Here we sat beside the river
      Long ago, my Love and I,
    Where the willows droop and quiver
      ’Twixt the water and the sky. 
    We were wrapped in fragrant shadow,
      ’Twas the quiet vesper time,
    And the bells across the meadows
      Mingled with the ripple’s chime. 
    With no thought of ill betiding,
      “Thus,” we said, “life’s years shall be
    For us twain a river gliding
      To a calm, eternal sea.”

    I am sitting by the river
      Where we used to sit of old,
    And the willows droop and quiver
      ’Gainst a sky of burning gold;
    But my Love long since went onward,
      Down the river’s shining tide,
    To the land that is far sunward,
      With the angels to abide;
    And in pastures fair and vernal,
      In the coming by-and-bye,
    Far across the sea eternal
      We shall meet—­my Love and I.

HELEN M. BURNSIDE.

AN APRIL FOLLY.

BY GILBERT H. PAGE.

April 1, 1890. 58A, Lincoln’s Inn Fields.—­I execrate my fellow men—­and women!  To-day I was over at Catherine’s.  Not an unusual occurrence with me, but on a more than usually important mission.  I needn’t note down how I achieved it.  Am I likely to forget my impotent speeches?  Still, she had given me plenty of excuse for supposing she liked me, and I said so.  And then Catherine laughed her exasperating little laugh that always dries up all sentiment on the spot, and makes my blood boil with anger.  “I like you?” she repeated mockingly; “not at all! not in the least!  What can you be dreaming of?”

I did for a moment dream of rolling her elaborately curled head in the dust of the drawing-room carpet; but I restricted myself to saying a few true and exceedingly bitter things, and departed without giving her time to reply; and herewith I register a vow on the tablets of my heart:  “If ever again I make a single friendly overture to that young woman, may I cut off the hand that so betrays me!”

By-the-bye, it is April Fools’ Day, an appropriate date by which to remember my folly.

April 2.—­My feelings are still exceedingly sore.  Oh for a cottage in some wilderness—­some vast contiguity of shade—­whither I might retire, like a stricken hart from the herd, and sulk majestically!  The very thing!  There rises before me an opportune vision of a certain lonely farm-house I wot of down by a lonely sea.  I discovered it last summer while staying at Shoreford.  I had ridden westward across the marsh lands of Windle, over the cliffs that form the coastline between this and Rexingham; and being thirsty, had followed some cows through a rick-yard, in the hopes of obtaining a glass of milk.

There, behind the hayricks, I had come upon my first view of Down End Farm; and the picture of its grey stone, lichened walls, red roof, cosy kitchen and comely mistress, had remained painted on my brain.  So, too, I retained a scrap of my conversation with Mrs. Anderson, and her casual mention of the London family then occupying her best rooms.  “We don’t have many folk at Down End, it being so out of the way, sir; but the gentleman here now says he do like it, just on account of the solitude and quiet.”