III

They sang full long together

Their songs love-sweet, death-sad;
The robin woke from his slumber,
And rang out, clear and glad.
"Now go!" she coldly said; "tis late";
And followed him-to latch the gate.

He took the rosebud from her hair,

While, "You shall not!" she said; He closed her hand within his own, And, while her tongue forbade, Her will was darkened in the eclipse Of blinding love upon his lips.

William Dean Howells.

G

THE MINUET

RANDMA told me all about it,
Told me so I couldn't doubt it,

How she danced-my Grandma danced!-
Long ago.

How she held her pretty head,
How her dainty skirt she spread,
Turning out her little toes;

How she slowly leaned and rose—

Long ago.

Grandma's hair was bright and sunny;
Dimpled cheeks, too—ah, how funny!
Really quite a pretty girl,

Long ago.

Bless her! why she wears a cap,
Grandma does, and takes a nap
Every single day; and yet
Grandma danced the minuet
Long ago.

Now she sits there rocking, rocking,
Always knitting Grandpa's stocking-
(Every girl was taught to knit
Long ago),

Yet her figure is so neat,

And her ways so staid and sweet,
I can almost see her now
Bending to her partner's bow,
Long ago.

Grandma says our modern jumping,
Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping,
Would have shocked the gentle folk
Long ago.

No-they moved with stately grace,
Everything in proper place,
Gliding slowly forward, then

Slowly curtseying back again.

Long ago.

Modern ways are quite alarming,

Grandma says; but boys were charming

Girls and boys I mean, of course—

Long ago.

Bravely modest, grandly shy,-
She would like to have us try
Just to feel like those who met
In the graceful minuet

Long ago.

With the minuet in fashion,
Who could fly into a passion?

All would wear the calm they wore
Long ago.

In time to come, if I, perchance,
Should tell my grandchild of our dance,
I should really like to say,

"We did it, dear, in some such way,

Long ago."

Mary Mapes Dodge.

U

A STREET SKETCH

PON the Kerb, a maiden neat

Her hazel eyes are passing sweet—

There stands and waits in dire distress: The muddy road is pitiless,

And 'busses thunder down the street!

A snowy skirt, all frills and pleat;
Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feet

Peep out, beneath her kilted dress,
Upon the Kerb.

She'll first advance, and then retreat,
Half-frightened by a hansom fleet.

She looks around, I must confess,
With marvellous coquettishness!—
Then droops her eyes and looks discreet,
Upon the Kerb!

J. Ashby-Sterry.

SAINT MAY

A CITY LYRIC

T. ALOYS THE GREAT is both mouldy and grim,

ST.

Not knowing the road there, you'll long have
to search

To find your way into this old city church;
Yet on fine Sunday mornings I frequently stray
There to see a new saint, whom I've christened St.
May.

Of saints I've seen plenty in churches before— In Florence or Venice they're there by the score; Agnese, Maria-the rest I forget

By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret:

They none can compare, though they're well in

their way,

In maidenly grace with my dainty St. May.

She's young for a saint, for she's scarcely eighteen,
And ne'er could wear peas in those dainty bottines;
Her locks are not shaven, and 'twould be a sin
To wear a hair-shirt next that delicate skin;
Save diagonal stripes on a dress of light gray,
Stripes ne'er have been borne by bewitching St.
May.

Then she's almost too plump and too round for a saint,

With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint;
She has no mediæval nor mortified mien,
No wimple of yellow, nor background of green,
A nimbus of hair throws its sunshiny ray
Of glory around the fair face of St. May.

What surquayne or partlet could look better than
My saint's curly jacket of black Astracan?
What coif than her bonnet-a triumph of skill-
Or alb than her petticoat edged with a frill?
So sober, yet smiling-so grave, yet so gay,
Oh, where is a saint like my charming St. May?

J. Ashby-Sterry.