HANNAH JANE.

What wonder that the beauty fled that I once so adored!
Her beautiful complexion my fierce kitchen fire devoured;

365

Her plump, fair, soft, rounded arm was once too fair to be concealed;

Hard work for me that softness into sinewy strength congealed.

I was her altar, and her love the sacrificial flame:

Oh! with what pure devotion she to that altar came,

And tearful flung thereon-alas! I did not know it then

All that she was, and more than that, all that she might have been.

At last I won success.

Ah! then our lives were wider parted;

I was far up the rising road; she, poor girl! where we started.
I had tried my speed and mettle, and gained strength in every race;
I was far up the heights of life-she drudging at the base.

She made me take each Fall the stump; she said 'twas my career;
The wild applause of list'ning crowds was music to my ear.
What stimulus had she to cheer her dreary solitude?
For me she lived, and gladly, in unnatural widowhood.

She coudn't read my speech, but when the papers all agreed
'Twas the best one of the session, those comments she could read;
And with a gush of pride thereat, which I had never felt,
She sent them to me in a note, with half the words misspelt.

I to the legislature went, and said that she should go

To see the world with me, and what the world was doing, know.
With tearful smile she answered "No! four dollars is the pay;
The Bates House rates for board for one is just that sum per day."

At twenty-eight the State House, on the bench at thirty-three;
At forty every gate in life is opened wide to me.

I nursed my powers, and grew, and made my point in life; but she-
Bearing such pack-horse weary loads, what could a woman be?

What could she be? O shame! I blush to think what she has been

The most unselfish of all wives to the selfishest of men.
Yes, plain and homely now she is; she's ignorant, tis 'true;
For me she rubbed herself quite out; I represent the two.

Well, I suppose that I might do as other men have done

First break her heart with cold neglect, then shove her out alone. The world would say 'twas well, and more, would give great praise

to me

For having borne with "such a wife" so uncomplainingly.

And shall I? No! The contract 'twixt Hannah, God, and me, Was not for one or twenty years, but for eternity.

No matter what the world may think; I know down in my heart,
That if either, I'm delinquent. She has bravely done her part.

There's another world beyond this, and on the final day,
Will intellect and learning 'gainst such devotion weigh?
When the great one, made of us two, is torn apart again,
I'll fare the worst, for God is just, and He knows Hannah Jane.

THOUGHTS FOR A DISCOURAGED FARMER.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

THE summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees,
And the clover in the pastur' is a big day for the bees,
And they been a-swiggin' honey, above-board and on the sly,
Till they stutter in their buzzin' and stagger as they fly.

They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,
And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,

And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still;
It may rain again to-morrow, but I don't think it will.

Some say the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out,
And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;
But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,
Will be on hand onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!
Does the medder-lark complain, as he swims high and dry,
Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
Does the quail set up and whistle in a disappointed way,
Er hang his head in silence and sorrow all the day?

THE KISS IN THE TUNNEL.

367

Is the chipmuck's health a failure? Does he walk or does he run? Don't the buzzards ooze around up there, just like they've allus

done?

Is there anything the matter with the rooster's lungs or voice?
Ort a mortal be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice?

Then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot:
The June is here this morning and the sun is shining hot.
Oh, let us fill our hearts with the glory of the day,
And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow far away!

Whatever be our station, with Providence for guide,
Such fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;

For the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips for me and you.

THE KISS IN THE TUNNEL.

THEY were sitting five seats back, but I plainly heard the smack,
As we dashed into the tunnel near the town,

And the currents of my veins ran like gushing April rains,
Though I'm grave and gray and wear a doctor's gown.

Once-alas! so long ago on the rails I journeyed so,
With a maiden in a jaunty jersey sack,

And I kissed her with my eyes, as the timid stars the skies,
But I longed, oh, how I longed! for one real smack!

Did she know it? I dare say! (She'd a sweet clairvoyant way
In the glancing of her eyes so bright and blue.)

Ne'er a bee such honey sips as the nectar on her lips;
But I longed, and longed in vain, as on we flew.

Just as yearning reached its height, lo! there came a sudden night,
And like steel to magnet clove my mouth to hers!

I shall never more forget how like drops of rain they met,
In the bosom of a rose that lightly stirs !

When we came again to light, both our faces had turned white-
White as clouds that float in summer from the South.
Missed I glances, missed I smiles! but on air I rode for miles,
With the sweetness of love's dew upon my mouth.

So the kiss that some one stole, in the rayless Stygian hole,
While with loud imprisoned clangor on we rushed.

Caused the sluggish streams of age, with young madness leap and

rage

And my wife restored to daylight, laughed and blushed.

MAKE THE BEST OF IT.

BE gay! What is the use of repining?
Merry mirth can keep tears at bay;
All sorrows have a joy for their lining,
Heaven's hope can chase fear away

Be gay! You are to blame if life's dreary;
See how Nature smiles thro' her tears;
Heavy hearts make the footsteps grow weary,
But happiness lengthens the years.

Be gay! Earth wasn't made for you solely,
It'll last after you go away.

It's the soul, not the body, that's holy;
Why grieve for a poor lump of clay?

THE COMING MILLIONS.

S. W. FOSS.

JIM CROKER lived far in the woods, a solitary place,

Where the bushes grew, like whiskers, on his unrazored face; And the black bear was his brother and the catamount his chum, And Jim he lived and waited for the millions yet to come.

THE COMING MILLIONS.

369

Jim Croker made a clearing and he sowed it down to wheat,
And he filled his lawn with cabbage and he planted it with beet,
And it blossomed with potatoes, and with peach and pear and

plum,

And Jim he lived and waited for the millions yet to come.

Then Jim he took his ancient axe and cleared a forest street, While he lived on bear and succotash and young opossum meat, And his rhythmic axe strokes sounded and the woods no more were dumb,

While he cleared a crooked highway for the millions yet to come.

Then they came like aimless stragglers, they came from far and

near,

A little log house settlement grew round the pioneer;

And the sound of saw and broadaxe made a glad industrial hum. Jim said, "The coming millions, they have just begun to come.”

And a little crooked railway wound round mountain, hill, and lake,
Crawling toward the forest village like an undulating snake;
And one morn the locomotive puffed into the wilderness,
And Jim said, "The coming millions, they are coming by express '

And the village grew and prospered, but Jim Croker's hair was

grayer;

When they got a city charter, and old Jim was chosen Mayor; But Jim declined the honor, and moved his household goods Far away into the forest, to the old primeval woods.

Far and far into the forest moved the grizzled pioneer,

There he reared his hut and murmured, "I will build a city here." And he hears the woodfox barking, and he hears the partridge

drum,

And the old man sits and listens for the millions yet to come.