LOUISE R. LOOMIS.
_Wellesley Magazine._
[Illustration: A WELLESLEY GIRL.]
~"A White Morning"~
Many a morning the trees' slim fingers
Lift to the blue their frosted tips;
Winter has paused beside them, passing,
And blown upon them, through icy lips.
After the day has dawned in earnest,
Comes a blaze from the soul of things.
Some small snow-bird, beneath the window,
Beats out life, from his restless wings.
Never trust to the cold and silence;
Suns will rise, and the day climb higher.
Under the snows are resurrections;
Under the frost is hidden fire.
GRACE W. LEACH.
_Madisonensis_.
V. IN SERIOUS MOOD
~Verses.~
What must be must be, little one,
The dark night follow the day,
And the ebbing tide to the seaward glide
Across the moonlit bay.
What must be must be, little one,
The winter follow the fall,
And the prying wind an entrance find
Through the chinks of the cottage wall.
What must be must be, little one,
The brown hair turn to gray,
And the soul like the light of the early night
Slip gently far away.
FORSYTH WICKES.
_Yale Literary Magazine._
~A Little Parable.~
Just beyond the toiling town
I saw a child to-day,
With busy little hands of brown
Making toys of clay.
Working there with all his heart,
Beneath the spreading trees,
He moulded with unconscious art
Whatever seemed to please.
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