I,
Where the willows droop and quiver
'Twixt the water and the sky.
We were wrapped in fragrant shadow,
'Twas the quiet vesper time,
And the bells across the meadows
Mingled with the ripple's chime.
With no thought of ill betiding,
"Thus," we said, "life's years shall be
For us twain a river gliding
To a calm, eternal sea."

I am sitting by the river
Where we used to sit of old,
And the willows droop and quiver
'Gainst a sky of burning gold;
But my Love long since went onward,
Down the river's shining tide,
To the land that is far sunward,
With the angels to abide;
And in pastures fair and vernal,
In the coming by-and-bye,
Far across the sea eternal
We shall meet--my Love and I.

HELEN M. BURNSIDE.

AN APRIL FOLLY.

BY GILBERT H. PAGE.

April 1, 1890. 58A, Lincoln's Inn Fields.--I execrate my fellow men--and
women! To-day I was over at Catherine's. Not an unusual occurrence with
me, but on a more than usually important mission. I needn't note down
how I achieved it. Am I likely to forget my impotent speeches? Still,
she had given me plenty of excuse for supposing she liked me, and I said
so. And then Catherine laughed her exasperating little laugh that always
dries up all sentiment on the spot, and makes my blood boil with anger.
"I _like_ you?" she repeated mockingly; "not at all! not in the least!
What can you be dreaming of?"

I did for a moment dream of rolling her elaborately curled head in the
dust of the drawing-room carpet; but I restricted myself to saying a few
true and exceedingly bitter things, and departed without giving her time
to reply; and herewith I register a vow on the tablets of my heart: "If
ever again I make a single friendly overture to that young woman, may I
cut off the hand that so betrays me!"

By-the-bye, it is April Fools' Day, an appropriate date by which to
remember my folly.

April 2.--My feelings are still exceedingly sore. Oh for a cottage in
some wilderness--some vast contiguity of shade--whither I might retire,
like a stricken hart from the herd, and sulk majestically! The very
thing! There rises before me an opportune vision of a certain lonely
farm-house I wot of down by a lonely sea. I discovered it last summer
while staying at Shoreford. I had ridden westward across the marsh lands
of Windle, over the cliffs that form the coastline between this