And when the slow weeks brought him not,
Somehow we spake of aught beside,

For she, her hope upheld her pride;
And I,—in me all hope had died,
And my son passed as if forgot.

It was about the next spring-tide,
She pined and faded where she stood;
Yet spake no word of ill or good;
She had the hard, cold, Edwards' blood
In all her veins,—and so she died.

One time I thought, before she passed,
To give her peace; but ere I spake
Methought, "He will be first to break
The news in heaven," and for his sake
I held mine back until the last.

And here I sit, nor care to roam;
I only wait to hear his call;
I doubt not that this day next fall
Shall see me safe in port, where all

And every ship at last comes home.

And you have sailed the Spanish Main,
And knew my Jacob? . . . Eh! Mercy!
Ah! God of wisdom! hath the sea

Yielded its dead to humble me?

My boy... My Jacob!... Turn again!

VOL. I.

Guild's Signal.

WILLIAM GUILD was engineer of the train which on the 19th of April plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and Providence Railroad. It was his custom, as often as he passed his home, to whistle an "All's well " to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine.

Two low whistles, quaint and clear,

That was the signal the engineer

That was the signal that Guild, 'tis said—

Gave to his wife at Providence,

As through the sleeping town, and thence,
Out in the night,

On to the light,

Down past the farms, lying white, he sped!

As a husband's greeting, scant, no doubt,
Yet to the woman looking out,

Watching and waiting, no serenade,
Love song, or midnight roundelay
Said what that whistle seemed to say:
"To my trust true,

So love to you!

Working or waiting, good night!" it said.

Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine,
Old commuters along the line,

Brakemen and porters glanced ahead,
Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense,

Pierced through the shadows of Providence: "Nothing amiss

Nothing-it is

Only Guild calling his wife," they said.

Summer and winter the old refrain

Rang o'er the billows of ripening grain,

Pierced through the budding boughs o'erhead Flew down the track when the red leaves burned Like living coals from the engine spurned;

Sang as it flew :

"To our trust true,

First of all, duty.

Good night !" it said.

And then, one night, it was heard no more
From Stonington over Rhode Island shore,

And the folk in Providence smiled and said
As they turned in their beds, "The engineer
Has once forgotten his midnight cheer."
One only knew,

Aspiring Miss De Laine.

(A CHEMICAL NARRATIVE.)

CERTAIN facts which serve to explain

The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine,
Who, as the common reports obtain,
Surpassed in complexion the lily and rose ;
With a very sweet mouth and a retroussé nose;
A figure like Hebe's, or that which revolves
In a milliner's window, and partially solves
That question which mentor and moralist pains,
If grace may exist minus feeling or brains.

Of course the young lady had beaux by the score,
All that she wanted,-what girl could ask more?
Lovers that sighed, and lovers that swore,
Lovers that danced, and lovers that played,
Men of profession, of leisure, and trade;
But one, who was destined to take the high part
Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart,
This lover-the wonder and envy of town-
Was a practising chemist,-a fellow called Brown.

I might here remark that 'twas doubted by many, In regard to the heart, if Miss Addie had any;

But no one could look in that eloquent face,

With its exquisite outline and features of grace,

And mark, through the transparent skin, how the tide
Ebbed and flowed at the impulse of passion or pride,-
None could look who believed in the blood's circulation
As argued by Harvey, but saw confirmation

That here, at least; Nature had triumphed o'er art,
And, as far as complexion went, she had a heart.

But this par parenthesis. Brown was the man
Preferred of all others to carry her fan,

Hook her glove, drape her shawl, and do all that a belle
May demand of the lover she wants to treat well.

Folks wondered and stared that a fellow called BrownAbstracted and solemn, in manner a clown,

Ill dressed, with a lingering smell of the shop

Should appear as her escort at party or hop.

Some swore he had cooked up some villanous charm, Or love philter, not in the regular Pharm

Acopoeia, and thus, from pure malice prepense,

Had bewitched and bamboozled the young lady's sense;

Others thought, with more reason, the secret to lie
In a magical wash or indelible dye;

While Society, with its censorious eye

And judgment impartial, stood ready to damn
What wasn't improper as being a sham.

For a fortnight the townfolk had all been agog
With a party, the finest the season had seen,
To be given in honour of Miss Pollywog,
Who was just coming out as a belle of sixteen.
The guests were invited; but one night before
A carriage drew up at the modest back-door