Our jest and gossip ceased at last; It seem’d as if my lips were fast. Ah me, such holy hopes loom’d then; My mind could only think, “Amen.” But soon she cried out, “How absurd!” And laugh’d, whereat her little bird Caught up the music of the word, And trill’d an echo, loud and long, Till, deafen’d quite, she check’d the song. “That bird,” said she,—“Hush, hush, you thing!— Flew in the window here, one spring. We caught and caged him, and he grew The sweetest pet that ever flew; I hold my finger toward him so, And down he flies and lights, you know, And pecks my hair and lips, and oh, How jauntily—you ought to see— He perks his head and chirps for me! “Last year, he flew away, one day, And then, the scene we had! the way We wept for him; and search’d the town! And how it made the neighbors frown The twentieth time we ask’d for him! But, just as day was growing dim, He lit on yonder ash-tree limb; And ‘Dick,’ I call’d, and back he flew; Now, didn’t you, birdie?—naughty you!” With this again she laugh’d at him; And I,—I thought the room grew dim; And then, I whisper’d: “Dear, a word,— For I—I know one other bird That longs and longs to fly to you; And, dearest, you may cage it, too; ’Twill sing, and serve, and be so true.” And then she blush’d, and then she wept, And then this bird of love she kept. WHATEVER THE MISSION OF LIFE MAY BE. Whatever the mission of life may be, Let love keep true, and let thought keep free, And never, whatever may cause the plan, Enlarge the calling to lessen the man. The cut of a coat, Cant chatter’d by rote, A priestly or princely state remote From the ties that bind A man to mankind, Are a clog and a curse to spirit and mind; For God, who made us, made only a man, No arms of a snob, no shield of a clan. Far better a friend that is friendly to God, Than a sycophant kissing a ribbon or rod. Help on no ways nor words that extol The vise of a bias that binds the soul; No rank held up by holding down True worth as an underling stript of his crown; No cause with a lie For a party-cry To catch the low or to court the high; No life with a creed That ends all the need Of knowing or growing in thought or deed.— Weigh well their worth; true dawnings of light Can abide your waiting and grow more bright. Weigh not, you prove the trend of my thought: Your soul is a slave to be sold and bought. THE DESTINY-MAKER.