What in From The Sonnet a What is a breek? I'is the pearly shell that nurrumes of the far off Muenmangea; Aprecian jewel- land surat curiously; It is a little picture famber well in a couch? "In the tear this fell great forti hidilen Ecstary; A two. Elped fond, aster, a song-ah me! Sometimes a heavy tolling funeral hell. This for the flame that shook with Dauti tratt shereon Miltonn played, And the clear plase where thakupenes shade falls A pea this is -benave whe renturethe! For like a fjord the arrow floor is laid Mid-ocean desh to the theer monitani walls. Aw. Wieder Now you who rhyme, and I who rhyme, -The Modern Rhymer. FICKLENESS. I know a girl-she is a poet's daughter, G GEORGE HOUGHTON. EORGE W. W. HOUGHTON was born at Cambridge, Mass., August 12, 1850. He graduated from the High School of his native place in 1868, but did not attend college. His first publication was a "Christmas Booklet," in 1872, followed by "Songs from Over the Sea," 1874; “Album Leaves," 1877; "Drift from York Harbor, Maine," 1879; "The Legend of St. Olaf's Kirk," 1880. Of the latter poem a second edition, revised, appeared in 1881. A year later a collection selected mainly from his previous publications was issued, entitled, "Niagara and Other Poems." Since 1882 Mr. Houghton has given very little verse to the public, but it is hoped that he has not resigned a garden which he has cultivated with marked success. Mr. Houghton is a member of the Authors Club, and for a number of years has been the editor of The Hub, a commercial paper, the leading representative of its particular field. C. W. M Let your truth stand sure, And the world is true; Let your heart keep pure, And the world will too. CHARITY. -Ibid. -Ibid. Weary with waiting, we climb to the hill-tops nearest to heaven, Find only floating fogs, and air too meagre to nourish; Seeking the depths of the sea, we drop our plummets and feel them, Draw them in empty, or yellowed with clay, that melts and tells nothing; Forests we thread, wide prairies unfenced, and drenched morasses, Strike, with the fervor of youth, to the heart of the tenantless deserts, Turn every boulder, still hoping to find beneath them some prophet. Find only thistles unsunn'd, green sloth, and passionless creatures. Youth flitted by us, we faint, then sink in the ruts of our fathers; Shift as we may with the old beliefs, and beat on our bosoms; Seek less and hunger less keenly, still sorrow for self and for others, Striving, by travail and tears, life's deeper meanng to strangle; Drag from sunset to sunset, too fainting to fear for the morrow, |