ows of
childhood which return; the dream this mock-sun of childhood--and the
fever, its distorting glass--both draw forth from dark corners the
fears of defenceless childhood, which press and cut with iron fangs
into the prostrate soul. The fair scenes of dreams mostly play on an
after-stage, whereas the frightful ones choose for theirs the cradle
and the nursery. Moreover, in fever, the ice-hands of the fear of
ghosts, the striking one of the teachers and parents, and every claw
with which fate has pressed the young heart, stretch themselves out to
catch the wandering man. Parents, consider then, that every
childhood's Rupert--the name given in Germany to the fictitious being
employed to frighten children into obedience--even though it has lain
chained for tens of years, yet breaks loose and gains mastery over the
man so soon as it finds him on a sick-bed. The first fright is more
dangerous the sooner it happens: as the man grows older, he is less
and less easily frightened; the little cradle or bed-canopy of the
child is more easily quite darkened than the starry heaven of the
man.--_Jean Paul Richter._

A REJECTED LOVER.

You 'never loved me,' Ada!--Those slow words
Dropped softly from your gentle woman's tongue,
Out of your true and tender woman's heart,
Dropped--piercing into mine like very swords,
The sharper for their brightness! Yet no wrong
Lies to your charge; nor cruelty, nor art;
Even while you spoke, I saw the ready tear-drop start.

You 'never loved me?'--No, you never knew--
You, with youth's dews yet glittering on your soul--
What 'tis _to love_. Slow, drop by drop, to pour
Our life's whole essence, perfumed through and through
With all the best we have, or can control,
For the libation; cast it down before
Your feet--then lift the goblet, dry for evermore!

I shall not die, as foolish lovers do:
A man's heart beats beneath this breast of mine;
The breast where--Curse on that fiend's whispering,
'_It might have been!_'--Ada, I will be true
Unto myself--the self that worshipped thine.
May all life's pain, like those few tears that spring
For me--glance off as rain-drops from my white dove's wing!

May you live long, some good man's bosom-flower,
And gather children round your matron knees!
Then, when all this is past, and you and I
Remember each