She shook her ringlets from her hood,

And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled, But I knew she understood

With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud passed kindly overhead,

The moon was slyly peeping through it,

Yet hid its face, as if it said,

Come, now or never! do it! do it!"

My lips till then had only known

The kiss of mother and of sister,

But somehow, full upon her own

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth,-I kissed her!

Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still,

O listless woman, weary lover!

To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill
I'd give but who can live youth over?

E. C. STEDMAN.

A SNOW FLAKE.
ONCE he sang of summer,
Nothing but the summer;
Now he sings of winter,
Of winter bleak and drear;
Just because there's fallen
A snow-flake on his forehead,
He must go and fancy
'Tis winter all the year.

T. B. ALDRICH.

CANDOR.

OCTOBER-A WOOD.

"I KNOW what you're going to say," she said,

64

And she stood up looking uncommonly tall;

You are going to speak of the hectic Fall, And say you're sorry the summer's dead.

And no other summer was like it, you know, And can I imagine what made it so? Now are n't you, honestly?"

"Yes," I said.

"I know what you're going to say," she said; "You are going to ask if I forget

That day in June when the woods were wet, And you carried me "-here she dropped her

head

"Over the creek; you are going to say,

Do I remember that horrid day.

Now are n't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.

"I know what you're going to say," she said; "You are going to say that since that time You have rather tended to run to rhyme,

And "-her clear glance fell and her cheek grew red

"And have I noticed your tone was queer ?— Why, everybody has seen it here!— Now, are n't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said. "I know what you're going to say," I said;

You're going to say you've been much annoyed,
And I'm short of tact-you will say devoid-

And I'm clumsy and awkward, and call me Ted,

And I bear abuse like a dear old lamb,

And you'll have me, anyway, just as I am. Now are n't you, honestly?"

"Ye-es," she said.

H. C. BUNNER.

FIVE LITTLE WHITE HEADS.

FIVE little white heads peeped out of the mold, When the dew was damp and the night was

cold;

And they crowded their way through the soil with pride;

"Hurrah! We are going to be mushrooms!" they cried.

But the sun came up, and the sun shone down, And the little white heads were withered and

brown;

Long were their faces, their pride had a fall—

They were nothing but toad-stools, after all.

WALTER LEARNED.

"ONE, TWO, THREE!"

It was an old, old, old, old lady,

And a boy that was half-past three; And the way that they played together Was beautiful to see.

She couldn't go running and jumping,

And the boy, no more could he; For he was a thin little fellow,

With a thin little twisted knee.

They sat in the yellow sunlight,
Out under the maple-tree;

And the game that they played I'll tell you,
Just as it was told to me.

It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing,
Though you'd never have known it to be-
With an old, old, old, old lady,

And a boy with a twisted knee.

The boy would bend his face down
On his one little sound right knee,
And he'd guess where she was hiding,
In guesses One, Two, Three !

"You are in the china-closet!

He would cry, and laugh with glee—

It wasn't the china-closet;

But he had Two and Three.

"You are up in Papa's big bedroom,

In the chest with the queer old key!"

And she said: "You are warm and warmer; But you're not quite right," said she.

"It can't be the little cupboard

Where Mamma's things used to be

So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma!"
And he found her with his Three.

Then she covered her face with her fingers,
That were wrinkled and white and wee,
And she guessed where the boy was hiding,
With a One and a Two and a Three.

And they never had stirred from their places,
Right under the maple-tree-

This old, old, old, old lady,

And the boy with the lame little knee

This dear, dear, dear old lady,

And the boy who was half-past three.

H. C. BUNNER.

WHEN THE LITTLE BOY RAN AWAY.

WHEN the little boy ran away from home,

The birds in the tree top knew,

And they all sang; "Stay!" but he wandered

away

Under the skies of blue.

And the wind came whispering from the tree,

"Follow me, follow me!"

And it sang him a song that was soft and sweet And scattered the roses before his feet

That day, that day

When the little boy ran away.