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For, more to me than birds or flowers,
My playmate left her home,
The music and the bloom.
She laid her hand in mine:
Who fed her father's kine ?
She left us in the bloom of May:
The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns,
But she came back no more.
I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
Of uneventful years ;
And reap the autumn ears.
Her summer roses blow;
Before her come and go.
She smooths her silken gown,--
I shook the walnuts down.
The brown nuts on the hill,
The woods of Follymill.
The bird builds in the tree,
The slow song of the sea.
I wonder if she thinks of them,
And how the old time seems,
If ever the pines of Ramoth wood
Are sounding in her dreams.
I see her face, I hear her voice :
Does she remember mine?
Who fed her father's kine?
What cares she that orioles build
For other eyes than ours,—
And other laps with flowers ?
O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is green,
The old trees o'er it lean.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern
A sweeter memory blow;
of long ago.
Are moaning like the sea, -
Between myself and thee!
TELLING THE BEES.1
Runs the path I took ;
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
* A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country, formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and their hives dressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be necessary to prevent tha swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a new home.
There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the poplars tall;
And the white horns tossing above the wall.
And down by the brink
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
And the same brook sings, of a year ago.
And the June sun warm
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
a From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. Since we parted, a month had passed,
To love, a year;
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
Of light through the leaves,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
The house and the trees,
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
Gone on the journey we all must go !
For the dead to-day:
The fret and the pain of his age away.”
With his cane to his chin,
Sung to the bees stealing out and in.
In my ear sounds on :“Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence !
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"
THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS. TRITEMIUS of Herbipolis, one day, While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray, Alone with God, as was his pious choice, Heard from without a miserable voice, A sound which seemed of all sad things to tell, As of a lost soul crying out of hell. Thereat the Abbot paused,—the chain whereby His thoughts went upward broken by that cry; And, looking from the casement, saw below A wretched woman,
hair a-flow, And withered hands held up to him, who cried For alms as one who might not be denied. She cried, “For the dear love of Him who gave His life for ours, my child from bondage save; —
My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slaves
my prayers.”Of God !" she cried, for grief had made her bold, “Mock me not thus ; I ask not prayers, but gold. Words will not serve me, alms alone suffice; Even while I speak perchance my first-born dies.”
"Woman !” Tritemius answered, “from our door
"Give me,” she said, “ the silver candlesticks
Then spake Tritemius, “Even as thy word,
But his hand trembled as the holy alms
So the day passed, and when the twilight came