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THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS. 9

And the moon and the stars that looked over
Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell
They wove round about us that night in the dell,
In the path through the dew-laden clover;
Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell
As they fell from the lips of my lover.

THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS.

"Love your neighbor as yourself ”—
So the parson preaches;
That's one half the decalogue—
So the prayer-book teaches.
Half my duty I can do,

With but little labor;

For with all my heart and soul
I do love my neighbor.

Mighty little credit, that,
To my self-denial;

Not to love her, though, might be
Something of a trial.

Why, the rosy light that peeps
Through the glass above her
Lingers round her lips; you see

E'en the sunbeams love her.

H. G.

So, to make my merit more,
I'll go beyond the letter.

Love my neighbor as myself?
Yes, and ten times better;
For she's sweeter than the breath

Of the spring that passes Through the fragrant, budding woods, O'er the meadow-grasses.

And I've preached the word, I know,
For it was my duty

To convert the stubborn heart
Of the little beauty.

Once again success has crowned
Missionary labor;

For her sweet eyes own that she
Also loves her neighbor.

GEORGE A. BAKER, JR.

RELICS.

The violets that you gave are dead, They could not bear the loss of you; The spirit of the rose has fled,

It loved you, and its love was true.
Back to your lips that spirit flies,
To bask beneath your radiant eyes.

Only the ashes bide with me,

The ashes of the ruined flowers

RELICS.

Types of a rapture not to be,

Sad relics of bewildering hours, Poor, frail, forlorn, and piteous shows Of errant passion's wasted woes.

He grandly loves who loves in vain!

These withered flowers that lesson teach. They suffered; they did not complain;

Their life was love too great for speech. In silent pride their fate they bore; They loved, they grieved, they died—no more.

Far off the purple banners flare,

Beneath the golden morning spread;
I know what queen is worshiped there,
What laurels wreathe her lovely head.
Her name be sacred in my thought,
And sacred be the grief she brought!

For since I saw that glorious face,

And heard the music of that voice, Much beauty's fallen to disgrace

That used to make my heart rejoice: And rose and violet ne'er can be

11

The same that once they were to me.

WILLIAM WINTER.

GETTING THE PONY SHOD, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

I went to the smith's one sultry day

For shoes for my favorite pony,

And I stood in the door of the shop the while, And played with the watch-dog, Tony.

Then I watched the sparks from the flaming forge,
And talked to the smith of the weather,
Till what with the heat and with nothing to say,
I grew thirsty and dull together.

When down by the well, through the garden gate,
Seeing Susan, the blacksmith's daughter,
I brushed the coal-dust from my face, and went
To ask for a drink of water.

The bucket was heavy, the chain was long-
You would say so, too, if you saw it;

"Twas down in the well, and my arm was strong, So I offered, of course, to draw it.

She thanked me. We leaned on the cool, wet curb, The soft shadows over us gliding,

As she filled the pail, remarking, the while, ""Tis a very warm day for riding."

"Yes," I answered, and took from her small, brown hand

A bright dipper, brimming over,

GETTING THE PONY SHOD.

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And thought, while I drained it in sight of her

smile,

"How happy must be her lover!"

I stepped slowly across the flagstones wet,
When she said, without blush or flurry,
"Your pony can't surely be waiting yet,
And why need you be in a hurry?"

So I carried the pail to the kitchen door,
Where lay sleeping my old friend Tony;
She talked to me while I was resting, and said,
With the rest, she "wished she had a pony."

"You may ride mine," I said; and so the next day

I sent it by Cyrus, her brother;

But the pony had life, and, alone, wasn't safe, So I went, just to make up the other.

Well, Susan liked riding, and I liked it too;
So we tried it, of course, quite often,
Till at last the short days of the autumn grew
Too chill for the sun to soften.

Then to Susan I said, "Since we cannot ride
This dreary November weather,

If you think you would like it as well, my dear,
Suppose we try walking together?

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