Now, as a sunny brook

Will woo the moody shore,

She nears the gloomy chimney nook;
She hardly ventures more.

If he but lift his face

The hearth flames quicken, spring;
A yielding smile, his old embrace;
And wife and kettle sing.

JOHN VANCE CHENEY.

THE FARMER SAT IN HIS EASY CHAIR.

THE farmer sat in his easy chair,

Smoking his pipe of clay,

While his hale old wife with busy care

Was clearing the dinner away;

A sweet little girl with fine blue eyes
On her grandfather's knee was catching flies.

The old man laid his hand on her head,
With a tear on his wrinkled face;
He thought how often her mother, dead,
Had sat in the self-same place:

As the tear stole from his half-shut eye-
"Don't smoke," said the child; "how it makes you
cry!"

The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the floor

Where the shade after noon used to steal;

The busy old wife by the open door

Was turning the spinning-wheel;

And the old brass clock on the mantletree

Had plodded along to almost three:

Still the farmer sat in his easy chair,

While close to his heaving breast
The moisten'd brow and the cheek so fair
Of his sweet grandchild were press'd;
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay-
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day.

CHARLES G. EASTMAN.

BEN BOLT.

DON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,
Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown?

In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt,
In a corner obscure and alone,

They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray,
And Alice lies under the stone.

Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt,

Which stood at the foot of the hill, Together we've lain in the noonday shade, And listened to Appleton's mill:

The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,

The rafters have tumbled in,

And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you

gaze,

Has followed the olden din.

Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,
At the edge of the pathless wood,
And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,
Which nigh by the door-step stood?
The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt,

The tree you would seek in vain ;

And where once the lords of the forest waved,
Grow grass and the golden grain.

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim,

And the shaded nook in the running brook,
Where the children went to swim ?

Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,
The spring of the brook is dry,

And of all the boys that were schoolmates then,
There are only you and I.

There is change in the things that I loved, Ben

Bolt,

They have changed from the old to the new;
But I feel in the core of my spirit the truth,
There never was change in you.

Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt,
Since first we were friends—yet I hail

Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth,
Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare

To chide me from loving that old arm-chair ?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;

I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with

sighs.

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would ye learn the spell ?—a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I linger'd near

The hallow'd seat with listening ear;

And gentle words that mother would give

To fit me to die, and teach me to live.

She told me shame would never betide,

With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside the old arm-chair.

I sat and watch'd her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray:
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled,
And turn'd from her Bible, to bless her child.
Years roll'd on: but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow;

'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died; And Memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek; But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

DICKENS IN CAMP.

ELIZA COOK.

ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

The river sang below;

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health

On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew,

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure

To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,

And as the firelight fell,

He read aloud the book wherein the Master

Had writ of "Little Nell."