The voices of my children, and the mother as she sings, I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream.

In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harmFor I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine.

A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace,
Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase;
And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes
As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies.

I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress

She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the

caress

With the written declaration that " 'as surely as the

vine

Grew round the stump" she loved me

sweetheart of mine.

that old

And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand As we used to talk together of the future we had

planned

When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do But write the tender verses that she set the music to:

When we should live together in a cozy little cot
Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot,

Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine,

And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine:

When I should be her lover forever and a day,

And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray;

And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb

They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come.

But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the

stair,

And the door is softly opened, and my wife is standing there;

Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine.

OLD-FASHIONED ROSES

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

They ain't no style about 'em,
And the're sort o' pale and faded;
Yit the doorway here, without 'em,
Would be lonesomer, and shaded

With a good deal blacker shadder
Than the mornin'-glories makes,
And the sunshine would look sadder
For their good old-fashioned sakes.

I like 'em 'cause they kind o'
Sort o' make a feller like 'em;
And I tell you, when you find a

Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em, It allus sets me thinkin'

O' the ones 'at used to grow, And peek in thro' the chinkin' O' the cabin, don't you know.

And then I think o' mother,

And how she used to love 'em, When they wuzn't any other,

'Less she found 'em up above 'em, And her eyes, afore she shut 'em, Whispered with a smile, and said, We must pluck a bunch and put 'em In her hand when she wuz dead.

But, as I wuz a-sayin',

They ain't no style about 'em Very gaudy or displayin',

But I wouldn't be without 'em, 'Cause I'm happier in these posies And the hollyhawks and sich Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses In the roses of the rich.

THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

As the little white hearse went glimmering by
The man on the coal cart jerked his lines,
And smutted the lid of either eye,

And turned and stared at the business signs;
And the street-car driver stopped and beat
His hands on his shoulders and gazed up street
Till his eye on the long track reached the sky
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by
A stranger petted a ragged child

In the crowded walk, and she knew not why,

But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled; And a bootblack thrilled with a pleasure strange As a customer put back his change

With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh-
As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

As the little white hearse went glimmering by -
A man looked out of a window dim,
And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry-

For a dead child even were dear to him! And he thought of his empty life and said: "Loveless alive and loveless dead,

Nor wife nor child in earth or sky!"

As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

GINEVRA

BY SAMUEL ROGERS

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To Modena, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,
Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day. A summer sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go,
Enter the house - prythee, forget it not -
And look awhile upon a picture there.

"T is of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious race;

Done by Zampieri but by whom I care not.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.