No naiad, faun or nereid
Preserves its haunts in charge,
Or watches o'er the myriad
Of flowers about its marge.

But aye around the caves of it

The muses chant their spells,
And charm the very waves of it,
As out the fountain wells.

Its joyous tide leaps crystally
Up 'neath the crystal moon,
And falling ever mistily

The sparkling drops keep tune.

The wavelets circle gleamily,
With lilies keeping tryst;
Fair emeralds glisten dreamily
Below, and amethyst.

Once taste that fountain's witchery
Of old Parnassus' crown,
And to this world of treachery,
Ah, never more come down!

Your joy will be to think of it;

'Twill ever haunt your dreams; You'll thirst again to drink of it Among a thousand streams.

-)(

ANSON G. CHESTER.

ERHAPS the most famous poem written by a Buffalo poet is "The Tapestry-Weavers," by the late Rev. Anson G. Chester. It was originally published in the Century Magazine, and was reprinted in THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY, Vol. I., No. I, January, 1889. Editor.

In the rosy, radiant Sometime there will be a wondrous rest;

We shall lie and drink in gladness as an infant sucks the breast;

No more the heart shall be disturbed by any woe or wile,

The earth shall wear a heavenlier look, the heavens themselves shall smile.

Hope will fruit upon its branches as the orange rounds and glows;

There will be no strife and tumult, only concord and repose;

Every joy will be discarded that another may not share,

And the ills of life will soften into something sweet and fair.

73

All our doubts will leave us ever, all our fears will be at rest;

Life will then be less like being than being always blest!

O, my brother in the struggle, O, my comrade in the strife!

Keep thy courage and thy patience; fill thy station; live thy life;

Twine thy hopes about the Sometime, trust it ever, hold it fast,

Though it tarry, wait thou for it; it will surely come at last!

MR.

BYRON R. NEWTON.

R. NEWTON was born in Friendship, Allegany county, August 4, 1862, and was educated in Friendship Academy and Oberlin College. He began his newspaper work with the Elmira Daily Advertiser in 1883, and was afterwards city editor of the Wellsville, N. Y, Daily Free Press for a year. In 1885 he traveled through Quebec and Nova Scotia, writing a series of historic sketches for a syndicate of American papers. He was connected with the New York Commercial Advertiser for a time, removing to Buffalo in 1887. He is now on the staff of the Evening News. He is the vice-president of the Buffalo Press Club, and was one of the organizers of the International League of Press Clubs. C. H. P.

AN OPEN VERSE to EUGENE FIELD.

SAY, "Gene,"

You remember last September,

One day down the bay,

As we fished and wished

For a spot less hot,

That you said, instead

Of Chicago's heat and hog 'o,
You would be with me

In the halo of Buf-fa-lo,

If I'd be so kind as a house to find,
Where the quiver o'er the river
Of the bright twilight,

And the teem and the gleam

Of the storm and the morn
In their wake o'er the lake
Were in view to you.

Thus a cottage for your dotage

I have found, on ground
Where the view for you

Of the quiver o'er the river

Of the bright twilight,

And the teem and the gleam

Of the storm and the morn

In their wake o'er the lake, From a handy back verandy You'll enjoy, my boy.

So the trade I've made,

Will you take it now or break it?

THE TOAD AND THE SPARROW.

THERE's a story that's told in a mythical way'
Of a toad and a sparrow, that happened one day
To journey together along the highway.
The toad toiled onward with many a jump,
With many a tumble and many a thump,
And when he would falter or fall in the track,
Miss sparrow stood ready to give him a whack
On his tenderest spot, and his patience to try
With a censuring glance from her sarcastic eye,
That did all but say in a sarcastic way:

"You lumbering, blundering, tumbling toad,
Afsplendid appearance you make on the road!
There's surely no reason why you shouldn't fly,
But you're clumsy and stubborn and won't even
try.

Now watch every movement; it's easy for me,
And why you're so stupid I really can't see!"
But hard though he struggled to flutter and flop,
His flying was sure to end in a hop.

Their journey led onward o'er upland and lea,
O'er hills and through vales, and at last by the sea.

The ocean lay waveless; the sun in the west
Sank down o'er the hills, and the world was at rest.
The sparrow, in angry and petulant mood,
Sought rest in the boughs of a sheltering wood;
Then nestling herself in her foliaged bed,
Glanced down at his toadship and haughtily said:
"Hop toad, you disgust me! Now mark what I say:
If to-morrow you blunder along in this way,
You beautiful bird, you picturesque drone,
I am sure you will finish the journey alone!"

Too meek for retorting, too noble to weep,
The toad fell to thinking and shortly to sleep.
But his nap was cut short by the sparrow's shrill
cry:

"Oh, toad! see that terrible light in the sky!"
'Twas fire! and swift in its sweeping career
Each moment was drawing more dreadfully near.
"Oh, what shall I do?" cried the sparrow in fright,
"My wings can not carry me up to a height

Where the flame's eager tongues and its withering breath

Shall not reach me; oh! toad, is there nothing but death?"

"Oh, yes," quoth the toad, "here's the ocean

quite near;

When escape is so simple, we never should fear.
Now notice my action, it's easy for me,

And why you're so frightened I really can't see."
Then, hopping along to the water hard by,
That gleamed with the light of the fiery sky,
He swelled himself up like a monstrous sponge
And, saying good night, in he went with a plunge.
Then lifting again just his nose and his chin,
Shouted back: "Wisest sparrow, oh, why don't
you swim?"

MORAL.

There's a moral just here for intelligent creatures: Don't always judge men by the mold of their features!

There's ever a function for wing and for limb;
If a toad can not fly, he will manage to swim.
When some one is slow or a blockhead in school,
Don't tell all your neighbors he's surely a fool,
For we'll seldom discover on life's crowded road
Four legs on a sparrow or wings on a toad.
And it's quite hara to tell, when you see a toad stop,
In just what direction he's able to hop.

If our friends chance to lag when in luck we can fly,
Let us never be eager their gifts to decry.
For indeed it is wrong, and so very chagrining,
To laugh at the dunce who is slow at beginning,
When as likely as not, ere the journey is past,
He'll quicken his pace and outstrip us at last.

KATHERINE ELEANOR CONWAY.

ISS CONWAY was born in Rochester, N. Y., September 6th, 1853. Her early girlhood was spent in Buffalo. From 1880 to 1883 she was assistant editor of the Buffalo Catholic Union and Times. Since that time she has been editorially connected with the Boston Pilot. A study of Miss Conway's poems, with life by Charles Wells Moulton, appeared in THE MAGAZINE of POETRY, Vol. Editor. 4, No. 3, July, 1892.

M September 6th, 1853

ANOTHER JUNE.

LAST June, in my lone garden, a lovely rose-tree grew,

Rich in God's gracious giving of sunshine and of dew;