The old man sat his cabin's sill,
His gray head bowed upon his knee,
The child went forth, sang pleasantly,
Where burst the ditch the day before,
And picked some pebbles from the hill.
The old man moaned, moaned o'er and o'er:
"My babe is dowerless, and I
Must fold my helpless hands and die!
Ah, me! what curse comes ever down
On me and mine at Shasta town!"
"Good Grandpa, see!" the glad child said,
And so leaned softly to his side,-
Laid her gold head to his gray head,
And merry-voiced and cheery cried:
"Good Grandpa, do not weep, but see!
I've found a peck of orange seeds!

THE LAST LETTER.
LONG years within its sepulchre
Of faintly scented cedar
Has lain this letter dear to her
Who was its constant reader;
The postmark on the envelope
Sufficed the date to give her,
And told the birth of patient hope
That managed to outlive her.

How often to this treasure-box,

Tears in her eyes' soft fringes, She came with key and turned the locks, And on its brazen hinges Swung back the quaintly figured lid And raised a sandal cover, Disclosing, under trinkets hid, This message from her lover.

Then lifting it as 't were a child,
Her hand awhile caressed it
Ere to the lips that sadly smiled

Time and again she pressed it; Then drew the small inclosure out And smoothed the wrinkled paper, Lest any line should leave a doubt Or any word escape her.

Still held the olden charm its place
Amid the tender phrases -
Time seemed unwilling to efface
The love-pervaded praises;

And though a thousand lovers might
Have matched them all for passion,
A poet were inspired to write
In their unstudied fashion.

From "Darling" slowly, word by word,
She read the tear-stained treasure;
The mists by which her eyes were blurred
Grew out of pain and pleasure;

But when she reached that cherished name
And saw the last leave-taking,
The mist a storm of grief became,
Her very heart was breaking!

I put it back this old-time note,

Which seems like sorrow's leaven

For she who read, and he who wrote,
Please God, are now in heaven.

If lovers of to-day could win
Such love as won this letter,

The world about us would begin
To gladden and grow better.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

-Century, March, 1889.

THE BOOKWORM DOES NOT CARE FOR
NATURE.

I FEEL no need of nature's flowers -
Of flowers of rhetoric I have store;
I do not miss the balmy showers-
When books are dry I o'er them pore.

Why should I sit upon a stile

And cause my aged bones to ache,
When I can all the hours beguile

With any style that I would take?

Why should I haunt a purling stream,
Or fish in miasmatic brook?

O'er Euclid's angles I can dream,
And recreation find in Hook.

Why should I jolt upon a horse

And after wretched vermin roam,
When I can choose an easier course
With Fox and Hare and Hunt at home?

What if some vicious bull were loose,
Or fractious cow pursue my path?
A tamer Bulwer I would choose,
A Cowper destitute of wrath.

Why should I watch the swallows flit,
And run the risk of butting ram?

A Swift upon my shelves Hazlitt,

I need not run from waggish Lamb.