The little hand outside her muff

O sculptor, if you could but mould it!— So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,

To keep it warm I had to hold it.

'Twas love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home;
Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,
We heard the voices nearer come,

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

She shook her ringlets from her hood

And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled,

But yet I knew she understood

With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud passed kindly overhead,

The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said,

"Come, now or never! do it! do it!"

My lips till then had only known

The kiss of mother and of sister,

But somehow, full upon her own

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, — I kissed her!

Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still,
O listless woman, weary lover!

To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill
I'd give — but who can live youth over?
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

Larks and Nightingales.

ALONE I sit at eventide :

The twilight glory pales,

And o'er the meadows far and wide
Chant pensive bobolinks.
(One might say nightingales!)

Song-sparrows warble on the tree,
I hear the purling brook,

And from the old "manse o'er the lea "
Flies slow the cawing crow.

(In England 'twere a rook!)

The last faint golden beams of day
Still glow on cottage panes,
And on their lingering homeward way

Walk weary laboring men.

(Oh, would that we had swains!)

From farm-yards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells,

And songs of merry brown milkmaids, Sweeter than oriole's.

(Yes, thank you — Philomel's!)

I could sit here till morning came,
All through the night hours dark,
Until I saw the sun's bright flame
And heard the chickadee.

(Alas! we have no lark !)

We have no leas, no larks, no rooks,
No swains, no nightingales,

No singing milkmaids (save in books):

The poet does his best

It is the rhyme that fails!

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.

The Pledge at Spunky Point.

A TALE OF EARNEST EFFORT AND HUMAN PERFIDY.

IT'S all very well for preachin',

But preachin' and practice don't gee:

I've give the thing a fair trial,

And you can't ring it in on me.

So toddle along with your pledge, Squire,
Ef that's what you want me to sign;
Betwixt me and you, I've been thar,
And I'll not take any in mine.

A year ago last Fo'th July

A lot of the boys was here.

We all got corned and signed the pledge
For to drink no more that year.

There was Tilman Joy and Sheriff McPhail
And me and Abner Fry,

And Shelby's boy Leviticus

And the Golyers, Luke and Cy.

And we anteed up a hundred

In the hands of Deacon Kedge,