Abstracted, contemplative air,
A sudden run and stop,
A glance indifferent round about,
Head poised--another hop.
A plunge well-aimed, a backward tug,
A well-resisted squirm,
Then calm indifference as before.
But oh, alack, the worm!
KATHERINE VAN D. HARKEE,
_Vassar Miscellany._
~A Mountain Brook.~
I come from the depths of the mountain,
The dark, hidden, head of the fountain,
I spring from a nook in the ledges,
And bathe the gray granite's rough edges,
I rush over wide mossy masses
To quench the hot thirst of the grasses.
I bathe the cleft hoofs of the cattle,
As o'er the rude ford-stones I rattle.
I glide through the glens deep in shadow;
I flow in the sun-bathed meadow,
And seek, with a shake and a quiver,
The still steady flow of the river,
Then on to the wild rhythmic motion
Of my mother, the sky-tinted ocean.
CHARLES OTIS JUDKINS.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly._
~In the San Joaquin.~
Across the hills the screeching blue-jays fly
In countless flocks, and as they hasten by
The children look up from their merry play
To watch them slowly, slowly fade away;
And night steals up the corners of the sky.
No silent, trembling star shines there, on high:
The hollow rivers, that were still and dry,
Begin to murmur; falls a gentle spray
Across the hills.
The stubble colors through the fallen hay,
And infant grasses pin the moistened clay;
The drooping trees shake off their dust and sigh;
And waking nature, with a gladdened eye,
Beholds the summer lose its ending day,
Across the hills.
NORMAN HUTCHINSON.
_Cornell Magazine._
~Four-o'clocks.~
It was that they loved the children,
The children used to say,
For there was no doubt
That when school was out,
At the same time every day,
Down by the wall,
Where the grass grew tall,
Under the hedge of the hollyhocks,
One by one,
At the touch of the sun,
There opened the four-o'clocks.
It was that they loved the children;--
But the children have gone away,
And somebody goes
When nobody knows,
At the same time every day,
To see by the wall,
Where the grass grows tall,
Under the hedge of the hollyhocks,
How, one by one,
At the touch of the sun,
Still open the four-o'clocks.
LILLIAN B. QUIMBY.
_Wellesley Magazine,_
~The Voice of the West Wind.~
The Wind of the East and the Wind of the North
From the gates of the Sun and the Cold blow forth:
They wander wide and they wander free,
But never a word do they speak to me;
I hear but the voice I know the best,
Of my brother-in-blood the Wind of the West,
And the word that the West Wind whispers me,
Is a message, Heart of my heart, for thee.
Heart of my heart, when the skies hang low,
And all day long the light winds blow,
When the South, and the East, and the North, are gray
And the soft rain falls through the autumn day,
Then, Light of my soul, canst thou not hear
The voice of the West Wind, soft and clear?
"Come," he whispers, and "Come," again,
Leave the dull skies and the steady rain,
Leave thou the lowlands and chill gray sea,
Heart of my own heart, and come with me.
ROBERT PALFREY UTTER.
_Harvard Monthly_
~A Fairy Barcarolle.~
My skiff is of bark from the white birch-tree,
A butterfly's wing is my sail,
And twisted grasses my cordage be,
Stretched taut by the favoring gale.
My cushions are pearly gossamers frail,
My mast is a tapering reed,
My rudder a blush-rose petal pale,
My ballast of wild-flower seed.
Through forests old and meads remote
We'll sail on the leaf-arched streams,
Down the silver rivers of Fancy float
To the golden sea of dreams.
WILLIAM HOLDEN EDDY.
_Brown Magazine._
~A Bird's Cradle-Song.~
Weary, weary loves!
Day is o'er and past;
Every drooping lily bell
Chimes good-night at last.
Softly! nursing winds
Swing them to and fro
With the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the rivulet below.
Even the willow leaves
Brooding silence keep;
All the great, good world is hushed--
Hushed that you may sleep!
But in heaven two wee, wee stars
Dance and whirl and glow
To the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the rivulet below.
EVELYN M. WORTHLEY.
_Mount Holyoke._
~The Wood Orchid.~
A butterfly, wing-weary, came to find
A sweet seclusion from the amorous wind,
Deep in the pine woods, where the dusky trees
Shut in the forest's sounding silences
With close-twined boughs from which the breeze has blown
The fragrance-breathing fragments of the cone.
Deeply she drank the nectar of repose.
Spreading her downy wings all veined with rose,
Upon the gray-green mosses, cool and dank,
Languished the sprite, and in a swoon she sank,
While a delicious numbness born of death
Stilled the soft wings that stirred with each faint breath.
One summer morning, while the languid breeze
Strayed with a languid murmur thro' the trees,
It breathed a kiss upon a folded pair
Of pink flushed wings--and found them rooted there.
_College Folio._
~A Song.~
Oh, the hopper grass is clattering and flying all the day
Round the tawny, trembling tassels of the corn,
While the dreamy, drowsy bumblebee goes bumbling on his way,
And the locust in the woodland sounds his horn.
Above the rattling cottonwoods that line the lisping stream,
The crow is proudly calling to the sun,
And the beetles in the bushes make the summer day a dream,
For they hum and cheep until the day is done.
When the lotus-flower closes, and the stars are in the sky,
Then the owl awakes and sings a plaintive song,
While the crickets in the thickets sing the soothing lullaby,
And the katydid is chirping all night long.
S.P.
_Kansas University Weekly_.
~The Skaters.~
Above the frozen floods
Gay feet keep time,
Steel-shod, their measures beat
Insistent rhyme.
No cares oppress the hearts
Glad youth makes light;
The winter skies and happy eyes
Alike are bright.
Shores where the summer waves
Have whispered low,
Echo the skaters' song,
As to and fro
Glide flitting forms,
And watch-fire's glow
Leaps into frosty air
And crimsons snow.
Fly, skaters, with wing'd feet!
The night wears on;
Be your stroke ne'er so fleet,
Night soon is gone.
With morning's dawn, the fires
In ashes lie,
And mountains keep their ward
Silently by.
GRACE W. LEACH
_Madisonensis_.
~By the Roadside.~
Shy violets among the tangled grass;
Red robin, to thine own mate blithely singing,
Among the elm-tree boughs so gayly swinging;
My love, my true love, down this way will pass.
How shall you know her? By her sunny hair,
Her grave, sweet eyes, all pure, no evil knowing:
Oh, robin! thou wilt turn to watch her going;
There is no maid in all the land so fair.
Shy violets among the tangled grass,
Shed forth your richest perfumes 'neath her feet!
And gallant robin, when thou seest her pass,
Trill out thy merriest lay her ears to greet;
And elm-tree branches, drooping low above her,
Whisper to her that I came by and love her.
LOUISE R. LOOMIS.
_Wellesley Magazine._
[Illustration: A WELLESLEY GIRL.]
~"A White Morning"~
Many a morning the trees' slim fingers
Lift to the blue their frosted tips;
Winter has paused beside them, passing,
And blown upon them, through icy lips.
After the day has dawned in earnest,
Comes a blaze from the soul of things.
Some small snow-bird, beneath the window,
Beats out life, from his restless wings.
Never trust to the cold and silence;
Suns will rise, and the day climb higher.
Under the snows are resurrections;
Under the frost is hidden fire.
GRACE W. LEACH.
_Madisonensis_.