The Petrified Fern

MARY L. BOLLES BRANCH.

In a valley, centuries ago,

Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender,
Veining delicate and fibers tender;

Waving when the wind crept down so low.
Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it,
Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,
Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it,
But no foot of man ere trod that way;
Earth was young and keeping holiday.
Monster fishes swam the silent main,

Stately forests waved their giant branches, Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches, Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain; Nature reveled in grand mysteries,

But the little fern was not of these,

Did not number with the hills and trees;
Only grew and waved its wild sweet way.
No one came to note it day by day.

Earth one day put on a frolic mood,
Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty
motion

Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean; Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,

Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay,Covered it, and hid it safe away.

O, the long, long centuries since that day! O, the changes! O, life's bitter cost, Since that useless little fern was lost!

Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man
Searching nature's secrets far and deep;
From a fissure in a rocky steep,

He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran
Fairy pencilings, a quaint design,
Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine
And the fern's life lay in every line!
So, I think, God hides some souls away,
Sweetly to surprise us, the last day.

Over the River

NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST

Over the river, they beckon to me,

Loved ones who've crossed to the farther

side;

The gleams of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are lost in the darkling tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there, The gates of the city we could not see: Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; We felt it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be ;

Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale : We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,

And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,

They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea:

Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon and wait for me.
And I sit and think when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar: I shall watch for the gleam of the flapping sail, I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, To the better shore of the spirit land; I shall know the loved who have gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death shall carry me.

Indirection

RICHARD REALF

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer ;

Rare is the rose-burst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer;

Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter;

And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning outmastered the metre.

Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing;

Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flowing;

Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did enfold him;

Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mighty seer hath foretold him.

Back of the canvas that throbs, the painter is hinted and hidden;

Into the statue that breathes, the soul of the sculptor is bidden ;

Under the joy that is felt, lie the infinite issues of feeling;