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"Are men born so, with that white cockade?"

Said the little field-mouse to the old brown rat.

"Why, you silly child," the sage replied, "This is the bridegroom, they know him by that. Saith the snail so snug in his dappled shell, Slowly stretching one cautious horn, As the beetle was hurrying by so brisk, Much to his snailship's inward scorn:

"Why does that creature ride by so fast? Has a fire broke out to the east or west?"

"Your Grace, he rides to the weddingfeast,"

"Let the madman go. What I want 's

ANNA BOYNTON AVERILL. [U. s. A.]

BIRCH STREAM.

AT noon, within the dusty town,

Where the wild river rushes down,

And thunders hoarsely all day long, I think of thee, my hermit stream, Low singing in thy summer dream, Thine idle, sweet, old, tranquil song.

Northward, Katahdin's chasmed pile
Looms through thy low, long, leafy aisle,
Eastward, Olamon's summit shines;
And I upon thy grassy shore,
The dreamful, happy child of yore,
Worship before mine olden shrines.

Again the sultry noontide hush
Is sweetly broken by the thrush,

Whose clear bell rings and dies away Where nodding buds of orchis sleep Beside thy banks, in coverts deep,

In dusk, and dream not it is day.

Again the wild cow-lily floats
Her golden-freighted, tented boats,

In thy cool coves of softened gloom, O'ershadowed by the whispering reed, And purple plumes of pickerel-weed,

And meadow-sweet in tangled bloom.

The startled minnows dart in flocks Beneath thy glimmering amber rocks,

If but a zephyr stirs the brake; The silent swallow swoops, a flash Of light, and leaves, with dainty plash, A ring of ripples in her wake.

The level fields in languor swim,
Without, the land is hot and dim;

Their stubble-grasses brown as dust;
And all along the upland lanes,
Where shadeless noon oppressive reigns,
Dead roses wear their crowns of rust.

Within, is neither blight nor death, The fierce sun woos with ardent breath,

But cannot win thy sylvan heart. Only the child who loves thee long, With faithful worship pure and strong,

Can know how dear and sweet thou art.

EDWIN ARNOLD.

"HE AND SHE."

"SHE is dead!" they said to him. "Come away;

Kiss her and leave her, thy love is clay!"

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;

On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;

Over her eyes that gazed too much
They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows and beautiful face They tied her veil and her marriage lace,

And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes -

He and she; still she did not move
To any one passionate whisper of love.

Then he said: "Cold lips and breasts without breath,

Is there no voice, no language of death?

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?

"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear; What was the secret of dying, dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall?

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Was the miracle greater tofind how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?

choose

And over her bosom they crossed her

hands.

things clear?

And was it the innermost heart of the bliss

stands."

With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.

But he who loved her too well to dread

dead,

He lit his lamp and took the key
And turned it, -alone again-he and she.
He and she; but she would not speak,
Though he kissed, in the old place, the
quiet cheek.

He and she; yet she would not smile,

had laid

His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.

"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,

That treasure of his treasury,
A mind that loved him; let it lie!
Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!

Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends;
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves you; lost, 't is true,
But in the light ye cannot see
By such light as shines for you;
Of unfulfilled felicity,

In enlarging paradise,

Lives a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell.

I am gone before your face,

A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepped,
Ye will wonder why ye wept;
Ye will know, by wise love taught.
That here is all, and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain, -
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death, for death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life centre.