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"HER SWEETEST FLOWER." FROM THE PICTURE BY ARTHUR STOCKS.
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THE WANDERER. Far from my home I wander, Forgotten by all my kin; Heart-heavy and tired, I wonder Is it purgatory caused by sin? Once rich, envied and courted, Admired, welcomed and praised; Now, poor, neglected and shunned, Dead to friends of former days. How long must I wander and sigh, Hiding pride under mantle of want? Oh, would that the end were nigh! As for rest I eagerly p(?)nt. I've battled in many a land; I've crossed the angriest seas; I've bled with sword in hand, 'Neath Algerias sun-dried trees. I've sought for the dull, red gold; I've caught the untamed steed; Gathered sheep to the squatter's fold, And starved in the hour of need. 'Neath heaven I've slumbered for years, A stone my pillow of woe; My bread has been wet with tears, By the watch-fire's ruddy glow. I've wandered through Italy and France, Africa's sun has browned my cheek, With Spain's pretty maidens I've danced, And I've smoked with the lively Greek. Madeira's wine I have quaffed, On Madeira's own sunny shore; With joyous Teuton I've laughed, While my heart ached to the core. In India the tiger I've slain, In Britain the fox have chased, Crossed Sahara's burning plain; Both Arab and Moor have faced. Yet my heart longs for those days, When I knew nothing of care and sorrow, Cared not for the world and its ways, And had not a thought for to-morrow. Who'll weep by the wanderer's grave? Who'll think of him when dead? For home I now fondly crave, While hope from my heart has fled. Though wild, wanderer, and rough, I still cling to my only boast, I ne'er shunned a friend out of luck, Or betrayed the trust of my host. WILLIAM HARDING.
My Valentine. ONCE, on a frosty winter morn, 'Twas years and years ago, With listless step I wandered forth Upon the crusted snow.
The sun was bright: adorned with pearls And diamonds was each tree; But all the spledors earth could boast Were little worth to me.
Since, in my sorrowing soul there dwelt, The doubt that brings despair, That steals the bloom from beauty's cheek, That marks the brow with care.
The hours and days had grown to weeks, Had snail-like crept along; No message came, and from my life Had died youth's joyous song.
Mechanically I sought the spot Where letters came and went; What was it to my cheek and brow The crimson blushes sent?
A valentine. I broke the seal. The dainty, perfumed thing Was spangled o'er with lovely flowers, With Cupids on the wing.
But, on a wreath of roses red, A word was traced in gold, That, to my anxious, waiting heart, Far more than volumes told.
Then to my daily task I went, With firm, elastic tread; The sunlight all along my way A golden radiance shed.
My eyes, no longer dimmed with tears, Beheld each sparkling gem That brilliant, scintillating, shone In nature's diadem.
Although, few silver threads, as yet, Link 'mid my shining hair. The tell-tale looking-glass reveals A face less fresh and fair.
My rosy, blue-eyed boy and girl Climb on a father's knee, While tender, loving looks proclaim That sweet word "constancy."
No more, indeed, they come to me, Frail messengers of bliss. Yet, 'mong my treasures valued most, I always reckon this.
And think, how many cheeks will glow, How many bright eyes shine, As trembling fingers loose the seal Of some dear valentine. M. L. W. E.
ANGEL OR MORTAL? I have oft been told that the angels come, Sometimes, to the heart they love, And shed, o'er the sorrows of earthly life, A balm from the world above.
And it may be so, for sitting last night In the gloom of a darkened room, There came a visitor pure and bright And fair as the lily's bloom.
The Goddess of Silence reigned supreme, Not a word did the presence speak, There was only the pressure of sweet warm lips, And a touch of soft hair on my cheek.
And that nameless light that has never shone On the sea or the land, was there; And the fragrance of flowers and songs birds Seemed to float on the evening air.
Now, what is it you say? "'Twas no angel that came To brighten the gloom of that hour; But only some woman who sought to try, On the heart of the dreamer, her power."
Well, perhaps you are right, for many before Have been deceived by a woman, And awakened from dreams that were blissful and bright To find that their angels were human.
But, celestial or mortal, I hope she will come Again when the night-shadows gather,- And then I'll return all the kisses she gave, And keep her near me forever. EDWARD LIVINGSTON.
SWEET SIXTEEN. Of all lovely spectacles, can we better behold Than a group of young girls, none of them bold? Sweet sixteen their ages, happy and gay; Eyes bright as diamonds, cheeks like roses in May.
Life's inspiration in innocence they enjoy; Bright are their hopes-- no grief to destroy The castles of air and fortunes of wind, Worlds of soft dreams, happiness undimmed.
Girlhood's a buds blossoming a rose's charm, With fragrant leaves resplendent, unconscious of harm, Though the canker-worm may the petals conceal, And the hand that pluck it the next hour reveal.
Who can fortell what their future will be? Who into Fate's book their end can forsee? Will all feel love's raptures and tender jot? Will none by fierce passion their future destroy?
Hail, glorious spring of girlhood's day! May never-ending happiness hold its sway Throughout your bright and sweet career, Adding joy to joy from year to year. E. G. RIDEOUT.
Written after reading an editorial entitled "Sweet Sixteen,"
The Amateur Farmer. I DREAMT of a beautiful time When the world shall happy be, When the elephant and hyenas Shall blossom on every tree; When tamarinds and potatoes Shall cease their dreadful roar; When turnip trees shall blossom In the garden forevermore.
I dreamt of a great republic When the people shall all go West, Sow plums and reap tomatoes In the land they love the best; When pig iron and molasses Shall bloom on every hill, And chickens low in the barnyard, While gooseberries toll at the mill.
I'm weary of seeing the cabbage Handle the rake and the hoe: I'm weary of watching and waiting For the grasshopper bush to grow: I long for the time when spinach Shall come with bread and milk; When hens shall lay potatoes, And horses spin raw silk.
Oh, sweet were the vanished hours When I wandered down the glen. And wreathed my brow with tomatoes, Or plucked the ripened hen: When the donkey twined up the trellis, And the cucumber chirped in the grass, And the sweet potato whistled To its mate in the mountain pass.
But gone are the days of childhood, And manhood's dream are mine; Yet I long for the by-gone hours, As I sit 'neath this Turkish vine. Oh, wreath your blossoms about me, And sooth my acting breast, While the zooseberry plaintively warbles And lulls me into rest.
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HER FIRST APPEARANCE. (DRAWN BY HABBY FURNISS.)
Beauty and Worth.
PASSING a cool bower where wild roses grew And bright little violets drippiong with dew, I heard each its own virtnes praise; The zephyrs from woodlands all joined in the strain, And whispering winds from te rich fields of grain, Raised their voice in melodious lays.
Said the violet, bending its head with the dew, "I vie with the skies in their pure, lovely blue;" When the rose in reply then said; "I vie with a sunset of crimson and gold, And the richest fragrance I always unfold;" And then proudlly bowed its fair head.
Said the zephyr, floating from woodland and glen, "I waft the sweet notes of the little brown wren That lulls little children to sleep. I echo the song of the sad whippoorwill, When hushed is the sound of the noisy old mill, And murmur the voice of the deep."
A bright , sparkling brooklet came bounding along, But stopped for a moment to join in the song, And rest 'neath the shade of a tree. Said the brooklet, "You flowers are charmingly gay, But your life is so short, and you soon fade away, Nor could you exist without me?
"The soft dew on your face I gave from my breast, While I sprang gayly on without sleep or rest, In my mirthsome, frolicsome glee; Yes, zephyrs are pleasing enough to the ear, But your bright little wren would perish, I fear, Of hunger, were it not for me.
"Your song to the infant is well in its place. But in it no strength of your own can you trace- I lull all the songsters to sleep. Though small, I am now, in my low winding track, I soon with great ease, on my own foaming back, Will cradle great ships of the deep."
Said the whispering wind, as it drifted along, "I bring what is richer than fragrance or song- I propel pround ships of the deep. I come from the ripe, golden uplands of grain, That lay o'er the soil in rich, silent train, And from them a harvest you'll reap:
"Not like fairest flowers that charm but the eye, And sweet, transient odors that quickly pass by, And fade like a spark on the earth; But nourish the yeoman that tilleth the soil, And pay a rich ribute to labor and toil, And in time replenish the earth."
W. J. BAILEY.
