But the night wind murmured low,
      Softly brushing back your hair,
    “Look into her face, and know
      That she is a jewel rare,
      Worthy of a monarch’s heir;
      Who are you that you should dare!”

    Hope died like a frost-touched flower;
      But through all the coming years,
    In that quiet evening hour,
      When the flowers are all in tears,
      When the heart hath hopes and fears,
      When the day-world disappears.

    If the vine leaves rustle low,
      If the moon shine on the sea,
    If the night wind softly blow,—­
      Dreaming of what may not be,—­
      Well I know that I shall see
      Your sweet eyes look down on me.

    REDUCTIO AD ABSURDUM.

    I had come from the city early
        That Saturday afternoon;
      I sat with Beatrix under the trees
      In the mossy orchard; the golden bees
    Buzzed over clover-tops, pink and pearly;
        I was at peace, and inclined to spoon.

    We were stopping awhile with mother,
        At the quiet country place
      Where first we’d met, one blossomy May,
      And fallen in love—­so the dreamy day
    Brought to my memory many another
        In the happy time when I won her grace.

    Days in the bright Spring weather,
        When the twisted, rough old tree
    Showered down apple-blooms, dainty and sweet,
      That swung in her hair, and blushed at her feet;
    Sweet was her face as we lingered together,
        And dainty the kisses my love gave me.

    “Dear love, are you recalling
        The old days, too?” I said. 
      Her sweet eyes filled, and with tender grace
      She turned and rested her blushing face
    Against my shoulder; a sunbeam falling
        Through the leaves above us crowned her head.

    And so I held her, trusting
        That none was by to see;
      A sad mistake—­for low, but clear,
      This feminine comment reached my ear: 
    “Married for ages—­it’s just disgusting—­
        Such actions—­and, Fred, they’ve got our tree!”

    THE MOTHERS OF THE SIRENS.

    The debutantes are in force to-night,
      Sweet as their roses, pure as truth;
    Dreams of beauty in clouds of tulle;
      Blushing, fair in their guileless youth. 
    Flashing bright glances carelessly—­
      Carelessly, think you!  Wait and see
    How their sweetest smile is kept for him
      Whom “mother” considers a good parti.

    For the matrons watch and guard them well—­
      Little for youth or love care they;
    The man they seek is the man with gold,
      Though his heart be black, and his hair be gray. 
    “Nellie, how could you treat him so! 
      You know very well he is Goldmore’s heir,”
    “Jennie, look modest!  Glance down and blush,—­
      Here comes papa with young Millionaire.”