In a forgotten cnrner of my desk I found this little lock of golden hair; AtmLos by magie, viyinns picturesque fffio from the past and hover in the air. Methinks we sitonce moro beside the stream In summer time, beneath the old elm's shade; Once more- and oh,the rapture of that dream- Tho6e golden locks are on my shoulder laid. Once moro methinks I whisper words of love And see love answering bock to me from eyea That shine as blue as heaven's expanse abo ve- I hold within ray grasp life's dearest prizel But stay- this little lock of shilling gold. Wkat maiden was it that the token gave? What maid of all the maida I loved of old? Blithe Annabel, or May, sédate and grave? Or Mand, or Rose? In sooth, I cannot say. So niany faces through my momory flit, The lock has half its value ta'en away Because, alast I have no key to it. - Munsey's Weekly. The Pathway of Gold. In tho light of the moon, by the sido of the water. As I sit on tho sand and she on my knees. We watch the bright billows, do I and my daughter, My swoet little daughter Louise. We wonder what city the pathway of glory, That broadens away to the limitless west, Leads up to - she uiinds her of somo pretty story. And says, 'To the city that mortals love best." Then I say, "It must lead to the faraway city, The beautiful City of Rest," In the light of the moon, by the side of the water. Stand two in the shadowof whisperinsr trees. And one loves my daughter, my beautiful daughter, My womanly daughter Louise She steps to the boat with tho touch of his flngers. And out on the diamond pathway they move; The shallop is lost in the distanee, it lingera, It waits, but I know that its coming will prove That it went to the walls of the wonderf ui city, The magical City of Love. In the light of the moon, by the side of the water, I wait for her coming from over the seas; I wait but to welcomo the dust of my daughter, To weep for my daughter Louise. The path, as of old, reaching out in its spleador, Gleams bright like a way that an angel haa trod; I kiss the cold burden its billows surrender, Sweet clay to lie under tho pitiful sod; But she rests at the end of the path, in the city Whose "builder and maker is God." - Homer Greene. At Tour Command. "At your command." Ah, did men try, What modern mode could e'er come nigh That fiue, felicitous, fair phrase That in a many maidens' praise At end of letters old doth lie? All vainly now do lovers vie With them who oft did deify Their ladics thus in ancient days- "At your commandl" Ah, Love, my Love, you are so high Above me, O my Sweet, that I Go back to those dear, antique ways With tremblingl Yet, tho' Hope betrays, I sign myself, to live or die. At your command! -Boston Globe. A Rallad of the Leal. The clouds are dark o'er the palace towers, But more dark the scowl of treason lowers. They throng the hall and the courtiers all Fly as they view each cruel dirk Bared for tre&son's murderous work. The ktng who dared their might to brave Will flnd this day at their hands a grave. 'Tis his last day's dawn, for hls sword Is gone; They have stolen the bar from his chamber door; Despair is on him and hope is o'er. But as he flees, a woman's face Lights up with the fire of the Douglas race. She hears the shout of the traitor rout. And swift she bares her arm so white To give her liege lord chance for flight. Now hard against the door's stout oak Resounds the crash of furious stroke, Till it yields at last, and crowding fast The murderers all in their murderous might Stand face to face with the maiden slight. She stands erect; let them strike as ther list. As she braves them all with her broken wrist; For leal to trust, her arm she thrust In place of the bar to hold them at bay For love of her king on his dying day. For love of her king and pride of her race, She thrust her arm in tho lron's place; She held the oak till the good bar broke. And now as she stands, let them strike as they list, For she braves them all with her broken wrist. -W. V. Byars. His Joy Was Brief. "Whoopy!" yawped old Higginbotham, Meeting rural f riend in Gotham, "Talk ii bout your wedlock's blissesl What is sweeter, sir, than this ís? First wife used to cali me 'Snoozer,' 'Wretch' and 'Reptile' and 'old Boozer,' This one"- beamed his joy's completeness- "Calis me 'Blessing' and 'old Sweetness.' " Then'his thumbs he twirled and twiddled, Tol-de-rol'd and tol-de-riddled, Danced and cut up many a caper Indescribable on paper, Climaxing his joy emphatic With this speech in tones ecstatic As some rhapsody from Verdi - "I'm her 'Sweetness,' she's my 'Birdie.' " Next day friend discerned "old Sweetness" Looking thoroughly conceitless. Bunders on, his visage battered, One arm broke and four ribs shattered; "Railway casualtyï" he queried; Higginbotham, with a wearied Shake of head and voice not sturdy, Mournfully responded, "Birdie." -Boston Courier. God Glve Va Men! God give us men! A time like this demanda Great hearts, strong minds, true f aith and willing hands. Men whom the lust of office does not kill; Men whom tho spoils of office cannot buy; Men who possess opinions and a will; Men who have honor, men who will not lie; For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds, Their large professions and their little deeds, Wrangle in selflsh strife- lo! Freedom weeps, Wrong rules the land and waiting justlcesleeps. -Oliver Wendell Holmes. Alone. The lilies clustered fair and tall: I stood outside the garden wall; I saw her light robe glimmering through The f ragrant evening's dusk and dew. She stooped above the lilies pale; Up the clear east the moon did sail: I saw her bend her lovely head O'er her rich roses blushing red. Her slender hand the flowers caressed Her touch the unconscious blossoms biest; The rose against her perfumed palm Leaned ita soft cheek in blissful calm. I would have given my soul to be That flower she touched so tenderlyl I etood alono outeide the gato, And knew that Ufo was desolate. -Celia Thaxter. Bettor a day of strife Than a century of slcor.