Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck;

And to say truth, for out it must,
It looked like the great collar, just,
About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat
Like little mice stole in and out,

As if they feared the light;
And oh, she dances such a way,
No sun upon an Easter-day

Is half so fine a sight!

Her cheeks so rare a white was on
No daisy makes comparison,

Who sees them is undone ;

For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,

The side that's next the sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly;
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze
Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,
That they might passage get;

But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

Passion o' me! how I run on!

There's that that would be thought upon,

I trow, beside the bride;

The business of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat,

Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick, the cook knocked thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;
Each serving-man, with dish in hand,
Marched boldly up, like our trained band,
Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able

To stay to be entreated?

And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company was seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick;
And when 'twas named another's health,

Perhaps he made it hers by stealth,

And who could help it, Dick?
O' the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance,

Then dance again, and kiss.
Thus several ways the time did pass,
Till every woman wished her place,
And every man wished his.

By this time all were stolen aside
To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know;
But yet 'twas thought he guessed her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind
Above an hour or so.

JOHN FLETCHER.

Do we go hence and find that they are not dead!

Joys we daily apprehend.

Faces that smiled and fled,

Hopes born here, and born to end.
Shall we follow ?

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

IT NEVER COMES AGAIN.
HFRF are gains for all our losses,

There are balms for all our pain;
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,

Under manhood's sterner reign;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.

THE BABY.

WHERE did you come from, baby dear?

W Out of you come bulere

Where did you get the eyes so blue?
Out of the sky, as I came through.

Where did you get that little tear?

I found it in waiting when I got here.

high?

A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose?

I saw something better than any knows.
Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get this pretty ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into hooks and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things!

From the same box as the cherub's wings.

How did they all come just to be you?
God thought of me, and so I grew.
But, how did you come to us, you dear?
God thought about you, and so I am here.
GEORGE MACDONALD.

A

AT THE KING'S GATE.

BEGGAR sat at the king's gate

And sang of summer in the rainA song with sounds reverberate

Of wood and hill and plain,
That, rising, bore a tender weight
Of sweetness, strong and passionate;
A song with sigh of mountain pass,
Ripple and rustle of deep grass,
The whispering of wind-smote sheaves,
Low lapping of long lily leaves,
Red morns and purple-mooned eves.

The king was weary of his part,
The king was tired of his crown;
He looked across the rainy land,
Across the barren stretch of sand,
Out to the breadth of rainy sea.

Into the gilded chamber crept

A breath of summer, blown with rain And wild wet leaves against the pane. The royal sleeper smiled and slept.

"I thought that all things sweet were dead!"
They heard him say who came to wed
The crown again to the king's head.
ANONYMOUS.

KEYS.

ONG ago in old Granada, when the Moors

were forced to flee,

Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key.

Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they

Should return from their long exile to those homes so far away.

But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime

Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling touch of Time.

Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,

And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key.

Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, too, in truth.

For no more shall we behold her. Our Granada's name is Youth.

We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now and then,

Some old heartstring stirs within us, and we feel our youth again.

"We are young!" we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee.

Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key!

BESSIE CHANDLER.