Always together-each the other's world.
Fair Summer flung herself on Autumn's breast
Tired and flushed, her cheeks incarnadined
At thought of having all unrobed to stand
Before a world, while Winter wove a shroud
For her who never could come back to us,
For her who brought such gifts to you and me.
With tenderness we said good bye to her-
Then heard the sweeping equinoctial winds
Singing, three days and nights, a requiem.
O Love! That wail was not for Summer, dead,
But for us two who unclasped hands that night
And said such bitter words ere we did part
That Summer, who remembered, left her grave,
And showed her face as perfect as of yore
Against the blackness of bleak Autumn's breast:
Like golden amber beads that glow against
An ebon rosary in the hands of Death!

"THE LOOKING-GLASSES."

I.

THREE death-still pools in a lonely vale-
Still! And so deep, so runneth the tale,
No man hath been able their depths to sound,
No mortal in all the fair country around-
God's secret are they I ween.

II.

And up on the hill, not far away,
The dead are lying, still as they.
The dead whose bodies are in the ground,
Whose souls are in deeps Love may not sound
Till the sea gives up her dead.

III.

The sun shines warm on the gravestones white
This fair June morning. Look! the light
Leads to the black pools' surface a grace:
Like a happy smile on a dead man's face

Whose soul may be lost forever!

RECONCILED.

IN no more fitting place could we have met,
At no more fitting time, a wailing night.
We who for years have shunned each other's sight
Who strove to bury Love beyond Regret,
Who begged of God the power to forget

Each other's eyes, voice, lips-who did so blight And bruise each other's hearts with all Pride's might. .

Just the dead body of our friend-warm yet

LAST year I knew naught of thee save thy name,
Of love my life seemed full as it could hold.
Not by one word of warning was I told
Thy royal advent. Life's face looked the same
As it had looked for years, when swift there came
Her King. Cor Cordium! how was I to know
A regal rose would leap forth from the snow
To startle, and to blind me with the flame
Of its wild beauty! See, the white gull dips
Her breast into the ocean's murmuring lips;
And see upon its bosom the great ships:
They only know the surface of the sea
Not dreaming of its depths. Love, none knew me-
I did not know myself 'till I loved thee.

JOHN HAY.

JOHN HAY was born at Salem, Indiana, Octo

Her 8th, 1933. The family originally came

from Scotland. John Hay's boyhood was spent in the West, hence we have many of his dialect poems. He graduated at Brown University in 1858. Studied law at Springfield, Illinois, and was admitted to the bar in 1861. It was during the period of his law studies that he won the friendship of Mr. Lincoln, who as President, made Mr. Hay his assistant secretary. He remained with the President as secretary and trusted friend, almost constantly until his death. He acted also as his adjutant and aide-de-camp, and served actively for several months with the rank of major and assistant adjutant-general.

He was

also brevetted lieutenant-colonel and colonel. After the war he was secretary of legation at Paris and Madrid, and chargè de affaires at Vienna, remaining in Europe from 1865 to 1870. After his return to the United States he became connected with the New York Tribune as an editorial writer, and remaind in that position for six years. He removed to Cleveland, Ohio, in 1876. From 1879 to 1881 he was Assistant Secretary of State. He now resides in Washington in an elegant residence, and is a wealthy man.

Mr. Hay published a volume of poems in 1871, entitled "Pike County Ballads." In the same year he published "Castilian Days," a collection of sketches of Spanish life. The most important work of his life is the "History of the Administration of Abraham Lincoln" published in conjunction with John C. Nicolay in the Century Magazine. Col. Hay is believed to be the author of the anonymous novel, "The Bread-Winners" (New York, 1883.)

LITTLE BREECHES.

I DON'T go much on religion,

I never ain't had no show;

C. W. M.

But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,
On the handful o' things I know.

I don't pan out on the prophets

And free-will, and that sort of thing,-
But I b'lieve in God and the angels,
Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along,—
No four-year-old in the county

Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight,And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.