Ah, now she rises from behind The round green fan beside her chair; “Poor fellow!” croons-and pity lends Her voice new softness-and she bends And brushes back his hair. Then in his sleep he softly stirs. Was that a dream, these murmured words? He wakes! There by the casement sat Miss Trotwood still; close by, her cat And her canary birds. The peaceful calm of that quaint room, Its marks of comfort everywhere— Old china and mahogany And blowing in, fresh from the sea, The perfume-laden air. Poor little pilgrim so bereft, So weary at his journey’s end! What joy must then have filled his soul To reach at last such happy goal— To find—oh, such a friend!… And then night came, and from his bed He saw the sea, moonlit and bright, And dreamed there came, to bless her son, His mother, with her little one, Adown that path of light. Ah, greater blessing I’d not crave, When my life’s pilgrimage is o’er, Than such repose, content, and love; Some shining path that leads above To dear ones gone before! LOUELLA C. POOLE WITH WAVES AND WINGS Waves and Wings and Growing Things! As through the gladden sight ye flow And flit and glow, Ye win me so In soul to go, I too am waves, I too am wings, And kindred motion in me springs. With thee I pass, glad growing grass!— I climb the air with lissome mien; Unsheathing keen The vivid sheen Of springing green, I thrill the crude, exalt the crass Fine-flex’d and fluent from Earth’s mass. And impulse craves with thee, Sea Waves!— To make all mutable the floor Of Earth’s firm shore, With flashing pour Whose brimming o’er Impassion’d motion loves and laves And livens sombre slumbering caves. Then soaring where the wild birds fare, My song would sweep the windy lyre Of Heaven’s choir, Pulsing desire For starry fire, Abashing chilling vagues of air With throbbing of warm breasts that dare! CHARLOTTE PORTER BLUEBERRIES Upon the hills of Garlingtown Beneath the summer sky, In many pleasant pastures On sunny slopes and high, Their skins abloom with dusty blue, Asleep, the berries lie. And all the lads of Garlingtown, And all the lasses too, Still climb the tranquil hillsides, A merry, barefoot crew; Still homeward plod with unfilled pails And mouths of berry blue. And all the birds of Garlingtown, When flocking back to nest, Remember well the patches Where berries are the best; They pick the ripest ones at dawn And leave the lads the rest. Upon the hills of Garlingtown When berry-time was o’er, I looked into the sunset, And saw an open door, And from the hills of Garlingtown I went, and came no more. FRANK PRENTICE RAND NOCTURNE Night of infinite power and infinite silence and space, From you may mortals infer, if ever, the scope divine! The jealous sun conceals all but his arrogant face, You bid the Milky Way and a million suns to shine.