I watched them pretty close; don't scold me, dear.
And where they are, I think I nearly know:
I heard the bell not very long ago. . .
I've hunted for them all the afternoon;
I'll try once more-I think I'll find them soon.
Dear, if a burden I have been to you,
And haven't helped you as I ought to do,
Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead;
I've tried to do my best-I have, indeed.
Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack,
And have kind words for me when I get back."
Scarce did I give this letter sight and tongue-
Some swift-blown rain-drops to the window clung,
And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded:
My thunder-storm had come, now 'twasn't needed.
I rushed out-door. The air was stained with black:
Night had come early, on the storm-cloud's back:
And everything kept dimming to the sight,
Save when the clouds threw their electric light;
When, for a flash, so clean-cut was the view,
I'd think I saw her-knowing 'twas not true.
Through my small clearing dashed wide sheets of spray,
As if the ocean waves had lost their way;
Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made,
In the bold clamor of its cannonade.
And she, while I was sheltered, dry, and warm,
Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm!
She who, when storm-frights found her at her best,
Had always hid her white face on my breast!
My dog, who'd skirmished round me all the day,
Now crouched and whimpering, in a corner lay;
I dragged him by the collar to the wall,
I pressed his quivering muzzle to a shawl-
"Track her, old boy!" I shouted; and he whined,
Matched eyes with me, as if to read my mind,
Then with a yell went tearing through the wood.
I followed him, as faithful as I could.
No pleasure-trip was that, through flood and flame;
We raced with death: we hunted noble game.
All night we dragged the woods without avail;
The ground got drenched-we could not keep the trail. Three times again my cabin home I found,
Half hoping she might be there, safe and sound;
But each time 'twas an unavailing care:
My house had lost its soul; she was not there!
When, climbing the wet trees, next morning-sun
Laughed at the ruin that the night had done,
Bleeding and drenched, by toil and sorrow bent,
Back to what used to be my home I went.
But as I neared our little clearing-ground-
Listen!-I heard the cow-bell's tinkling sound.
The cabin door was just a bit ajar;
It gleamed upon my glad eyes like a star.
"Brave heart," I said, "for such a fragile form!
She made them guide her homeward through the storm!" Such pangs of joy I never felt before.
"You've come!" I shouted, and rushed through the door.
Yes, she had come-and gone again. She lay
With all her young life crushed and wrenched away-
Lay, the heart-ruins of our home among,
Not far from where I killed her with my tongue.
The rain-drops glittered 'mid her hair's long strands,
The forest thorns had torn her feet and hands,
And 'midst the tears-brave tears-that one could trace
Upon the pale but sweetly resolute face,
I once again the mournful words could read,
"I've tried to do my best-I have, indeed.”
And now I'm mostly done; my story's o'er;
Part of it never breathed the air before.
'Tisn't over-usual, it must be allowed,
To volunteer heart-history to a crowd,
And scatter 'mongst them confidential tears,
But you'll protect an old man with his years;
And wheresoe'er this story's voice can reach,
This is the sermon I would have it preach:
Boys flying kites haul in their white-winged birds:
You can't do that way when you're flying words.
"Careful with fire," is good advice we know:
"Careful with words," is ten times doubly so.
Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead,
But God himself can't kill them when they're said!
You have my life-grief: do not think a minute
Twas told to take up time. There's business in it.
It sheds advice: whoe'er will take and live it,
Is welcome to the pain it costs to give it.
THE RABBI'S VISION.-FRANCES BROWN.
Ben Levi sat with his books alone
At the midnight's solemn chime,
And the full-orbed moon through his lattice shone In the power of autumn's prine:
It shone on the darkly learned page,
And the snowy locks of the lonely sage,-
But he sat and marked not its silvery light,
For his thoughts were on other themes that night.
Wide was the learn'd Ben Levi's fame
As the wanderings of his race;
And many a seeker of wisdom came
To his lonely dwelling-place;
For he made the darkest symbols clear,
Of ancient doctor and early seer.
Yet a question asked by a simple maid
He met that eve in the linden's shade,
Had puzzled his matchless wisdom more
Than all that ever it found before;
And this it was-" What path of crime
Is darkliest traced on the map of time?"
The Rabbi pondered the question o'er
With a calm and thoughtful mind,
And searched the depths of the Talmud's lore-
But an answer he could not find;
Yet a maiden's question might not foil
A sage inured to wisdom's toil,
And he leant on his hand his aged brow,
For the current of thought ran deeper now:
When lo! by his side, Ben Levi heard
A sound of rustling leaves
But not like those of the forest stirred
By the breath of summer eves,
That comes through the dim and dewy shades
As the golden glow of the sunset fades,
Bringing the odors of hidden flowers
That bloom in the greenwood's secret bowers
But the leaves of a luckless volume turned
By the swift impatient hand
Of student young, or of critic learned
In the lore of the Muse's land.
The Rabbi raised his wondering eyes,
Well might he gaze in mute surprise
For, opened wide to the moon's cold ray,
A ponderous volume before him lay!
Old were the characters, and black
As the soil when seared by the lightning's track,
But broad and full that the dimmest sight
Might clearly read by the moon's pale light;
But oh! 'twas a dark and fearful theme
That filled each crowded page,—
The gathered records of human crime
From every race and age;
All the blood that the earth had seen
Since Abel's crimsoned her early green;
All the vice that had poisoned life
Since Lamech wedded his second wife!
All the pride that had mocked the skies
Since they built old Babel's wall;
But the page of the broken promises
Was the saddest page of all.
It seemed a fearful mirror made
For friendship ruined and love betrayed,
For toil that had lost its fruitless pain,
And hope that had spent its strength in vain;
For all who sorrowed o'er broken faith-
Whate'er their fortunes in life or death-
Were there in one ghastly pageant blent
With the broken reeds on which they leant.
And foul was many a noble crest
By the nations deemed unstained;
And, deep on brows which the church had blessed, The traitor's brand remained.
For vows in that blackened page had place
Which time had ne'er revealed,
And many a faded and furrowed face
By death and dust concealed,
Eyes that had worn their light away
In weary watching from day to day,
And tuneful voices which time had heard
Grow faint with the sickness of hope deferred.
The Rabbi read till his eyes grew dim
With the mist of gathering tears,
For it woke in his soul the frozen stream
Which had slumbered there for years;
And he turned, to clear his clouded sight,
From that blackened page to the sky so bright-
And joyed that the folly, crime, and care
Of earth could not cast one shadow there.
For the stars had still the same bright look
That in Eden's youth they wore;
And he turned again to the ponderous book-
But the book he found no more;
Nothing was there but the moon's pale beam-
And whence that volume of wonder came,
Or how it passed from his troubled view,
The sage might marvel, but never knew!
Long and well had Ben Levi preached
Against the sins of men,
And many a sinner his sermons reached
By the power of page and pen:
Childhood's folly, and manhood's vice,
And age with its boundless avarice,-
All were rebuked, and little ruth
Had he for the venial sins of youth.
But never again to mortal ears
Did the Rabbi preach of aught
But the mystery of trust and tears
By that wondrous volume taught.
And if he met a youth and maid
Beneath the linden boughs,-
Oh, never a word Ben Levi said,
But-" Beware of broken vows!"
I wonder who w-wote me this letter. I thuppose the b-best way to f-find out ith to open it and thee. (Opens letter.) Thome lun-lunatic hath w-witten me this letter. He hath w-witten it upthide down. I wonder if he th-thought I wath going to w-wead it thanding on my head. Oh, yeth, I thee; I had it t-t-turned upthide down. "Amewica." Who do I know in Amewica? I am glad he hath g-given me hith addwess anyhow. Oh, yeth, I thee, it ith from Tham. I alwaths know Tham's handwiting when I thee hith name
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