saint Peter raised his head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord

Hypocrisy will count not, nor loud vaunts.
What canst thou do? What hast thou done for God?"
"Not much, thou holy one; only by every road
That dirt may be kept from us; from every nook
I thrust it forth-then I'm an accomplished cook!
'Cleanliness,' O, Saint! we're told in the good
book,

Is next to godliness-one must be clean to cook
Food that will nourish body, mind and soul:
I labor Saint, that I may'do the whole!"
"And is this all to write within the book?”
"Yea, holy one, pray write me down a cook!"
St. Peter vanished not, but with his holy key
He opened wide the book. "Thy virtue pleases me!
Deeds and not words thou givest to the Lord;
Enter his palace gates; with one accord
Shall mankind bless thee; thou savest more
From sin and faithlessness than many saints be-
fore;

Body and mind and soul! the very trinity of man!
To make all clean is noble; there are few who can,
Even amongst the best, do more; all goodness
strives

To banish taint, impurity, untidiness and pride; But to make clean without, keep the soul free from stain,

Embue the mind with purity, a constant guard mantain

'Gainst all polluting influences of body, mind and soul!

Sin is a moral filthiness! thou'rt right, cleanse well the whole;

Saint, preacher, missionary, sure art thou;
Naught is too good for thee; the angels bow
Before thy cleanly usefulness, and every man
Approaches nearer God; if clean, he can
Behold His brightness; if, while on earth,
Man gives not way to impious thoughts; if mirth
Instead of sulkiness cheers his clean table;
Saint, thou'st done much to humanize; thou'rt able
To open wide the gates of Paradise;—there look!
See mankind worshiping the cleanly cook!"
"Nay, Saint; forgive, I cannot enter in,
Save with my husband; e'en Paradise without
him

Would not be perfect; ope again thy book;

I will go back to earth, and there will cook
Food fit for angels, better than erst the gods
On high Olympus feasted!" "Nay child, these

moods

Are needless; has he not freely shared with thee He said: "The names of those who best do serve All that thou art, and did? Why, then, he's free the Lord.

Deeds, and not words, the Heavenly Master

wants:

To enter Paradise! read in this book: 'Safe is the man who's wife's the best of cooks.'" PROF. SAMUEL R. PERCY, M. D.

SPRING'S IMMORTALITY.

THE buds awake, at touch of Spring,
From Winter's joyless dream;
From many a stone the ouzels sing

By yonder mossy stream.

The cuckoo's voice, from copse and vale,
Lingers, as if to meet

The music of the nightingale
Across the rising wheat:-

The nightingale, whom solitude

Has kept for ever young; Unaltered, since in studious mood, Calm Milton mused and sung. Ah, strange it is, mine own, to know Spring's gladsome mystery

Was always in the long ago

Most sweet to such as we.

The fresh new leaves, the meek wild flowers Bloomed when the South wind came;

And, while Spring's hand carressed the bowers,

The throstle sang the same. So, when relentless years ere long Have stilled our love in death; Unchanged will be the throstle's song, Unchanged Spring's answering breath. H. T. MACKEnzie Bell.

SUNSET ON PUGET SOUND. BROAD wave on wave of scarlet, fleck'd with gold, Outstretched beneath an opalescent sky, Wherein pale tints with glowing colors vie; From their birthplace within the sea are rolled Sweet perfumes by the sea-breeze, strong and cold. There white sails gleam, and soft cloudshadows lie,

And isles are kissed by winds that wanton by, Or rocked by gales, in unchecked passion bold.

Locked in by swelling, fir-clad hills, it liesOne stretch of purpling, heaving gold; serene,

It laughs and dimples under sunset skies, Toward which the chaste Olympics, snow-girt, lean,

And, bathing in that flood of glory, make
Fit setting for that burnished ocean lake.
ELLA HIGGINSON.

-Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, Aug. 10,1889.

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And care is sowing my locks with white, As I wend through the fevered mart.

I'm tired of the world, with its pride and pomp
And fame seems a worthless thing;

I'd barter it all for one day's romp,
And a swing in the grapevine swing.

Swinging in the grapevine swing, Laughing where the wild birds singI would I were away

From the world to-day, Swinging in the grapevine swing.

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

-New Orleans Times-Democrat.

SUMMER NIGHT.

ON all the outer world, a holy hush,

A soul-entrancing stillness, steeped in light
Of summer moon-rise, clear and purely bright;
After a day of toil and ceaseless rush,

From pallid morn to evening's fevered flush,
Softly descends the cooling breath of night;
In soothing cadence heard, though hid from sight,
The shallow river runs with rippling gush.

In outline clear against the star-lit sky

The high-roofed barn stands dark—the silent trees
Lifting their leafy, shadowy arms on high
Quiver as dreaming of a swaying breeze;
Cool, dewy fragrance lingers faintly nigh,
A world at peace the lonely gazer sees.

HELEN FAIRBAIRN. -The Week, September 13, 1889.

UNCALENDARED.

ONLY a year have thou and I been friends,
If time be counted on our calendar;
Away with that! What it begins, it ends;
From all eternity, close souls we were,
And shall be, so God grant! forevermore,
For two were never faster bound before.

"With God, one day is as a thousand years:"
Oh, Love is mighty, God's most blessed name!
The more that man his Maker's image bears
The more must months and æons be the same.
Love knows not time.-It is eternity,
And not a year, that I count out with thee!
CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES.

-The Century, September, 1889.

POETRY.

PRIZE QUATRAINS.

FIRST PRIZE.

I.

She comes like the husht beauty of the night,
But sees too deep for laughter;

Her touch is a vibration and a light
From worlds before and after.

SECOND PRIZE.

2.

Oh, we who know thee know we know thee not, Thou Soul of Beauty, thou Essential Grace! Yet undeterr'd by baffled speech and thought, The heart stakes all upon thy hidden face. THIRD PRIZE.

3.

God placed a solid rock man's path across,

And bade him climb; but that it might not be Too rough, He wrapped it o'er with tender moss: The rock was Truth, the moss was Poetry. SPECIAL MENTION.

4.

'Tis the celestial body, in which bideth

The risen Truth-the form most fair and fit, Which doth reveal the soul, and nothing hideth, And the pure spirit doth illumine it.

5.

Paean of peace and ancient battle-song,

Love-lyric and pastoral voice thy varied art; Man and the universe to thee belong, Interpreter of Nature and the heart. 6.

When Eden's gate was barred, one winged wind Stole out, with the forbidden sweetness fraught; In Poetry it whispers to the mind

And is the fragrance and the flower of Thought.

7.

Vision, to see in all created things

The imprisoned soul thereof that stirs its wings
And voice, that can interpret with a song
The rhythmic passion of their flutterings.
8.

I am the great Amen, the Flower of Life,
Wherewith when God created me he signed
For blessedness, the conquest and the strife,
All rapture and all pain that men should find.
9.*

The moon's spell on the wistful deep-
A young bird's call at hour of sleep-
A minor key within the music's strain-
The sound of wind amidst the Autumn rain.

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