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I've sprinkled it with rich perfume,
With spices rare I've twined it,
And o'er it hung a sleep-god's plume
That slumber sprites might find it;
Within a shadow deed it swings,
While soft winds pipe a lullaby,
And tiny gnomes with dusky wings
Anear it playing, dance and fly,
Wee faries come, so bright the night,
To leap and creep o'er bonnie.

I've made a nest for laddie,
A cozy nest for laddie-

Heigh-o, heigh-0;

In damask rich and fur 'tis done,

A precious store, a precious store! 'Tis only big enough for one,

'Twill hold no more, 'twill hold no more! So, little snowbird, seek thy nest

Where fancy's forms may charm thee, Its soft embrace will bring thee rest, And nothing there shall harm thee, While angels in the skies their eyes Incline toward thine, my laddie.

THE OLD STUMP FENCE.

How like a lazy serpent stretched in sleep
It lies, half-hid by overhanging spray
Of sumac, hazel and the golden gray
Of lichens that upon it lightly creep!
Beside its smoke-brown rings red clovers peep
Where often through the silent summer day
The piping crickets sweet extempores play
To charm the passing flocks of browsing sheep.

Upon its wrinkled back the chipmunk whisks,
And playful butterflies flit to and fro
Amid the clematis whose purple disks

Nod mild responses as the breezes blow; While many a partridge taps his mournful drums, And fireflies light their lamps when twilight

comes.

The winds scuds past; the vagrant huntsman's gun
Sounds in the distance, through the waning light

A lonely crane slow-rising from the fen
Goes lumb'ring westward where the setting sun
Sprays gold-dust on the ebon wings of night.

HEART SONG.

WERE I a mighty Roman prince,

With crowns and kingly castles, With hordes of gold and warriors bold, And slaves, esquires and vassals; Were I to see thy virgin smiles

My heart were melted by thy wiles, I'd lure thee forth some gladsome day, And gently whisper "Amo te!"

Where I a German nobleman

Of proud and lofty mien, With titles great and vast estate, They all were thine, I ween, When I (my lips with praise replete) Would kneel and worship at thy feet, And then if thou shouldst tell me nay, "Ich liebe dich," I'd ever say.

Were I a gentleman gallant

From bonnie France's land,
With modest air and debonnair
I'd haste to seek thy hand;
Had I a thousand sweethearts free;

My heart would beat alone for thee; I'd offer heart and hand and name When low I'd falter "Je t'aime!"

I'm none of these, my darling,
A simple man is he,

Whose love is old and rich as gold,

As all true love should be.

This heart of mine, sweet maid, is thine, Forever and forever,

And e'en the little stars so bright,

That smile far up above thee, Are not more true than I to-night, As soft I say "I love thee!"

SUNSET ON LAKE ST.CLAIR.

A LANCE of sunlight lies upon the lake

Flung lightly from the purple water's edge,
While high o'er-reaching ragged cliff and ledge

The white mists loom and from their damp hair shake

Pearls-dews upon the herons in the brake;
With stutt'ring accents from the tufts of sedge
The poor persistant katy-did its pledge
Of love repeats and bids the loon awake.
No ripple mars the perfect calm save when

LULLABY.

Out in the night wee jasper stars
Above thy cot are peeping,
And at thy side sweet angels bide,
Their silent watches keeping-
Sleep, baby, sleep!-so weary,
Thy mother loves her dearie!

-Shepherd Lullaby.

HEN

HENRY COYLE.

ENRY COYLE was born in Boston, Mass., June 7th, 1869. He attended the public schools of that city until he was twelve years old, when he went to work for a time in a counting room, then in a law office, and next in a printing office where he learnt type-setting. He was thirteen years old when he sent some verses under a pen name to Judge Tourgee, Editor of Our Continent, which were accepted and published. Since that time he has written extensively for many periodicals and newspapers both in prose and verse. His education has been acquired largely at the compositor's case, and through reading and observation. He is at the present time a regular contributor to several magazines; he also edits the children's corner of some Western Catholic weeklies. has passed through the school of adversity, and suffered much from ill-health, yet nothing like the nature of a complaint has ever been made by him; all his writings are optimistic, and full of the spirit of the gospel of hope and charity.

M. E. C.

"SHE MADE HOME HAPPY"

He

"SHE made home happy!" These few words I read

Within a churchyard, written on a stone;
No name, no date, the simple words alone
Told me the story of the unknown dead;
A marble column lifted high its head

Close by, inscribed to one the world has known; But ah! that lonely grave with moss o'er grown Thrilled me for more than his who armies led.

"She made home happy!" Through the long, sad

years

The mother toiled and never stopped to rest Until they crossed her hands upon her breast, And closed her eyes, no longer dim with tears. The simple record that she left behind Was grander than the soldier's to my mind.

THE SCROLL OF PAPYRUS.

IN a fair country of the East,
Forgotten now by time,

There lived, unknown, a poet-priest,

Who wrote his thought in rhyme. Men scoffed and jeered and gave no heed,

And when the singer died,

They brought the scroll that none would read, And placed it at his side.

Four-thousand years or more ago,

The poet wrote his song;
Four-thousand years went by, and lo!
The words that had so long

Been hidden in the dust and gloom,

Upon the mummy's heart

Were found, when men broke in the tomb, In search of ancient art.

The scoffers and the nation fell,

And all their pomp and lust Have disappeared, and none can tell Where lies their very dust.

The hands with which the poet wrought Are now but lifeless clay,

But there, untouched by time, his thought, Was found at this late day.

Above his tomb a stone they raise,

The world rings with his name; Men yield him now the meed of praise. But greater than mere fame, Though he has reached the final goal, The pure thought from his pen Shall still live on, though ages roll, And stir the heart of men.

An acorn dropped beside the road
May rise a mighty tree,

A thought of ours may be the goad
To immortality.

So let our thoughts be sweet and pure,
And all the world shall bow

In homage, and they may endure
Ten thousand years from now.

WHEN THE SUN SHINES.

THE day was dark and dreary, overcast With clouds that veiled the beauty of God's smile;

They gathered in a huge, fantastic pile, And took strange shapes; then melting, floated past

Out to the void beyond, unknown and vast;

Like a retreating army, file and file, And rank and rank, they disappear, the while The day grew fair-the sun shone bright at last!

Just so with life, sometimes the heart is sad,

And filled with dark forebodings, and with pain; There is no joy in living-life seems vain; And then the sun shines and the heart is glad, And with new hope and courage we begin Our life anew, determined we shall win!

401

A SONG OF HOPE.

I HEARD a song—a cry of joy
Ring out upon the evening air;
It was a wood thrush, shy and coy,
With voice melodious rare.

When bright days linger with us long, And all the other birds are mute, He fills the gloaming with his songA clear, sweet solo, like a flute.

And all the day, though wet or dry, In sunlight, shade or falling rain, His voice in praise soars to the sky, An ever-thrilling, joyous strain.

Ah! when I heard the little bird

Chant merrily high in the tree,

My troubled heart was thrilled and stirred By his sweet song, so blithe and free.

It seemed a message from above,

And gave me strength again to cope With all life's ills; I felt God's love

Was still for me, and I had hope.

O bird! the dullest ear may hear

The voice of God in your refrain;

It says: "Through life to-day be drear, The sun will surely shine again!"

If we but hearken to the voice
Of Nature, in a thousand ways
She teaches us to hope-rejoice—
Through all our dark and rainy days.

THE ART CRITIC.

THE critic stood with scornful eye,
Before the picture on the wall:-
"You call this art? Now see that fly,
It is not natural at all!

"It has too many legs, its head
Is far too large-who ever saw
A fly like that, so limp and dead,
A wretched imitation-pshaw !"

And with a gesture of disgust,

He waved his hand, when lo! the fly Flew from the picture-"ah! some dust," The critic said, "was in my eye!"

M

MARCUS PETERSEN.

ARCUS PETERSEN was born in New Brittain, Conn., July 29th, 1854. Soon after his birth, his parents removed to New Haven, where they remained until 1863, when they took up their residence in New York City, where Marcus attended the public school until he passed his examinations and was admitted to the New York City College, before he was fourteen years of age. He was intended for the ministry, but his health failing from overstudy, he was obliged to leave college shortly after passing into his sophomore year, and giving up all hopes of a professional career, entered upon commercial life. Of an impulsive nature and an imaginative disposition, the details of business were always irksome to him, and for many years before he turned his attention entirely to literary work he was an occasional contributor to various periodicals. It is probably needless to say that his business life was not a success, and in 1891, he decided to devote himself entirely to newspaper and literary work, he has as yet achieved neither fame nor fortune, but the latent powers have been steadily developing, and during the past two years his poetical productions have attracted considerable attention not only in Michigan, (where he has made his home for the past six years) but through the different states, and his ability as a writer is being recognized, many of his articles being extensively copied throughout the country. His present residence is Lansing, Mich. M. H. L.

MEMORIES OF APPOMATTOX.

BACK to the past my memory turns And rests upon that day,

When nine and twenty years ago

Lee's army stood at bay. Again I stand 'neath southern skies, And hear the shot and shell,

That whistled round us on that field Where treason's last hope fell.

The vision is before me now,

And clearly I can see,

The gallant boys in blue march forth

To crush the hosts of Lee.

I see the valiant Custer,

And Mead, and Sheridan,

Marshall the veterans who so long

Had bravely followed them.