THE USUAL WAY

THERE was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met-in the usual way.

Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by,

But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!"

And he was-in the usual way.

So he gravely took his rod in hand, and threw the line about,

But the fish perceived distinctly that he was not looking

out;

And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you!" but she said she could not stay:

But she did-in the usual way.

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh,

As they watched the silver ripples, like the moments, run

ning by;

"We must say good-by," she whispered, by the alders old and gray,

And they did-in the usual way.

And day by day beside the stream they wandered to and fro,

And day by day the fishes swam securely down below;
Till this little story ended, as such little stories may,
Very much-in the usual way.

The Way to Arcady

201

And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo?

Do they never fret and quarrel as other couples do?
Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and

obey?

Well-they do-in the usual way.

Frederic E. Weatherly.

THE WAY TO ARCADY

Он, what's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry?

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
The spring is rustling in the tree-
The tree the wind is blowing through-
It sets the blossoms flickering white.
I knew not skies could burn so blue
Nor any breezes blow so light.
They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the wayworn russet shoon?
Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.
I'll brim it well with pieces red,
If you will tell the way to tread.

Oh, I am bound for Arcady,
And if you but keep pace with me
You tread the way to Arcady.

And where away lies Arcady,

And how long yet may the journey be?

Ah, thab (quoth he) I do not know-
Across the clover and the snow-
Across the frost, across the flowers-
Through summer seconds and winter hours
I've trod the way my whole life long,
And know not now where it may be;
My guide is but the stir to song,
That tells me I cannot go wrong,
Or clear or dark the pathway be
Upon the road to Arcady.

But how shall I do who cannot sing?

I was wont to sing, once on a timeThere is never an echo now to ring

Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

'Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he), The folk all sing in Arcady.

But how may he find Arcady

Who hath not youth nor melody?

What, know you not, old man (quoth he)— Your hair is white, your face is wiseThat Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes

Who hopes to see fair Arcady?

No gold can buy you entrance there;
But beggared Love may go all bare-
No wisdom won with weariness;
But Love goes in with Folly's dress-
No fame that wit could ever win;
But only Love may lead Love in
To Arcady, to Arcady.

Ah, woe is me, through all my days
Wisdom and wealth I both have got,
And fame and name, and great men's praise;
But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.

The Way to Arcady

There was a time, when life was new-
But far away, and half forgot—
I only know her eyes were blue;

But Love I fear I knew it not.
We did not wed, for lack of gold,
And she is dead, and I am old.
All things have come since then to me,
Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.
Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he),
My way's for Love and Arcady.

But you, you fare alone, like me;

The gray is likewise in your hair. What love have you to lead you there, To Arcady, to Arcady?

Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;

My true companion's Memory.

With Love he fills the Spring-time air;
With Love he clothes the Winter tree.
Oh, past this poor horizon's bound

My song goes straight to one who stands-
Her face all gladdening at the sound-
To lead me to the Spring-green lands,
To wander with enlacing hands.
The songs within my breast that stir
Are all of her, are all of her.

My maid is dead long years (quoth he),
She waits for me in Arcady.

Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry.

203

H. C. Bunner.

MY LOVE AND MY HEART

Он, the days were ever shiny
When I ran to meet my love;
When I press'd her hand so tiny
Through her tiny tiny glove.
Was I very deeply smitten?

Oh, I loved like anything!

But my love she is a kitten,
And my heart's a ball of string.

She was pleasingly poetic,

And she loved my little rhymes;
For our tastes were sympathetic,
In the old and happy times.
Oh, the ballads I have written,

And have taught my love to sing!

But my love she is a kitten,

And my heart's a ball of string.

Would she listen to my offer,
On my knees I would impart
A sincere and ready proffer

Of my hand and of my heart.
And below her dainty mitten

I would fix a wedding ringBut my love she is a kitten,

And my heart's a ball of string.

Take a warning, happy lover,
From the moral that I show;
Or too late you may discover
What I learn'd a month ago.
We are scratch'd or we are bitten
By the pets to whom we cling.
Oh, my love she is a kitten,
And my heart's a ball of string.

Henry S. Leigh.