The Woman who Toils Marie and Mrs. John Van Vorst
The Long Day Anonymous
Old Homes of New Americans F.E.  Clark
Autobiography S.S.  McClure
Autobiography Theodore Roosevelt
A Buckeye Boyhood W.H.  Venable
A Tuscan Childhood Lisa Cipriani
An Indian Boyhood Charles Eastman
When I Was Young Yoshio Markino
When I Was a Boy in Japan Sakae Shioya
The Story of my Childhood Clara Barton
The Story of my Boyhood and Youth John Muir
The Biography of a Prairie Girl Eleanor Gates
Autobiography of a Tomboy Jeanette Gilder
The One I Knew Best of All Frances Hodgson Burnett
The Story of my Life Helen Keller
The Story of a Child Pierre Loti
A New England Girlhood Lucy Larcom
Autobiography Joseph Jefferson
Dream Days Kenneth Grahame
The Golden Age " "
The Would-be-Goods E. Nesbit
In the Morning Glow Roy Rolfe Gilson
Chapters from a Life Elizabeth Stuart Phelps-Ward

Mary Antin:  Outlook, 102:482, November 2, 1912; 104:473, June 28, 1913
(Portrait).  Bookman, 35:419-421, June 1912.

WARBLE FOR LILAC-TIME

WALT WHITMAN

    Warble me now for joy of lilac-time (returning in reminiscence),
    Sort me, O tongue and lips for Nature’s sake, souvenirs of
      earliest summer,
    Gather the welcome signs (as children with pebbles or
      stringing shells),
    Put in April and May, the hylas croaking in the ponds, the elastic air,
    Bees, butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes,
    Blue-bird and darting swallow, nor forget the high-hole
      flashing his golden wings,
    The tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor,
    Shimmer of waters with fish in them, the cerulean above,
    All that is jocund and sparkling, the brooks running,
    The maple woods, the crisp February days, and the sugar-making,
    The robin where he hops, bright-eyed, brown-breasted,
    With musical clear call at sunrise and again at sunset,
    Or flitting among the trees of the apple-orchard, building the
      nest of his mate,
    The melted snow of March, the willow sending forth its
      yellow-green sprouts,
    For spring-time is here! the summer is here! and what is this in
      it and from it? 
    Thou, soul, unloosen’d—­the restlessness after I know not what;
    Come, let us lag here no longer, let us be up and away!