I praised the deep blue of her starry eyes;
She turned them upon me in cold surprise.

Her white hand I kissed in a transport of love;
My kiss she effaced with her snowy glove.

I touched a soft ringlet of golden brown;
She rebuked my daring with a haughty frown.

I asked her to dance in most penitent tone;
On the arm of a rival she left me alone.

This gave me a hint; I veered from my track,
And waltzed with an heiress, to win my love back.

I carried her fan, and indulged in a sigh,
And whispered sweet nothings when my loved one was nigh.

It worked like a charm; oh, joy of my life! 
This stratagem wins me a sweet little wife.

MOTHER AND SON.

Postman, good postman, halt I pray,
And leave a letter for me to-day;
If it’s only a line from over the sea
To say that my Sandy remembers me.

I have waited and hoped by day and by night;
I’ll watch—­if spared—­till my locks grow white;
Have prayed—­yet repent that my faith waxed dim,
When passing, you left no message from him.

My proud arms cradled his infant head,
My prayers arose by his boyhood’s bed;
To better our fortunes, he traversed the main;
God guard him, and bring him to me again.

The postman has passed midst the beating rain,
And my heart is bowed with its weight of pain;
This dark, dark day, I am tortured with dread
That Sandy, my boy, may be ill or dead.

But hark! there’s a step! my heart be still! 
A step at the gate, in the path, on the sill;
Did the postman return? my letter forget? 
Oh ’tis Sandy!  Thank God, he loves me yet!

THE MISSIONARY’S STORY.

Hard were her hands, and brown;
Coarsest of stuff her gown: 
    Sod hut her home. 
Pale was her care-worn face,
Beauty and youth and grace
    Long since have flown.

Stern was her lot in life;
She was a drunkard’s wife;
    And forests drear
Shut not temptation out;
Strong drink was sold and bought;
    Poor pioneer!

Slave he to demon rum;
Houses and lands all gone;
    Want came by stealth. 
Yet her scant fare she shared
With me, who worse have fared
    In homes of wealth.

Stranger was I to her
Save as Christ’s messenger;
    And for His sake
She, all her little store
Wishing it were but more,—­
    Bade me to take.

Oh like the widow’s mite,
Given for love of right,
    May it be blest. 
When her last hour has come,
May angels bear her home,
    Ever to rest.

TRANSITION.

She is lying in state, this fair June day,
  While the bee from the rose its sweetness sips;
Her heart thrills not at the lark’s clear lay,
  Though a smile illumines her pallid lips.