Once within that leafy shelter
  Some one hid herself, to rest,
With another little dreamer
  Folded to her breast;
And a sense of consolation
  Stealeth unto them that weep,
While that mother-heart lies sleeping
  Where the children sleep.

Year by year the Christmas berries
  Redden in the quiet air,—­
Year by year the vineyard changes,
  Buds and ripens there;
We give place to other faces,
  But the years’ relentless sweep
Cometh not into God’s Acre,
  Where the children sleep.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.
Four-Leaved Clover.

Unique.

His presence makes the Spring to blush. 
  He shines in ample Summer’s glow,
He kindles Autumn’s burning-bush,
  And flings the Winter’s fleece of snow.

Hamilton Literary Monthly.

A Letter.

“Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!”
                        The Chambered Nautilus.

* * * * *

Self, Soul & Co., Architects: 

             Dear Sirs;
                                   I find
Your “ad.” in the Nautilus quite to my mind.  Pray build me a mansion (for plans see below) More stately and lofty than this that I know.  Dig deep the foundations in reason and truth; I want no pavilion—­a fortress forsooth, Secure against windstorms of doctrine and doubt; In style—­Emersonian—­inside and out.  It should, sir, be double, with rooms on each side, For justice and mercy, for meekness and pride; For heating and lighting, it only requires Faith’s old-fashioned candles, and Love’s open fires.  Write me minimum charges in struggle and stress, And extras in suffering. 
                       Yours truly,

C.S.
Kalends.

The Record of a Life.

He lived and died, and all is passed away
That bound him to his so-soon-darkened day. 
He is forgotten in time’s sweeping tide;
This is his history:  He lived—­and died!

HENRY DAVID GRAY.
Madisonensis.

Who Knows?

If when the day has been sped with laughter,
   Mirth and song as the light wind blows,
A sob and a sigh come quickly after—­
          Who knows?

If eyes that smile till the day’s completeness
   Droop a little at evening’s close,
And tears cloud over their tender sweetness—­
          Who knows?

If lips that laugh while the sun be shining,
   Curved as fair as the leaf of a rose,
Quiver with grief at day’s declining—­
          Who knows?

If the heart that seems to know no aching
   While the fair, gold sunlight gleams and glows,
Under the stars be bitterly breaking—­
          Who knows?

JESSIE V. KERR.
Kalends.

Inconstancy.

I sighed as the soul of April fled,
  And a tear on my cheek
Told of the love I had borne the dead—­
And I signed the cross, and bowed my head—­
  And was sad for a week.