er's brink, beyond the old Mock Mill!

II.

Give me the youthful friends I knew, now scattered far and wide--
The loved ones who have passed beyond the bounds of time and tide--
And let me see the rose's hue that mantled every cheek
When we were run-aways from school, a-fishing in the creek.

III.

Give me the stone-bruise on my heel, the hat without a crown--
The unkempt suit of yellow hair the sun had burnt to brown--
And let me go and soak myself, just where we used to walk,
In that old swimmin' pool we had, up on the Hanging Fork!

IV.

Give me the wealth I used to have--a wealth of vast content--
The pockets that were always full--but in them not a cent--
And let me hear the music sweet the wild birds used to sing
In woods and fields I wandered o'er, beyond the Old Cove Spring!

V.

Give me--but what's the use of wishing for the days that won't return--
The vanished faces of the friends for whom we fondly yearn?
And what's the use of trying to look beyond the misty screen
Time's hand has hung between the eye and each familiar scene?

A FADED LETTER.

I.

O what memories sweet entwine
Around each word and faded line!
Yellow and dim with the touch of years,
And soiled with the marks of tears--
A sacred treasure of the heart
Which death alone can from him part--
A letter--cherished as no other--
And ending with the name of--Mother!

II.

Writ it was to a wayward boy,
When life to him seemed full of joy--
Pleading with him so to live
That he her heart no grief would give--
That after years might ne'er be fraught
With sorrow that himself had wrought:--
"May guardian angels 'round you hover,"
She wrote--and signed the name of--Mother!

III.

The paper has the taint of must--
The hand that traced the lines is dust,
And silvery hair is on the head
Of that same boy since first he read
This missive from the sainted one
That bore her love to an erring son--
More fondly prized than any other--
'Twas written by the hand of--Mother!

THE HERMIT.

By the waters of a river, where the rocks like giants stand,
There a stranger, young and favored, built a home with his own hand.

Hewed the logs and reared the roof-tree, where for years alone he dwelt,
Wanderer from the sunny Southland, and from pangs his heart had felt.

Legend says high-born and wealthy, seeking there in Nature's wilds
To forget a maiden fickle, basking in a rival's smiles.

Where the music of the wi