Over the billow and over the wave,
  Over the vales and valleys,
I seek for the spot where the night-wind dreams,
  And rests from its twilight rallies. 
       Is it here?  Is it there? 
       Pray tell me where
The breath of night lies sleeping,
       That I may rest
       In its downy nest,
With its breath my eyelids steeping.

W.T.O.
Trinity Tablet.

Lullaby.

Breezes in the tree-tops high,
  Sighing softly as you blow,
Sing a restful lullaby;
  Sing the sweetest song you know,
      Something slow, something low,—­
          Lulla-lullaby.

Barley heads and crested wheat,
  Swaying gently to and fro,
Sing the music of the heat,
  Sing the drowsiest song you know,
      Something slow, something low,—­
          Lulla-lullaby.

Brooklet hidden in the grass,
  Murmuring faintly as you flow,
Sing a sleep song while you pass;
  Sing the dreamiest song you know,
      Something slow, something low,—­
          Lulla-lullaby.

MABEL A. CARPENTER.
Wellesley Magazine.

Our Scarlet King.

He comes along the great highway
  In scarlet coat and crown,
And high the shrilling trumpets bray
  And fierce his lancers frown. 
    Bright scarlet is his royal crest;
    Bright scarlet shines his royal vest;
        Oh! pr’ythee canst thou bring
    A knight more nobly known and dressed
        Than this, our Scarlet King.

See how he throws his largess gold
  Into the bending trees. 
He doth the forest walls enfold
  In purple tapestries. 
      He giveth all a majesty;
      He holds in fiel the shore, the sea;
          Oh! pr’ythee come and sing
      A song, and sing it merrily
          To him, our Scarlet King.

Past crypt and wayside canopy,
  Beyond each bloarny throne,
Full fleetly speed his heralds free
  To make his advent known. 
    His scarlet banners bend and blow;
    Our scarlet vintages shall flow;
          And pr’ythee with us sing,
    That proud October all may know
          And hail—­“our Scarlet King.”

HAROLD M. BOWMAN.
Inlander.

Bob White.

At morn, when first the rosy gleam
  Of rising sun proclaimed the day,
There reached me, thro’ my last sweet dream,
  This oft-repeated lay: 
      (Too sweet for cry. 
      Too brief for song,
      ’Twas borne along
      The reddening sky)
          Bob White! 
      Daylight, Bob White! 
          Daylight!

At eve, when first the fading glow
  Of setting sun foretold the night,
The same sweet call came, soft and low,
Across the dying light: 
      (Too sweet for cry,
      Too brief for song,
      ’Twas but a long,
      Contented sigh)
          Bob White! 
      Good Night, Bob White! 
          Good Night!