On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,

Rolls

A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pæan from the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells-
Of the bells:

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells---
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the sobbing of the bells;

Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,

In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells—

To the tolling of the bells,

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells-

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Edgar Allan Poe.

OUT TO OLD AUNT MARY'S

Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine,

In those old days of the lost sunshine

Of youth--when the Saturday's chores were through,
And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen, too,
And we went visiting, "me and you,"

Out to old Aunt Mary's?

It all comes back so clear today!
Though I am as bald as you are gray-
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane
We patter along in the dust again,

As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,
Out to old Aunt Mary's.

We cross the pasture and through the wood,
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,
Where the hammering "red-heads" hopped awry,
And the buzzard "raised" in the "clearing" sky,
And lolled and circled, as we went by

Out to old Aunt Mary's.

And then in the dust of the road again,
And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
And the long highway, with sunshine spread
As thick as butter on country bread,
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead
Out to old Aunt Mary's.

And the romps we took, in our glad unrest!
Was it the lawn that we loved the best,

"The shot went off, and I killed fifty brace of ducks, twenty widgeons and three couple of teals.'

THE VERACIOUS HUNTING STORIES OF BARON MUNCHAUSEN: Raspe.

(See page 379)

With its swooping swing in the locust trees,
Or was it the grove, with its leafy breeze,
Or the dim hay-mow with its fragrancies-
Out to old Aunt Mary's?

Why, I see her now, in the open door

Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er
The clapboard roof! And her face-ah, me!

Wasn't it good for a boy to see

And wasn't it good for a boy to be
Out to old Aunt Mary's?

For, O my brother so far away,
This is to tell you-she waits today
To welcome us. Aunt Mary fell
Asleep this morning, whispering, "Tell
The boys to come." . . And all is well
Out to old Aunt Mary's.

From "Afterwhiles," copyright 1887.
Used by permission of the publishers
The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

James Whitcomb Riley.

BUT ONLY ONE MOTHER

Most of all the other beautiful things in life come by twos and threes, by dozens and hundreds. Plenty of roses, stars, sunsets, rainbows, brothers and sisters, aunts and cousins, but only one mother in the whole world.

Kate Douglas Wiggin.