And yet these blackberries! shy and chaste! 
  The noisy markets know no such—­
  So ripe they tumble when you touch;
Long, taper—­rarer wines they waste
Than ever town-bred topers taste.

And tell me! have you looked o’erhead
  From lawns where lazy hammocks swing
  And seen such bird-throats lent a wing? 
Such flames of song that flashed and fled? 
Well, maybe—­I’m not city-bred.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

Skating Song.

Moon so bright,
Stars alight,
Clouds adance, adance;
Snow of night,
Fleecy white,
Silver ice agleam, aglance. 
    High, hey, high, hey,
    Skimming the smooth, bright way,
    High, hey, high, hey,
    Over the ice away.

Cheeks so bright,
Face alight,
Heart adance, adance;
Eyes of night,
Brow of white,
Silver skates agleam, aglance. 
    High, hey, high, hey,
    Skimming the smooth, bright way,
    High, hey, high, hey,
    Over the ice away.

CORA ISABEL WARBURTON.
Smith College Monthly.

A Mystery.

Once, a little while ago, ’twas so warm and still
Down here, in this soft, dark place.  Now I feel a thrill
Darting through me.  Shivering, quivering, bursts my wrappage brown,
Struggling, striving, something in me reaches up and down. 
Ah! it must be death, this anguish that I cannot understand.

One inch more,—­I lift my head above the parted mould,
Oh! what rapture!  Falling on me something sweet and gold,
Something humming, singing, moving, growing on each side;
High above me a blue glory stretching far and wide,—­
And I know ’twas life, that anguish that I could not understand.

MARY E. HOYT.
Bryn Mawr Lantern.

The Birch-Tree.

Like a shower, breeze-suspended,
  Caught and played with by the air,
April from the sky descended,
  Tricked by sunshine unaware,
To a pale green fountain fashioned,
  Silver shaft with airy fling,
Tremulous and sun-impassioned
  Is the birch-tree in the spring.

Like the spirit of the fountain—­
  Seen when earth was yet a child—­
Leaping, white-armed, from the mountain,
  Laughing, beckoning, water-wild,
Sheen of mist her beauty veiling,
  Which she only half can hide,
Garments o’er her white feet trailing,
  Seems the birch at summer-tide.

E.A.H.
Inlander.

My Quest.

Over the meadow and over the hill,
  Over the heath and heather,
I seek for the spot where the dawn-wind sleeps,
  And slips from its night-bound tether. 
      Is it here?  Is it there? 
      Pray tell me where
The morning zephyrs tarry,
      That I may bide
      Where they crouch and hide,
And sip of the dew they carry.