And you, for want of neighbors, was sometimes blue and sad,

For wolves and bears and wildcats was the nearest ones you had;

But, lookin' ahead to the clearin', we worked with all our might, Until we was fairly out of the woods, and things was goin' right.

Look up there at our new house! ain't it a thing to see?

Tall and big and handsome, and new as new can be;

All in apple-pie order, especially the shelves,

And never a debt to say but what we own it all ourselves.

Look at our old log-house — how little it now appears!

But it's never gone back on us for nineteen or twenty years;

An' I won't go back on it now, or go to pokin' fun

There's such a thing as praisin' a thing for the good that it has done.

Probably you remember how rich we was that night,

When we was fairly settled, an' had things snug and tight :

We feel as proud as you please, Nancy, over our house that's new, But we felt as proud under this old roof, and a good deal prouder, too.

Never a handsomer house was seen beneath the sun :

Kitchen and parlor and bedroom had 'em all in one;

we

And the fat old wooden clock, that we bought when we come West,

Was tickin' away in the corner there, and doin' its level best.

Trees was all around us, a-whisperin' cheering words;

Loud was the squirrel's chatter, and sweet the songs of birds;

our

And home grew sweeter and brightercourage began to mount And things looked hearty and happy then, and work appeared to count.

And here one night it happened, when things was goin' bad,

We fell in a deep old quarrel — the first we ever had;

And when you give out and cried, then I, like a fool, give in,

And then we agreed to rub all out, and start the thing ag'in.

Here it was, you remember, we sat when the day was done,

And you was a-makin' clothing that wasn't for either one;

And often a soft word of love I was soft enough to say,

And the wolves was howlin' in the woods not twenty rods away.

And here is the spot I tumbled, an' give the Lord his due,

When the doctor said the fever 'd turned, an' he could fetch you through.

Yes, a deal has happened to make this old house dear:

Christenin's, funerals, weddin's what have n't we had here?

Not a log in this buildin' but its memories has got,

And not a nail in this old floor but touches a tender spot.

Out of the old house, Nancy, - moved up into the new;

All the hurry and worry is just as good as through;

But I tell you a thing right here, that I ain't ashamed to say,

There's precious things in this old house we never can take away.

Here the old house will stand, but not as it stood before:

Winds will whistle through it, and rains will flood the floor;

And over the hearth, once blazing, the snowdrifts oft will pile,

And the old thing will seem to be a-mournin' all the while.

INSECT or blossom? Fragile, fairy thing,
Poised upon slender tip, and quivering
To flight! a flower of the fields of air;
A jewelled moth; a butterfly, with rare
And tender tints upon his downy wing,
A moment resting in our happy sight;
A flower held captive by a thread so slight
Its petal-wings of broidered gossamer
Are, light as the wind, with every wind
astir,

Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite.
O dainty nursling of the field and sky,
What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blue
And drinks the noontide sun, the dawn-
ing's dew?

Thou winged bloom! thou blossom-butterfly!

Brown-bodied bees, that scent with nostrils

fine

The odorous blossom-wine,

Sipping, with heads half thrust
Into the pollen dust

Of rose and hyacinth and daffodil,
To hive, in amber cell,

A honey feasting for the winter-day: -
So, better far than I,

Self-wrapt, that dream and sigh,
And, sighing, dream my useless life away.

HELEN HUNT JACKSON

WHAT songs found voice upon those lips,

What magic dwelt within the pen,
Whose music into silence slips,
Whose spell lives not again!

For her the clamorous to-day
The dreamful yesterday became;
The brands upon dead hearths that lay
Leaped into living flame.

Clear ring the silvery Mission bells
Their calls to vesper and to mass;

O'er vineyard slopes, through fruited dells,
The long processions pass;

The pale Franciscan lifts in air

The Cross above the kneeling throng; Their simple world how sweet with prayer, With chant and matin-song!

malign

I will not so

The satin softness of thy plumed seed,
Nor so profane thee as to call thee weed,
Thou tuft of ermine down, fit to entwine
About a queen; or, fitter still, to line
The nest of birds of strange exotic breed.
The orient cunning, and the somnolent speed
Of looms of dusky Ind weave not so fine
A gossamer.
... Ah me! could he who sings,
On such adventurous and aërial wings
Far over lands and undiscovered seas
Waft the dark seeds of his imaginings,
That, flowering, men might say, Lo! look
on these

Wild Weeds of Song- not all ungracious things!

TO A MAPLE SEED

ing round,

Exhausted on the grass at last doth lie, Or wayward Fay? Ah, weakling, by and by

Thyself shalt grow a giant, strong and sound,

When, like Antaeus, thou dost touch the ground.

O happy Seed! it is not thine to die;
Thy wings bestow thine immortality,
And thou canst bridge the deep and dark
profound.

glooms