To primrose, tulip, daffodil, The wind came piping gay and shrill:

"Wake up! wake up! while day is new, And all the world is washed with dew!"

GRACE.

(JUNE 13, 1899.)

So still you sleep upon your bed, So motionless and slender, It cannot be that you are dead, My maiden gay and tender!

You were no creature pale and meek That death should hasten after, The dimples played within your cheek, Your lips were made for laughter.

To you the great world was a place That care might never stay in, A playground built by G.o.d's good grace For glad young folks to play in.

You made your footpath by life's flowers, O happy, care-free maiden!

The sky was full of shine and showers, The wind was perfume laden.

Your dimpled hands are folded now Upon your snowy bosom, The dark hair nestles on your brow-- O tender, broken blossom!

The white lids hide your eyes so clear, So mirthful, so beguiling, But as my tears fall on you, dear, Your lips seem softly smiling.

And do you feel that it is home, The city far above us?

And were they glad to have you come?

And will you cease to love us?

Methinks when you stand all in white To learn each sweet new duty, Some eye will note, with keen delight, Your radiance and beauty.

And when your laughter softly rings Out where G.o.d's streets do glisten, The angels fair will fold their wings And still their song to listen.

THE WAY TO DREAMLAND

With an angel flower-laden, every day a dimpled maiden Sails away from off my bosom on a radiant sea of bliss; I can see her drifting, drifting, hear the snowy wings uplifting As he woos her into Dreamland with a kiss.

Blissful hour, my pretty sleeper, guarded by an angel keeper, List'ning to the words he brings thee from a fairer world than this; Sweet! thy heart he is beguiling, I can tell it by thy smiling, As he woos thee into Dreamland with a kiss.

Could there come to weary mortals such a glimpse through golden portals, Would we not drift on forever toward the longed-for land of peace, jean Would we not leave joys and sorrows, Glad to-days and sad to-morrows, For the sound of white wings lifting, and the kiss?

HER MISSION.

She is so winsome and so wise She sways me at her will, And oft the question will arise, What mission does she fill?

O then I say with pride untold, And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold, She just keeps house for me-- For me, She just keeps house for me!

A full content dwells on her face, She's quite in love with life, And for a t.i.tle wears with grace The sweet old-fashioned "wife."

Our children climb upon her knee, And nestle on her breast, And ah! her mission seems to me The grandest and the best.

O then I say with pride untold, And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold, She just keeps house for me-- For me, She just keeps house for me!

FRIEND OR FOE?

There's a man I know-- A likeable man-- Whom you meanly wound Whenever you can, Remark with malice His task is done ill, He's poor of judgment And weak of will.

I implore you, now, As that poor man's friend, Let persecution Have speediest end.

Cease taunting the man With blunders he makes, Cease harping alway On wrongs and mistakes.

Come, be his good friend-- Hail fellow, well met-- His failures forgive, And his faults forget.

Who is the man you've Discouraged and blamed?

The man is _yourself_-- Are you not ashamed?

For faults of the past Make ample amends, And you and yourself Be the best of friends.

THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD.

O the hills of purple heather, And the skies so warm and gray!

O the shimmer of the sea-mist In the sea-wind far away!

O the calling of the torrent, Sweeping down Ben Vorlich's side, And my white flocks faring foldward In the hush of eventide!

CHRISTMAS CONVERSION.

I can see her in the kitchen, Ap.r.o.n on and sleeves rolled up, Measurin' spices in a teaspoon, Figs and raisins in a cup.

Now she's throwin' apple quarters In that wooden bowl of hers, 'Long with lemon peel and orange, An' she stirs, an' stirs, an' stirs.

Then she takes her knife an' chops it, Chops so fast her hand jest flies.

Now I know what ma is up to-- Makin' mincemeat for the pies.

I smell Christmas in our kitchen, An' my heart gets big an' glad, An' I, somehow, fall to wishin', That I wasn't quite so bad.