ppropriate
appellation than that now vulgarly applied to it. It is known to breed
in Georgia, whose thick swamps favor the concealment to which it is
partial. It is extremely vigilant and shy, and cannot be shot without
great difficulty. They move with grace upon the water, and run with
equal facility on the ground or on the leaves of water plants.

MY LOVE.

BY J. IVES PEASE.

I love! and ah, 'tis bliss to feel
My breast no longer lone and cold;
To know, though Time all else should steal,
The _heart_ can never all grow old!
I love! and now I _live_ again!
The world looks brighter to my eyes;
There is a gladness on the plain--
A newer glory in the skies.

I love! Her smile is o'er my path
Like sunlight in sweet April hours:
Her voice steals o'er me like the breath
Of morning to half-withered flowers.
I love! Ah _she_ may never know
How wild my love! I have no sigh--
I have no word--nor look to show
How much I'm blessed when she is nigh.

And it is well!--my hapless love
May never dare to ask return--
Enough that her glad smiles may move
_My heart--I ask not hers to burn!_
Ah no. 'Tis better thus to meet
With equal pulse and tranquil brow--
Drink, through her eyes, delirium sweet.
Can madness from such fountains flow?

I know not! Dearest, still, oh still,
"Look love upon me," sweet and kind!--
Let thy glad thought, in music, thrill
Bright witchcraft through my longing mind.
I clasp thee to my breast--in dreams!
Thy lips rain kisses warm and fast--
And I half hate the morning beams
That scare thee to thy home at last.

Thy "home!"--ah, would it ne'er had been--
Thy home and mine are wide apart--
The world's grim shadow glooms between--
And my life lives but where thou art.
Ah, dearest, we're not happy! Life
Yields not the bliss 'twas meant to do:
Discord _might_ come of wrong and strife--
Should sorrow spring from duty, too?

Thou art not happy, dearest, thou!--
A shade has fallen on thy young years;
Thou art not happy: even now
Thine eyes are full of unshed tears.
And this our fate? My Life!--my "world!"--
Too late beloved--too rarely seen--
And we, as o'er Time's tide we're hurled,
Can only say "WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN!"

LIFE.

BY A. J. REQUIER