an
It burned and fluttered its life away.

Bright with the blood of its wasting tide
It glowed in the sun of her laughing eyes.
What cared she though a stray heart died--
What to her were its sobs and sighs.

The winds of passion were spent at last,
And my heart like the leaf in her pathway lay;
And under her slender foot as she passed,
My lady she trod it and went her way.

So I picked the leaf from its dusty place,
With a tender pity--too well defined.
And I laid it here in this velvet case,
Ah! a fellow-feeling doth make us kind.

A CURIOUS STORY

I heard such a curious story
Of Santa Claus: once, so they say,
He set out to see what people were kind,
Before he took presents their way.
'This year I will give but to givers,
To those who make presents themselves,'
With a nod of his head old Santa Claus said
To his band of bright officer-elves.

'Go into the homes of the happy
Where pleasure stands page at the door.
Watch well how they live, and report what they give
To the hordes of God's suffering poor.
Keep track of each cent and each moment;
Yes, tell me each word, too, they use:
To silver line clouds for earth's suffering crowds,
And tell me, too, when they refuse.'

So into our homes flew the fairies,
Though never a soul of us knew,
And with pencil and book they sat by and took
Each action, if false, or if true.
White marks for the deeds done for others--
Black marks for the deeds done for self.
And nobody hid what he said or he did,
For no one, of course, sees an elf.

Well, Christmas came all in its season,
And Santa Claus, so I am told,
With a very light pack of small gifts on his back,
And his reindeers all left in the fold,
Set out on a leisurely journey,
And finished ere midnight, they say.
And there never had been such surprise and chagrin
Before on the breaking of day,

As there was on that bright Christmas morning
When stockings, and cupboards, and shelves
Were ransacked and sought in, for gifts that were not in--
But wasn't it fun for the elves!
And what did _I_ get? You confuse me--
_I got not one thing_, and that's true;
But had I suspected my actions detected
I would have had gifts, wouldn't you?

JENNY LIND

There was a something in your song, men say
No later singer voices: some strange power
Like to the essence in a rare June day,
Or like the subtle perfume of a fl