Of the summer on the deep Come sweet visions in my sleep; His fair face lifts from the sea, His dear voice calls out to me,—­ These my dreams of summer be.

    Krinken was a little child,
    By the maiden Nis beguiled;
    Oft the hoary sea and grim
    Reached its longing arms to him,
    Crying, “Sim-child, come to me;
    Let me warm my heart with thee!”
    But the sea calls out no more;
    It is winter on the shore,—­
    Winter, cold and dark and wild.

    Krinken was a little child,—­
    It was summer when he smiled;
    Down he went into the sea,
    And the winter bides with me,
    Just a little child was he.

EUGENE FIELD.

 STEVENSON’S BIRTHDAY.

   “How I should like a birthday!” said the child,
     “I have so few, and they so far apart.” 
    She spoke to Stevenson—­the Master smiled—­
     “Mine is to-day; I would with all my heart
    That it were yours; too many years have I! 
    Too swift they come, and all too swiftly fly”

    So by a formal deed he there conveyed
      All right and title in his natal day,
      To have and hold, to sell or give away,—­
    Then signed, and gave it to the little maid.

    Joyful, yet fearing to believe too much,
      She took the deed, but scarcely dared unfold. 
    Ah, liberal Genius! at whose potent touch
      All common things shine with transmuted gold! 
    A day of Stevenson’s will prove to be
    Not part of Time, but Immortality.

KATHERINE MILLER.

 A MODEST WIT.

I learned “A Modest Wit” as a reading-lesson when I was a child.  It has clung to me and so I cling to it.  It is just as good as it ever was.  It is a sharp thrust at power that depends on externalities.  Selleck Osborne. (——.)

    A supercilious nabob of the East—­
      Haughty, being great—­purse-proud, being rich—­
    A governor, or general, at the least,
      I have forgotten which—­
    Had in his family a humble youth,
      Who went from England in his patron’s suit,
    An unassuming boy, in truth
      A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

    This youth had sense and spirit;
      But yet with all his sense,
      Excessive diffidence
    Obscured his merit.

    One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
      His honour, proudly free, severely merry,
    Conceived it would be vastly fine
      To crack a joke upon his secretary.

   “Young man,” he said, “by what art, craft, or trade,
      Did your good father gain a livelihood?”—­
   “He was a saddler, sir,” Modestus said,
     “And in his time was reckon’d good.”

   “A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek,
      Instead of teaching you to sew! 
    Pray, why did not your father make
      A saddler, sir, of you?”