"She's thirty-five or so?" Yes, more
Than that. She's mighty nigh twoscore.
But what's the odds? She's sweet and mild
To me and mother as a child.
There doesn't breathe a better than
Our eldest darter, Lizy Ann!
"Had offers?" Wal, I reckon; though
She ne'er told me nor mother so.
I mind one chap--a likely man--
Who seemed clean gone on Lizy Ann,
And yet she let the feller slide,
And he's sence found another bride.
The roses in her cheeks is gone,
And left 'em kinder pale and wan.
Her mates is married, dead, or strayed
To other places. Youth nor maid
No longer comes to see her. Yet
You'll hear no murmur of regret.
"My life's a part o' heaven's own plan,"
She often says. Thet's Lizy Ann.
EDGAR F. DAVIS.
_Bowdoin Quill_.
~Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.~
Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar
Out of thy wilderness,
Till earth grows less and less,
Heaven, more and more.
Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing,
Till all the earth shall be
Vibrant with ecstasy
Beneath thy wing.
Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come,
That through the pathless air
Thou shalt find otherwhere
Unerring, home.
A.G.C.
_Kansas University Weekly._
~God's Acre.~
Oh, so pure the white syringas!
Oh, so sweet the lilac bloom
In the Arboretum growing
Near a granite tomb!
By the arching pepper-branches
Let us tender silence keep;
We have come into God's Acre,
Where the children sleep.
Pages:
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145