THE SIN OF OMISSION. It isn't the thing you do, dear,

It's the thing you've left undone, Which gives you a bit of heartache At the setting of the sun.

The tender word forgotton,

The letter you did not write,

The flower you might have sent, dear,
Are your haunting ghosts to-night.

The stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother's way,

The bit of heartsome counsel

You were hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle and winsome tone,
That you had no time nor thought for,
With troubles enough of your own.

The little acts of kindness,
So easily out of mind;
These chances to be angels

Which every mortal finds,-
They come in night and silence,-
Each chill, reproachful wraith,-
When hope is faint and flagging,
And a blight has dropped on faith.
FOR life is all too short, dear,

And sorrow is all too great, To suffer our slow compassion,

That tarries until too late. And it's not the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone, Which gives you the bit of heartache At the setting of the sun.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

O readers of contemporaneous poetry no name Sherman. Mr. Sherman was born in Peekskill, New York, on the 6th of May, 1860. He obtained his early education in the town of his birth, and received the degree of Ph. B. from Columbia College in 1884. He was made a Fellow of this institution in 1887, and is at present connected with it as Instructor of the Department of Architecture. During the winter of 1884 and '85 he attended lecturès at Harvard University where he would have taken a degree had not family interests called him for a time from the pursuance of literature. He was married in November, 1887, to Miss Joliet Mersereau Durand, daughter of the Rev. Cyrus B. Durand, of Newark, New Jersey.

Like Arthur Sherburne Hardy, Mr. Sherman unites the practical and ideal in letters, being both mathematician and poet. His taste for figures he inherits from his father, a man of rare powers; his poetic gift comes from his mother, to whose memory he has paid a most beautiful tribute in "An Old Song," which appeared in Lippincott's Magazine for August, 1888. Though no American has touched so piquantly the spirit of love in youth with blithe patrician rhymes," it is in another direction, as Mr. Howells pointed out in a recent number of Harper's that Mr. Sherman's best and most natural expression reveals itself. He is a literary descendent of Herrick and Carew. He believes in the lyric, and never hesitates to proclaim such a belief. Every poem from his pen shows that his creed in regard to technique is the same as that proclaimed by Mr. Dobson in his “Ars Victrix.” Poetry with him is never a thing to be "thrown off," as many are fond of expressing it, but something to be as carefully moulded as the most symmetrical statue. A sprightliness of fancy, a delicacy of touch, and a rare melody characterize all of his work, and his choice of epithet is unfailingly happy. Mr. Sherman is a true bibliophile, and some of his most charming poems are anent books. In this connection might be mentioned his ‘Book-hunter," and two pieces recently printed in the Century Magazine. He is particularly successful in the line of children's verses, having, among other things, contributed in this vein a series of ten month poems to the St. Nicholas.

64

Mr. Sherman has published “Madrigals and Catches" (1887), and "New Waggings of Old Tales" (1888), the latter being in conjunction with Mr. John Kendrick Bangs. He has in preparation a treatise upon the elements of architecture, a volume of children's poems, and a collection of miscellaneous pieces. The last will contain his "Greeting to Spring," one of the most exquisite lyrics of the day. C. S.

THE BOOK-HUNTER.

A cup of coffee, eggs, and rolls
Sustain him on his morning strolls:
Unconscious of the passers-by,
He trudges on with downcast eye;
He wears a queer old hat and coat,
Suggestive of a style remote;
His manner is preoccupied,-

A shambling gait, from side to side.
For him the sleek, bright-windowed shop
Is all in vain,-he does not stop.
His thoughts are fixed on dusty shelves
Where musty volumes hide themselves,-
Rare prints of poetry and prose,
And quaintly lettered folios,—
Perchance a parchment manuscript,
In some forgotten corner slipped,
Or monk-illumined missal bound
In vellum with brass clasps around;

These are the pictured things that throng
His mind the while he walks along.

A dingy street, a cellar dim,
With book-lined walls, suffices him.
The dust is white upon his sleeves;
He turns the yellow, dog-eared leaves
With just the same religious look
That priests give to the Holy Book.
He does not heed the stifling air

If so he find a treasure there.

He knows rare books, like precious wines,
Are hidden where the sun ne'er shines
For him delicious flavors dwell

In books as in old Muscatel;

He finds in features of the type

A clew to prove the grape was ripe.
And when he leaves this dismal place,
Behold, a smile lights up his face!
Upon his cheeks a genial glow,—
Within his hand Boccaccio,

A first edition worn with age,
"Firenze" on the title-page.

BACCHUS.

LISTEN to the tawny thief,
Hid behind the waxen leaf,
Growling at his fairy host,
Bidding her with angry boast
Fill his cup with wine distilled
From the dew the dawn has spilled:
Stored away in golden casks
Is the precious draught he asks.

Who,-who makes this mimic din
In this mimic meadow inn,
Sings in such a drowsy note,
Wears a golden belted coat;
Loiters in the dainty room

Of this tavern of perfume;
Dares to linger at the cup
Till the yellow sun is up?

Bacchus, 'tis, come back again
To the busy haunts of men;
Garlanded and gayly dressed,
Bands of gold about his breast;
Straying from his paradise,
Having pinions angel-wise,-
'Tis the honey-bee, who goes
Reveling within a rose!

PEPITA.

UP in her balcony where

Vines through the lattices run Spilling a scent on the air,

Setting a screen to the sun,
Fair as the morning is fair,

Sweet as a blossom is sweet,
Dwells in her rosy retreat
Pepita.

Often a glimpse of her face

When the wind rustles the vine Parting the leaves for a space Gladdens this window of minePink in its leafy embrace,

Pink as the morning is pink,
Sweet as a blossom I think
Pepita.

I who dwell over the way

Watch where Pepita is hid— Safe from the glare of the day Like an eye under its lid:

Over and over I say

Name like the song of a bird,
Melody shut in a word-
"Pepita."

Look where the little leaves stir!

Look, the green curtains are drawn!

There in a blossomy blur

Breaks a diminutive dawn

Dawn and the pink face of her

Name like a lisp of the south,
Fit for a rose's small mouth-

Pepita!

WIZARD FROST.

WONDROUS things have come to pass
On my square of window-glass.
Looking in it I have seen
Grass no longer painted green,-
Trees whose branches never stir,—
Skies without a cloud to blur.-
Birds below them sailing high,-
Church-spires pointing to the sky,—
And a funny little town

Where the people, up and down
Streets of silver, to me seem
Like the people in a dream,
Dressed in finest kinds of lace;
'T is a picture, on a space
Scarcely larger than the hand,
Of a tiny Switzerland,

Which the wizard Frost has drawn
'Twixt the nightfall and the dawn.
Quick and see what he has done
Ere 't is stolen by the Sun.

You wore your nut-brown hair in cur's
That reached beyond your bodice,
Quite in the style of other girls,-
But you I thought a goddess!

I wrote you letters, long and short,
How many there's no telling!
Imagination was my forte:-

I can't say that of spelling!

We shared our sticks of chewing-gum,
Our precious bits of candy;
Together solved the knotty sum,

And learned the ars amandi:
Whene'er you wept, a woful lump

Stuck in my throat, delayed there! My sympathetic heart would jump: I wondered how it stayed there!

We meet to-day,-we meet, alas!
With salutation formal;
I'm in the college senior class,
You study at the Normal;
And as we part I think again,
And sadly wonder whether

You wish, as I, we loved as when
We sat at school together!

HER CHINA CUP.

HER china cup is white and thin;
A thousand times her heart has been
Made merry at its scalloped brink;
And in the bottom, painted pink,

A dragon greets her with a grin.

The brim her kisses loves to win;

The handle is a manikin,

Who spies the foes that chip or chink Her china cup.

Muse, tell me if it be a sin:

I watch her lift it past her chin

Up to the scarlet lips and drink

The Oolong draught. Somehow I think I'd like to be the dragon in Her china cup.

A QUATRAIN.

Hark at the lips of this pink whorl of shell
And you shall hear the ocean's surge and roar;
So in the quatrain's measure, written well,

A thousand lines shall all be sung in four!
-A Bunch of Quatrains.