Gems In Verse

A llttle birtl sat on an apple tree. And he was as hoarse us hourse oonld he; He ir:;,ed, and he prinkcd, and he ruffled hla throat, But from it there floated no silvery note. "Nut ii song can I sing," slghed he, sighed he; "Not a song can I sing," siglied he. ín tremulous Bhowers the apple tree shed lts pink and white blossoms on his head; The gay sun 8hone, and, Uke jubllant words, He heard the gay song of a thousand birds. "AU the others tan sing," he dolefully said; "All the others can sing," he said. So he sat, and he drooped. But as f ar and wide The music was borne on the air's warm tide A BUdden thought carne to the sad llttle bird. And he lifted his head oswithin him it stirred. "If I cannot sing I can listen." he eried; "Ho! Uo! I can listen!" he cried. -Julia 0. R. Dorr. Semling in a Carl. Say what ye will o' city ways, they ain't the kind fer me. I found t liat out the time I went a-visitin ter see My son, wbo'a doin bizness in a block about tho size O' the Alleghany mountalns- er I can't believa my eyes. I thought I wouidn't write him I was comin, bnt I'd make The trip all unbeknownst ter him, an walk right in an take Him unawares, because I kuowed surprise 'd make the joy Lots greater to him when I stood risht there before the boy. An when 1 stepped inside the door, ezpectin there to see My own dear son, a llttle office kid stepped up ter me, Ad when I said I'd eee Stere Jones lie s&id ter me, "Old pard, You can't see Mr. Jones until you've sent him in your card." Jehosophat! but I was mad an said ter him: "My chil', I'd llke ter take ye 'cross my knee an tan ye fer awhile. If Stephen Jones is in this place you trot him out,1' said I. "This thing of sendin in yer card don't fit yer Uncle Cy." At that some other feller all commenced a-actin queer, An one laid down hls pen an said, "My lords, what have we herei" In jnst erbout a minnit I'd a-thrashed th saucy pup Had not my son come in Jest then an cleared the matter up. The Stream of 11 fe. Llke a sinall streamlet on a mountain side, A white thread glancing in the summer sun, LJghtly down leaplng with a joyous spring, So passes happy childhood's playful hour. Next, through green dells and 'neath o'ershadowíiik crags The growing stream with heedless fiow winds on; Now gladly lingering round some glowing isle That sniilos with heavenly beauty and allures With promises of perpetual delights; Now flercely dashing down some rough cascade, Where rushing waters split on hostile rocks, Spouting aloft the iridescent spray Drifted in sunless clefts by swaying winds. So pass the years of youth. Our riper age Is like the broadened river's stately march, Whose current slackens, yet adiuits no pause, But passes fleld and coppice, tower and town, Not wholly 'seaping irom deflling stains, Yet toiling onward restlessly. Adown lts smooth yet ever sliding stream we haste. Nor mark the progress of its quiet speed, TUI, faater rushing as it nears the end, It sweeps us onward in resistless course Through thu torn rapids of disease and pain, Till, plunging down the cataract of death. We glide into a vast and unknown space- The boundless ocean of eternity. -Walter W. Skeat. A Miracle of Lnvc. I knew a man who seemed a sonlless thing, A hopeless plodder iu a dreary way, Careful in nothing, save that day by day Dis humble task its sinall reward might bring. His world was girdled by a narrow ring Of common duties, knowing not the sway Of palns and pleasures moving flner clay. So liul] content reigned as his chosen king. But one day Love came knocking at his heart, With mighty passion, fearing not defeat. And, like a man awakened out of sleep, He feit new life througli all hls being etart- A noble impulse, new, and strangely sweet - And walked where stars ia mighty orbitt sweep. - George E. Day. A Waste of Time. You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink; You can scnd a fooi to college, but you cannot make him think; You may keep your daughter strumming from niorn till afternoon, But you can't make lier a player if she hasn't any tune. You tan never make a farmer of a boy who loves the sea, Though you may make him plow and plant and whoa and haw and gee. U's no use to swear and bluster because your only son Prefers the girl ue met in the car to your selected one: You might as well switch off that track, for love is lord of pelf, And besides it's more than likely that you know how 'tis yourself. You cannot change the rooster's strut nor make the layers crow, Though you may houestly believe it would be better so. You cannot make a parson of the stagestruck Romeo lad, And if you ever do succeed you'll wish you never liad. There is only one thlng meaner, and that's to have to see The name of your neighbor's numskull flnished with M. D. But all these things, and more besides, we may expect to bear, Untll the numskull kills us and the Komeo says the prayer. - Eleanor Kirk. Much Is Requlred. 'Tis wisdom's law, tlie perfect code, By love inspired. Of him on whom much is bestowed Is innch required; The tuneful throat is bid to sing; The oak must rcign the forest's king; The rushing stream the wheel must move; The tempered steel its strength must prove; 'Tis given with the eagle's eyes To face the midday skies. If I am weak and you are strong, Wliy then, why then To you the braver deeds belong! And so again, If you have gifts and I have none, It I have shade and you have sun, 'Tis yours with freer hand to give, 'Tis yours with truer grace to live, Than I who, giftlcss, sunless, stand With barren life and hand. - Carlotta Perry. To a Grizzty Bear. Oíd guardián of the early days, How do the changes seem to thee, Wlien, from the peaks where thou didst flee For safety, thou canst look and see Thls land, thy home, transformed? Teil me, Canst thou, within thy haunted forests wild, Feel naught of pride in this fair western child? -California Magazine Let there be thistles- there are grapes; ]f old things, üiere are new! Ten thousand brokon lights and shapes. Vet glimpses of the true. - Tennyson. T.ive out indoors - Servant girl.s.