ong than thine!
Tho' all the brooks of June
Should lilt and pipe in tune.
The music by and by would cloy--
The world forgets so soon!

So thou mayest put away
Thy little broken lay;
Perhaps some wistful, loving soul
May take it up some day--
Take up the broken thread,
Dear heart, when thou art dead,
And weave into diviner song
The things thou wouldst have said!

Rest thou, and make no sign,
The world, O, heart of mine,
Is listening for the hand that smites
A grander chord than thine!
The loftier strains that teach
Great truths beyond thy reach;
Whose far faint echo they have heard
In thy poor stammering speech.

Thy little broken bars,
That wailing discord mars,
To vast triumphal harmonies
Shall swell beyond the stars.
So rest thee, heart, and cease;
Awhile, in glad release,
Keep silence here, with God, amid
The lilies of His peace.

AUNT PATTY'S THANKSGIVING.

[Transcriber's note: The original text titled this poem here as
"Aunt Patty's Thanksgiving" and in the table of contents as "Aunt
Betty's Thanksgiving." This discrepancy is intentionally preserved.]

Now Cleo, fly round! Father's going to town
With a load o' red russets, to meet Captain Brown;
The mortgage is due, and it's got to be paid,
And father is troubled to raise it, I'm 'fraid!
We've had a bad year, with the drouth and the blight
The harvest was short, and the apple crop light;
The early hay cutting scarce balanced the cost,
And the heft o' the after-math's ruined with frost;
A gloomy Thanksgiving to-morrow will be--
But the ways o' the Lord are not our ways, ah me!

But His dear will be done! If we jest do our best,
And trust Him, I guess He'll take care o' the rest;
I'd not mind the worry, nor stop to repine,
Could I take father's share o' the burden with mine!
He is grieving, I know, tho' he says not a word,
But, last night, 'twixt the waking and dreaming, I heard
The long, sobbing sighs of a strong man in pain,
And I knew he was fretting for Robert again!
Our Robert, our first-born: the comfort and stay
Of our age, when we two should grow feeble and gray;
What a baby he was! with his bright locks, and eyes
Just as blue as a bit o' the midsummer skies!
And in youth--why, it made one's heart lightsome and glad
Like a glimpse o' the sun, just to look at the lad!

But the curse came upon him--the spell of unrest--
Like a voice calling out of the infinite West--
And Archibald Grace,