But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn

decline,

And one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the

Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her

old age,

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a

For

cage,

my

father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce

and wild;

And when he died and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's

sword,

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine

On the cottage wall at Bingen-calm Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping

head,

When the troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread,

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and stead

fast eye,

For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to

die.

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame.

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine),

For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine.

"There's another-not a sister: in the happy days gone by,

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning, O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning;

"Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen

My body will be out of pain-my soul be out of prison),
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight

shine

On the vineclad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen on the

Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along-I heard, or seemed

to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and

clear,

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk,

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine;
But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the
Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,-his grasp was childish weak

His eyes put on a dying look-he sighed and ceased to speak;

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had

fled

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead!

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked

down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strown;

Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine. Caroline Norton.

INFECTION

A baby smiled in its mother's face;
The mother caught it, and gave it then
To the baby's father-serious case-
Who carried it out to the other men;
And every one of them went straight away
Scattering sunshine thro' the day.

Louis de Louk.

WILL THE LIGHTS BE WHITE?

Oft, when I feel my engine swerve,
As o'er strange rails we fare,
I strain my eye around the curve
For what awaits us there.

When swift and free she carries me
Through yards unknown at night,
I look along the line to see

That all the lamps are white.

The blue light marks the crippled car,
The green light signals show;
The red light is a danger light;
The white light, "Let her go."
Again the open fields we roam,
And, when the night is fair,
I look up in the starry dome

And wonder what's up there.

For who can speak for those who dwell
Behind the curving sky?

No man has ever lived to tell

Just what it means to die.

Swift toward life's terminal I trend,
The run seems short tonight;

God only knows what's at the end—
I hope the lamps are white.

From "Songs of Cy Warman."

By permission Rand-Avery Co., Publishers.

Cy Warman.

AUTUMN THOUGHTS

There can be nothing sadder than the solemn hush of nature that precedes the death of the year. The golden glory of Autumn, with the billowy bronze and velvet azure of the skies above the royal robe of oak and maple, bespeak the closing hour of nature's teeming life, and the silent farewell to humanity's gauze underwear.

Thus, while nature dons her regal robes of scarlet and gold, in honor of the farewell benefit to autumn, the sad-eyed poet steals swiftly away to the neighboring clothesline, and in the hour of nature's grand blow-out dons the flaming flannels of his friend out of respect for the hectic flush of the dying year.

Leaves have their time to fall, and so has the price of coal. And yet how sadly at variance with decaying nature is the robust coal market.

Another glorious summer with its wealth of pleasant memories is stored away among the archives of our history. Another gloomy winter is upon us. These wonderful colors that flame across the softened sky of Indian Summer like the gory banner of a royal conqueror come but to warn us that in a few short weeks the water-pipe will be "busted" in the kitchen, and the decorated wash-bowl will be broken.

We flit through the dreamy hours of summer like swift-winged bumble bees amid the honeysuckle and pumpkin blossoms, storing away perhaps a little glucose honey and buckwheat pancakes for the future; but all