How she stood up straight and tall! 
Ah! again I see it all;
Cheeks that glowed and eyes that laughed,
Teeth like cream, and lips that quaffed
All the genial country’s wealth
Of large cheer and perfect health,
Gown—­well, yes—­old-fashioned quite,
You would call it “just a fright,”
But I love that quaint attire. 
(Tildy wore it in the choir.)

How we sang—­for I was there,
Occupied a singer’s chair
Next to—­well, no prouder man
Ever lifts the bass, nor can,
Sometimes held the self-same book,
(How my nervous fingers shook!)
Sometimes—­wretch—­while still the air
Echoed to the parson’s prayer,
I would whisper in her ear
What she could not help but hear. 
Once, I told her my desire. 
(Tildy promised in the choir.)

Well, those days are past, and now
Come gray hairs, and yet somehow
I can’t think those years have fled—­
Still those roadways know my tread,
Still I climb that old pine stair,
Sit upon the stiff-backed chair,
Stealing glances toward my left
Till her eyes repay the theft;
Death’s a dream and Time’s a liar—­
Tildy still is in the choir.

Come, Matilda number two,
Fin de siecle maiden you! 
Wonder if you’d like to see
Her I loved in fifty-three? 
Yes?  All right, then go and find
Mother’s picture—­“Papa!”—­Mind! 
She and I were married.  You
Were our youngest.  Now you, too,
Raise the same old anthems till
All the church is hushed and still
With a single soul to hear. 
Do I flatter?  Ah, my dear,
Time has brought my last desire—­
Tildy still is in the choir!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

A Memory.

We sat in the lamplight’s gentle glow,
Alone on the winding stair,
And the distant strains of a waltz fell low
On the fragrance-laden air. 
I caught from her lips a murmured “yes,”
And the stately palms amid
There came a blissful, sweet caress—­
I shouldn’t have—­but I did!

I might forget that joyous night,
As the months slip swiftly by;
I might forget the gentle light
That shone in her hazel eye;
But I can’t forget that whispered “yes”
That came the palms amid,
I can’t forget that one caress—­
I shouldn’t have—­but I did!

GUY WETMORE CARRYL
Columbia Spectator.

The American Girl.

The German may sing of his rosy-cheeked lass,
  The French of his brilliant-eyed pearl;
But ever the theme of my praises shall be
  The laughing American girl,
  Yes, the jolly American girl.

She laughs at her sorrows, she laughs at her joys,
  She laughs at Dame Fortune’s mad whirl;
And laughing will meet all her troubles in life,
  The laughing American girl,
  Yes, the joyous American girl.

You say she can’t love if she laughs all the time? 
  A laugh at your logic she’ll hurl;
She loves while she laughs and she laughs while she loves,
  The laughing American girl,
  Oh, the laughing American girl!