Where hees grave ees on da heell,
Dere ees joy for me to feel

Dat my heart can keep heem steell
Leetla Joe.

THE SONG OF THE THRUSH

BY T. A. DALY

An! the May was grand this mornin'!
Sure, how could I feel forlorn in

Such a land, when tree and flower tossed their kisses to the breeze?

Could an Irish heart be quiet

While the Spring was runnin' riot,

An' the birds of free America were singin' in the trees?

In the songs that they were singin'

No familiar note was ringin',

But I strove to imitate them an' I whistled like a lad.

O! my heart was warm to love them

For the very newness of them

For the ould songs that they helped me to forget an' I was glad.

So I mocked the feathered choir

To my hungry heart's desire,

An' I gloried in the comradeship that made their joy

my own,

Till a new note sounded, stillin'

All the rest. A thrush was trillin'!

Ah! the thrush I left behind me in the fields about Athlone!

Where, upon the whitethorn swayin',

He was minstrel of the Mayin',

In my days of love an' laughter that the years have laid at rest;

Here again his notes were ringin'!

But I'd lost the heart for singin'

Ah! the song I could not answer was the one I knew the best.

BURIED TREASURE

BY EVA DEAN

God buried in a woman's soul

A treasure rare

For His safekeeping, till the day
That he to whom it was bequeathed
Should, by some look, or whisper breathed,
Beseech his birthright hid away.

She kept it long, for safety locked

Deep in her heart,

And there it grew more fair, more bright;
But no one brought the magic key

That claimed the treasure held in fee:
So, deeper still, she buried it from sight.

At last the donor spoke and said: "Give lavishly

To all you meet from out your store; A heart of love, like purse of gold, Unspent, but curses those who hold."

Yet as she gave, the hoard but grew the more!

THE IVY GREEN

BY CHARLES DICKENS

O, a dainty plant is the ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he!

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend, the huge oak-tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,

And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten upon the past;

For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.

Creeping on where Time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER

BY JULIA C. R. DORR

Day by day the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber wrought;

Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought;

Till at last the work was ended, and no organ voice so grand

Ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic hand.

Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom or

bride

Who in God's sight were well-pleasing in the church stood side by side,

Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to

play,

And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.

He was young, the Organ-Builder, and o'er all the land his fame

Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.

All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled,

By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.

So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding day was set:

Happy day- the brightest jewel in the glad year's coronet!

But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely

bride

Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.

"Ah!" thought he, "how great a master am I! When the organ plays,

How the vast cathedral arches will re-echo with my praise!

Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,

With its every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.

But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought

of love or prayer,

For the swelling notes of triumph from the organ standing there.