Cheap, on account of competition,
Well-broken, easy on his bridle,
With curb or snaffle never idle.
A very little child can ride him,
And carry three or four beside him.
Why plod when you can ride so cheaply?
There is no need to ponder deeply.
I'll warrant he 'll not bite nor kick you;
I've not the slightest wish to stick you!
However short you are, you 're suited,
For low-stand men can mount when
booted.

Come, buy my steed with manner gra cious.

He'll aid your reading of Horatius.

CHARLES EDWARD TAYLOR

The plaited waist from neck to belt

Scarce measured half a span; The sleeves, balloon-like, at the top Could hold her feather fan; The narrow skirt with bias gore Revealed an ankle neat, Whene'er she put her dainty foot From carriage step to street!

By skilful hands this wondrous gown Of costliest stuff was made, Cocoons of France on Antwerp looms Wrought to embossed brocade, Where roses red and violets

In blooming beauty grew,
As if young May were there alway,
And June and April too!

And from this bower of delight
Miss Nancy reigned a Queen,
Nor one disloyal heart rebelled
In all her wide demesne:

The noble House of Burgesses
Forgot its fierce debate

O'er rights of Crown, when Nancy's gown
Appeared in Halls of State !

Through jocund reel, or measured tread
Of stately minuet,

Like fairy vision shone the bloom
Of rose and violet,

As, hand in hand with Washington,
The hero of the day,

The smiling face and nymph-like grace
Of Nancy led the way!

A century, since that gay time

The merry dance was trod, Has passed, and Nancy long has slept Beneath the churchyard sod; Yet on the brocade velvet gown

The rose and violet

Are blooming bright as on the night She danced the minuet!

ZITELLA COCKE

THE JOURNEY

RELUCTANTLY I laid aside my smiles, Those little, pleasing knickknacks of the face,

And dropped the words accustomed to my tongue,

And took just half a breath in breathing's space;

I had so very little time to stay,
And so much packing to be done before
I put my fires out and closed my door
To catch the stage-coach which would pass
that way

At dawn, and bear me down eternity.
I hurried — and grew weary and turned
weak-

The time drew near, - oh, how I longed to speak

And tell them I was sorry to have been
So great a trouble; then a distant din,
A muffled rumble, and the coach drew near;
One weary moment, it will soon be here!
I sighed, and sank and dreamed myself
away,

And then "Thank God, thank God!” I heard them say,

While with a pang, half wonderment, half pain,

I woke and found the coach had missed the train !

MARY BERRI (CHAPMAN) HANSBROUGH

HEY NONNY NO

THERE is a race from eld descent,
Of heaven by earth in joyous mood,
Before the world grew wise and bent
In sad, decadent attitude.

To these each waking is a birth
That makes them heir to all the
earth,

Singing, for pure abandoned mirth,
Non nonny non, hey nonny no.

Perchance ye meet them in the mart,
In fashion's toil or folly's throe,
And yet their souls are far apart
Where primrose winds from uplands blow.
At heart on oaten pipes they play
Thro' meadows green and gold with
May,

Affined to bird and brook and brae.
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.

Their gage they win in fame's despite,
While lyric alms to life they fling,
Children of laughter, sons of light,
With equal heart to starve or sing.

Counting no human creature vile,
They find the good old world worth
while;

Care cannot rob them of a smile.
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.

For creed, the up-reach of a spire,
An arching elm-tree's leafy spread,
A song that lifts the spirit higher
To star or sunshine overhead.

Misfortune they but deem God's jest
To prove His children at their
best,

Who, dauntless, rise to His attest.
Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.

Successful ones will brush these by,
Calling them failure as they pass.
What reck they this who claim the sky
For roof, for bed the cosmic grass!

When, failures all, we come to lie,
The grass betwixt us and the sky,
The gift of gladness will not die!

Sing nonny non, hey nonny no.
MARGUERITE MERINGTON

GOLD-OF-OPHIR ROSES

CALIFORNIA

I

O FLOWER of passion, rocked by balmy gales,

Flushed with life's ecstasy, Before whose golden glow the poppy pales And yields her sovereignty!

Child of the ardent south, thy burning heart

Has felt the sun's hot kiss.
Thy creamy petals falling half apart
Quiver with recent bliss.

For joy at thy unequalled loveliness,
He woos with fierce delight;
And thy glad soul, half faint with his caress,
Yet glories in his might.

Thy sighs go out in perfume on the air,
Rich incense of thy love,

And mystic lights, an opalescence rare,
Play round thee from above.

2

So thou dost riot through the glad spring days,

Sun-wooed and revelling in eager life, Till all the shadowed fragrance of the ways

With thy rich bloom and glowing tints is rife.

A joyous smile that hides a secret tear,
A note of music with a minor strain,
A heart of gold where crimson wounds

appear,

Thou breathest all love's sweetness and its pain.

Yet suddenly, even at thy loveliest,

Thou palest with thine own intensity. Ah, Passion's child, thou art most truly blest,

To bloom one perfect day, and then to die.

GRACE ATHERTON DENNEN