e Aster!)

No one kisses me now--my winter has come:
(To ice turns fortune when once you have passed her.)
I long for the angels to beckon me home (hum)
(For dead, deader, deadest, the Aster!)

[Illustration: PINES AND SILVER BIRCHES]

Doctor Bolles has very kindly sent me one of his later humorous poems.
A tragic forecast of suffragette rule which is too gloomy, as almost
every woman will assure an agreeable smoker that she is "fond of the
odour of a good cigar."

DESCENSUS AD INFERNUM

When the last cigar is smoked and the box is splintered
and gone,
And only the faintest whiff of the dear old smell hangs on,
In the times when he's idle or thoughtful,
When he's lonesome, jolly or blue,
And he fingers his useless matches,
What is a poor fellow to do?

For the suffragettes have conquered, and their harvest is
gathered in;
From Texas to Maine they've voted tobacco the deadliest sin;
A pipe sends you up for a year, a cigarette for two;
In this female republic of virtue,
What is a poor fellow to do?

He may train up his reason on bridge and riot on afternoon tea,
And at dinner, all wineless and proper, a dress-suited guest he
may be;
But when the mild cheese has been passed, and the chocolate mint
drops are few,
And the coffee comes in and he hankers,
What is a poor fellow to do?

It's all for his good, they say; for in heaven no nicotine
grows,
And the angels need no cedar for moth-proofs to keep their
clothes;
No ashes are dropped, no carpets are singed, by all the saintly
crew;
If _this_ is heaven, and he gets there,
What is a poor fellow to do?

He'll sit on the golden benches and long for a chance to break
jail,
With a shooting-star for a motor, or a flight on a comet's tail;
He'll see the smoke rise in the distance, and goaded by memory's
spell,
He'll go back on the women who saved him,
And ask for a ticket to _Hell_!

An exact description of the usual happenings at "Breezy" in the
beginning, by my only sister, Mrs. Babcock, who was devoted to me and
did more than anyone to help to develop the Farm. I feel that this
chapter must be the richer for two of her poems.

LIGHT AND SHADE AT "BREEZY MEADOWS" FARM

This charming May mornin