of American nobility. Nations have perished in a day, but the family tree of the Lowells, planted in colonial times, survived the revolutionary period, flourished in the national age of the republic, and made Elmwood a noted home of classical poetry, and patriotic song.

Why should not this be a home of patriotism and poetry, since everything around and about it indicates that Cambridge is the great school of patriotism and poetry? We have just passed the Charles on whose banks stands the steepled church that signaled the midnight ride of Paul Revere; under yonder elm, Washington took command of the American forces; there are the cemeteries peopled with the good and the great who died for freedom; beyond is the home of Longfellow, the father of American literature; and a thousand other influences-among which is Harvard, the first university of America-all historic, all patriotic all poetic.

In response to a stroke or two of the old-fashioned knocker, the door swings open. A glance within reveals the library, the desk, the tobacco knife, the pipe, and such other things as were common in the homes of the Eastern poets. Paintings, mirrors, statuary and souvenirs from representative men and countries of both continents adorn the rooms and halls of the palace. All the appointments are such as would especially administer to the comfort and pleasure of a plain old man, who, as a polished scholar, had won distinction in the

universities of New England; who, as a gifted poet, evolved themes that rank among the classics of the age; and who, as a citizen, has been honored in every quarter of the globe; and yet was so simple in the habits of his life that when he became weary at the end of his journey, he tarried at the foot of the hill, and chose for his last resting place a spot in the shade of an elm, where now stands an only slab-the plainest in all the great cemetery.

The home was like the man; for what the home was in the world of nature and art, Lowell was in the world of poetry and critical study. It has become a part of his own life; therefore everything has been held sacred and left undisturbed, that we may know more of the poet, the better understand his art, and come closer to the man. No one need have told us this, for it is one of the things the visitor feels without knowing why. We are interested in all that we see, become engaged in this and that particular object, forget something that has taken place, and then heedlessly cast about thinking that he has just completed "The Vision of Sir Launfal" or some other classic, laid aside his pen, and stepped out. And we take up the lap desk seemingly fresh from his fingers; and the conversation glides on while we linger a little longer, unconsciously awaiting him to step in again. Thus the visit moves along until a late hour, when, in the absence of the poet, we are given the parting hand of his grandson; and we take a

farewell glance at the home of the most cultured American that has graced the court of Saint James. -Anonymous.

Say, I'm lonesome, awful lonesome now,
Since my chum, good chum Bub is gone.
There's no more rompin' in the mow,

An', no more playin' 'cept by me alone.

I wisht you'd tell me: tell me do,

Where's my chum, good chum Bub Karaboo.

Oh! I an' Bub did have sich times,

In the ole smimmin' hole 'neath the maple tree, Where the white-tailed yaller-hammer sung his chimes, An' sweet honeysuckles were sipped by the bee. Such friends, good friends you bet are few, As was me an' my chum, Bub Karaboo.

In the ole milk-house where the spring bubbled up, An' the weepin' willer switches hung down low, We'd slip in easy, the sweet cream sup,

Then pocket some cheese an' out we'd go. But say, where's Bub? You know, don't you, My chum, good chum, Bub Karaboo?

We drove the milch cows up the lane,

When the sun went down behind the hill.

We gathered the eggs for sister Jane,

An' carried the shucked corn to the mill.