For many years.'

But William answer'd short:

"I can not marry Dora; by my life,

I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said,
"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it:
Consider, William: take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish,
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,
And never more darken my doors again."
But William answered madly; bit his lips,
And broke away. The more he looked at her
The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It can not be: my uncle's mind will change!" And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he passed his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest-time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat

And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said,
"I have obeyed my uncle until now,
And I have sinned, for it was all through me
This evil came on William at the first.

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose,

And for this orphan, I am come to you:

You know there has not been for these five years

So full a harvest: let me take the boy,

And I will set him in my uncle's eye

And spied her not; but none of all his men
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
But her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
And made a little wreath of all the flowers
That grew about, and tied it round his hat,
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
Then, when the farmer passed into the field,
He spied her, and he left his men at work,
And came and said, "Where were you yesterday?
Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,

And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!" "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora ?" Dora said again,

"Do with me as you will, but take the child,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick

Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy;
But go you hence, and never see me more."

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell
At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands,
And the boy's cry came to her from the field,
More and more distant. She bowed down her head,
Remembering the day when first she came,

And all the things that had been. She bowed down
And wept in secret; and the reapers reaped,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood

Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that helped her in her widowhood.

And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
He says that he will never see me more.
Then answered Mary, "This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself;
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
And I will beg of him to take thee back;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child until he grows
Of age to help us.

So the women kiss'd
Each other, and set out, and reached the farm.
The door was off the latch: they peeped, and saw
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,

And clapped him on the hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out
And babbled for the golden seal that hung

From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in; but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her;
And Allan sat him down, and Mary said,

"Oh father-if you let me call you soI never came a-begging for myself,

Or William, or this child; but now I come

For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.

Oh sir, when William died, he died at peace
With all men; for I asked him, and he said
He could not ever rue his marrying me.
I had been a patient wife; but, sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus:
'God bless him!' he said, ' and may he never know

The troubles I have gone through!' Then he turned
His face and passed-unhappy that I am!

But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight

His father's memory; and take Dora back,

And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face

By Mary: There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs: "I have been to blame-to blame.

I have killed my son.

I have killed him-but I loved him--my dear son!
May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.

Kiss me, my children."

Then they clung about

The old man's neck, and kissed him many times.
And all the man was broken with remorse;

And all his love came back a hundred fold;

And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child,
Thinking of William.

So those four abode

Within one house together; and as years
Went forward, Mary took another mate;
But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

THE BUGLE SONG.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

The splendor falls on castle walls,
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh hark! oh hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going;
Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing.

Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying;

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill, on field, on river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying;
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

LITTLE GRETCHEN.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down the street;
The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is at her feet.
The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp
By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp.
The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north,
But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth.

Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright,
And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night.
With the little box of matches she could not sell all day,
And the thin, thin tattered mantle the wind blows every way,
She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom—
There are parents sitting snugly by firelight in the room;
And children with grave faces are whispering one another
Of presents for the new year, for father or for mother.
But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak,
No breath of little whisperers comes warmly to her cheek.
No little arms are round her: ah me! that there should be,
With so much happiness on earth, so much of misery!
Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings round,
As laden boughs in autumn fling their ripe fruits to the ground.
And the best love man can offer to the God of love, be sure,
Is kindness to his little ones, and bounty to his poor.
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen goes coldly on her way;
There's no one looketh out at her, there's no one bids her stay.
Her home is cold and desolate; no smile, no food, no fire,
But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire.
So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet,
And she curleth up beneath her, for warmth, her little feet;
And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky,
And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up on high.
She hears a clock strike slowly, up in a far church tower,
With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight hour.
And she remembered her of tales her mother used to tell,
And of the cradle-songs she sang, when summer's twilight fell
Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child,
Who was cradled in a manger, when winter was most wild;
Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and lone;
And she thought the song had told he was ever with his own;
And all the poor, and hungry, and forsaken ones are his—
"How good of Him to look on me in such a place as this!"
Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel it now,
For the pressure at her heart, and the weight upon her brow;
But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and bare,
That she might look around her, and see if He were there.
The single match has kindled, and by the light it threw,
It seemed to little Gretchen the wall was rent in two;
And she could see folks seated at a table richly spread,
With heaps of goodly viands, red wine and pleasant bread.

She could smell the fragrant savor, she could hear what they did say, Then all was darkness once again-the match had burned away.