But in my busiest hours I pause,
Held by a sense of urgent speech,
Bewildered by that spark-like soul,
Able my very soul to reach.

She will be heard; she chirps me loud,
When I forget those gravest cares,
Her small provision to supply,

Clear water or her seedsman's wares.

She begs me now for that chief joy

The round great world is made to grow, Her wisp of greenness. Hear her chide, Because my answering thought is slow!

What can my

life seem like to her?

A dull, unpunctual service mine; Stupid before her eager call,

Her flitting steps, her insight fine.

To open wide thy prison door,

Poor friend, would give thee to thy foes;

And yet a plaintive note I hear,

As if to tell how slowly goes

The time of thy long prisoning.

Bird! does some promise keep thee sane?

Will there be better days for thee?

Will thy soul too know life again ?

Ah, none of us have more than this:
If one true friend green leaves can reach
From out some fairer, wider place,

And understand our wistful speech.

BLOOD-ROOT
By E. S. F.

HEN 'mid the budding elms the
bluebird flits,

As if a bit of sky had taken

wings;

When cheerily the first brave

robin sings,

While timid April smiles and

weeps by fits,

Then dainty Blood-Root dons her pale-green wrap,
And ventures forth in some warm, sheltered nook,
To sit and listen to the gurgling brook,

And rouse herself from her long winter nap.
Give her a little while to muse and dream,
And she will throw her leafy cloak aside,
And stand in shining raiment, like a bride
Waiting her lord; whiter than snow will seem
Her spotless robe, the moss-grown rocks beside,
And bright as morn her golden crown will gleam.

THE PASSING OF MARCH

By Robert Burns Wilson

HE braggart March stood in the season's door

THE

With his broad shoulders blocking up

the way,

Shaking the snow-flakes from the cloak he wore, And from the fringes of his kirtle gray.

Near by him April stood with tearful face,
With violets in her hands, and in her hair
Pale, wild anemones; the fragrant lace

Half-parted from her breast, which seemed like fair,

Dawn-tinted mountain snow, smooth-drifted there.

She on the blusterer's arm laid one white hand,
But he would none of her soft blandishment,
Yet did she plead with tears none might withstand,
For even the fiercest hearts at last relent.
And he, at last, in ruffian tenderness,

With one swift, crushing kiss her lips did greet, Ah, poor starved heart! for that one rude caress,

She cast her violets underneath his feet.

WHEN IN THE NIGHT WE WAKE AND HEAR THE RAIN

By Robert Burns Wilson

HEN in the night we wake and hear the rain

Like myriad merry footfalls on

the grass,

And, on the roof, the friendly, threatening crash

Of sweeping, cloud-sped messen-
gers, that pass

Far through the clamoring night; or loudly dash
Against the rattling windows; storming, still
In swift recurrence, each dim-streaming pane,

Insistent that the dreamer wake, within,
And dancing in the darkness on the sill:
How is it, then, with us amidst the din,

Recalled from Sleep's dim, vision-swept domain

When in the night we wake and hear the rain?

When in the night we wake and hear the rain,
Like mellow music, comforting the earth;
A muffled, half-elusive serenade,

Too softly sung for grief, too grave for mirth;
Such as night-wandering fairy minstrels made
In fabled, happier days; while far in space
The serious thunder rolls a deep refrain,
Jarring the forest, wherein Silence makes
Amidst the stillness her lone dwelling-place;
Then in the soul's sad consciousness awakes

Some nameless chord, touched by that haunt-
ing strain,

When in the night we wake and hear the rain.

When in the night we wake and hear the rain,
And from blown casements see the lightning sweep
The ocean's breadth with instantaneous fire,
Dimpling the lingering curve of waves that creep
In steady tumult waves that never tire

For vexing, night and day, the glistening rocks,
Firm-fixed in their immovable disdain

Against the sea's alternate rage and play:

Comes there not something on the wind which mocks

The feeble thoughts, the foolish aims that sway

Our souls with hopes of unenduring gainWhen in the night we wake and hear the rain?

When in the night we wake and hear the rain Which on the white bloom of the orchard falls, And on the young, green wheat-blades, nodding

now,

And on the half-turned field, where thought recalls

How in the furrow stands the rusting plow,
Then fancy pictures what the day will see -
The ducklings paddling in the puddled lane,
Sheep grazing slowly up the emerald slope,
Clear bird-notes ringing, and the droning bee
Among the lilacs' bloom-enchanting hope-
How fair the fading dreams we entertain,
When in the night we wake and hear the rain!

When in the night we wake and hear the rain
Which falls on Summer's ashes, when the leaves
Are few and fading, and the fields forlorn
No more remember their long-gathered sheaves,
Nor aught of all the gladness they have worn;
When melancholy veils the misty hills
Where sombre Autumn's latest glories wane;
Then goes the soul forth where the sad year lays
On Summer's grave her withered gifts, and fills
Her urn with broken memories of sweet days.

Dear days which, being vanished, yet remain,
When in the night we wake and hear the
rain.