Though proud she was as sunset clad
In Autumn's fruity shades,

Love too is proud, and brings (gay lad!)
Humility to maids.

Scorn not from nature's mood to learn,
Take counsel of the day:

Since haughty skies to tender turn,
Go try your fate in May.

Though cold she seemed as pearly light

Adown December eves,

And stern as night when March winds smite
The beech's lingering leaves;
Yet Love hath seasons like the year,

And grave will turn to gay,—
Then, lover, hearken not to fear,

But try your fate in May.

And you whose art it is to hide
The constant love you feel:
Beware, lest overmuch of pride
Your happiness shall steal.
No longer pout, for May is here,
And hearts will have their way;
Love's in the calendar, my dear,
So yield to fate-and May!

Robert Underwood Johnson.

MY GRANDMOTHER'S TURKEY-TAIL FAN

T owned not a color that vanity dons

IT

Or slender wits choose for display;

Its beautiful tint was a delicate bronze,

A brown softly blended with gray.

From her waist to her chin, spreading out without break,

'Twas built on a generous plan:

The pride of the forest was slaughtered to make My grandmother's turkey-tail fan.

For common occasions it never was meant:
In a chest between two silken cloths
'Twas kept safely hidden with careful intent
In camphor to keep out the moths.

'Twas famed far and wide through the whole country side,

From Beersheba e'en unto Dan;

And often at meeting with envy 'twas eyed,
My grandmother's turkey-tail fan.

Camp-meetings, indeed, were its chiefest delight.
Like a crook unto sheep gone astray
It beckoned backsliders to re-seek the right,
And exhorted the sinners to pray.

It always beat time when the choir went wrong,
In psalmody leading the van.

Old Hundred, I know, was its favorite song-
My grandmother's turkey-tail fan.

A fig for the fans that are made nowadays,
Suited only to frivolous mirth!

A different thing was the fan that I praise,

Yet it scorned not the good things of earth.
At bees and at quiltings 'twas aye to be seen;
The best of the gossip began

When in at the doorway had entered serene
My grandmother's turkey-tail fan.

Tradition relates of it wonderful tales.
Its handle of leather was buff.

Though shorn of its glory, e'en now it exhales
An odor of hymn-books and snuff.
Its primeval grace, if you like, you can trace:
'Twas limned for the future to scan,
Just under a smiling gold-spectacled face,
My grandmother's turkey-tail fan.

Samuel Minturn Peck.

VALENTINE

F thou canst make the frost be gone,
And fleet away the snow

IF

(And that thou canst, I trow);

If thou canst make the spring to dawn,
Hawthorn to put her brav'ry on,
Willow, her weeds of fine green lawn,
Say why thou dost not so—

Aye, aye!

Say why

Thou dost not so!

If thou canst chase the stormy rack,
And bid the soft winds blow

(And that thou canst, I trow);

If thou canst call the thrushes back
To give the groves the songs they lack,
And wake the violet in thy track,
Say why thou dost not so-
Aye, aye!

Say why

Thou dost not so!

If thou canst make my winter spring,
With one word breathed low
(And that thou canst, I know);
If in the closure of a ring

Thou canst to me such treasure bring,
*My state shall be above a king,

Say why thou dost not so~
Aye, aye!

Say why

Thou dost not so!

Edith Matilda Thomas.

A VALENTINE

H! little loveliest lady mine,

What shall I send for your valentine?
Summer and flowers are far away;

Gloomy old Winter is king to-day;

Buds will not blow, and sun will not shine:
What shall I do for a valentine?

I've searched the gardens all through and through
For a bud to tell of my love so true;

But buds are asleep, and blossoms are dead,
And the snow beats down on my poor little head:
So, little loveliest lady mine,

Here is my heart for your valentine !

Laura Elizabeth Richards.

O

ON A HYMN-BOOK

LD hymn-book, sure I thought I'd lost you
In the days now long gone by;

I'd forgotten where I tossed you:

Gracious! how I sigh.

In the church a thin partition
Stood between her pew and mine;
And her pious, sweet contrition
Struck me as divine.

Yes, remarkably entrancing

Was she in her sable furs;

And my eyes were always glancing
Up, old book, to hers.

Bless you, very well she knew it,
And I'm sure she liked it too;

Once she whispered, "Please don't do it,"
But her eyes said, "Do."