“Nellie, the Wrights have called.  Where were you?”
      “Under the tree, by the meadow-brook
    Reading, and oh, it was too lovely;
      I never saw such a charming book.” 
    The charming book must have pleased her, truly,
      There’s a happy light in her bright young eyes
    And she hugs the cat with unusual fervor,
      To staid old Tabby’s intense surprise.

    Reading? yes, but not from a novel. 
      Fishing! truly, but not with a rod. 
    The line is idle, the book neglected—­
      The water-grasses whisper and nod. 
    The fisherman bold and the earnest reader
      Sit talking—­of what?  Perhaps the weather. 
    Perhaps—­no matter—­whate’er the subject,
      It brings them remarkably close together.

    It causes his words to be softly spoken,
      With many a lingering pause between,
    The while the sunbeams chase the shadows
      Over the mosses, gray and green. 
    Blushes are needful for its discussion,
      And soft, shy glances from downcast eyes,
    In whose blue depths are lying hidden
      Loving gladness, and sweet surprise.

    Trinity Chapel is gay this evening,
      Filled with beauty, and flowers, and light,
    A captive fisherman stands at the altar,
      With Nellie beside him all in white.

    The ring is on, the vows are spoken,
      And smiling friends, good fortune wishing,
    Tell him his is the fairest prize
      Ever brought from a morning’s fishing.

    NOCTURNE.

    Summer is over, and the leaves are falling,
      Gold, fire-enamelled in the glowing sun;
    The sobbing pinetop, the cicada calling
      Chime men to vesper-musing, day is done.

    The fresh, green sod, in dead, dry leaves is hidden;
      They rustle very sadly in the breeze;
    Some breathing from the past comes, all unbidden,
      And in my heart stir withered memories.

    Day fades away; the stars show in the azure,
      Bright with the glow of eyes that know not tears,
    Unchanged, unchangeable, like God’s good pleasure,
      They smile and reck not of the weary years.

    Men tell us that the stars it knows are leaving
      Our onward rolling globe, and in their place
    New constellations rise—­is death bereaving
      The old earth, too, of each familiar face?

    Our loved ones leave us; so we all grow fonder
      Of their world than of ours; for here we seem
    Alone in haunted houses, and we wonder
      Which is the waking life, and which the dream.

    AUTO-DA-FE

    (HE EXPLAINS.)

    Oh, just burning up some old papers,
      They do make a good deal of smoke: 
    That’s right, Dolly, open the window;
      They’ll blaze if you give them a poke. 
    I’ve got a lot more in the closet;
      Just look at the dust!  What a mess! 
    Why, read it, of course, if you want to,
      It’s only a letter, I guess.