Fluttering lightly from brink to brink,
Followed the garrulous bobolink,

2. Rallying loudly with mirthful din,

The pair who lingered unseen within.
And when from the friendly bridge at last
Into the road beyond they passed,

Again beside them the tempter went,
Keeping the thread of his argument—
"Kiss her! kiss her! chink-a-chee-chee!
I'll not mention it! Don't mind me!
I'll be sentinel-I can see

All around from this tall birch tree!
But ah! they noted-nor deemed it strange-
In his rollicking chorus a trifling change,-
"Do it! do it!"—with might and main
Warbled the tell-tale-"Do it again!"

Pictures of Memory.

ALICE CARY.

1. Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,

Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all.
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,

Dark with the mistletoe;

Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland

Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.

2. I once had a little brother

With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that dim old forest,
He lieth in peace asleep.

Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there, the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

3. Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.

4. Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

Sandalphon.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

1. Have you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told
Of the limitless realms of the air,
Have you read it.-the marvelous story
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

2. How, erect, at the outermost gates
Of the City Celestial he waits,

With his feet on the ladder of light,
That, crowded with angels unnumbered,
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered
Alone in the desert at night?

3. The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire

With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder
By music they throb to express.

4. But, serene in the rapturous throng,
Unmoved by the rush of the song,

With eyes unimpassioned and slow,
Among the dead angels, the deathless
Sandalphon stands listening, breathless,

To sounds that ascend from below;

5. From the spirits on Earth that adore,
From the souls that entreat and implore
In the fervor and passion of prayer;
From the hearts that are broken with losses,
And weary with dragging the crosses
Too heavy for mortals to bear.

6. And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his hands,
Into garlands of purple and red;
And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

7. It is but a legend, I know,—

A fable, a phantom, a show,

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore:

Yet the old mediæval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,

But haunts me and holds me the more.

8. When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,

All throbbing and panting with stars,
Among them majestic is standing
Sandalphon the angel, expanding
His pinions in nebulous bars.

9. And the legend, I feel, is a part
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain.

The Blacksmith's Story.

FRANK OLIVE.

1. Well, no! My wife aint dead, sir, but I've lost her all

the same;

She left me voluntarily, and neither was to blame.

It's rather a queer story, and I think you will agree― When you hear the circumstances-'twas rather rough on

me.

2. She was a soldier's widow. He was killed at Malvern Hill; And when I married her she seemed to sorrow for him still; But I brought her here to Kansas, and I never want to see A better wife than Mary was for five bright years to me.

3. The change of scene brought cheerfulness, and soon a rosy glow

Of happiness warmed Mary's cheeks and melted all their

snow.

I think she loved me some,-I'm bound to think that of

her, sir;

And as for me,-I can't begin to tell how I loved her!

4. Three years ago the baby came our humble home to bless; And then I reckon I was nigh to perfect happiness;

'Twas hers,-'twas mine; but I've no language to explain

to you,

How that little girl's weak fingers our hearts together drew!

5. Once we watched it through a fever, and with each gasping breath,

Dumb with an awful, wordless woe, we waited for its

death;

And, though I'm not a pious man, our souls together there, For Heaven to spare our darling, went up in voiceless

prayer.

6. And, when the doctor said 'twould live, our joy what words could tell?

Clasped in each other's arms, our grateful tears together fell.

Sometimes, you see, the shadow fell across our little nest, But it only made the sunshine seem a doubly welcome

guest.

7. Work came to me a plenty, and I kept the anvil ringing; Early and late you'd find me there a-hammering and sing

ing;

Love nerved my arm to labor, and moved my tongue to

song,

And, though my singing wasn't sweet, it was tremendous strong!

8. One day a one-armed stranger stopped to have me nail a

shoe,

And, while I was at work, we passed a compliment or two; I asked him how he lost his arm. He said 'twas shot away At Malvern Hill. "Malvern Hill! Did you know Robert

May?"

9. "That's me," said he. "You, you!" I gasped, choking with horrid doubt;

"If you're the man, just follow me; we'll try this mystery

out!"