Yet it patiently stops to listen The wood-bird’s evening hymn, Then gushes a gurgling chorus Ere the way grows cold and dim— Where glooms of the arching forest Lie dark on its lowly breast, Yet it sings to the deep green mosses, And the bird in her cradled nest. Thanks, thanks for the changeless spirit, That lives in the hills and streams! Like goodness it aye grows dearer As we fade from our life’s young dreams! As love to our hearts is precious, Are voices of leaves and flowers; Our God, in His wisdom, knew it, In kindness He made them ours! * * * * * SONNET.—AMOR. Cui amor nunc est similis? Of old Painted they thee like beauteous boy, with bow And quiver full of arrows tipped with gold, Wherewith his victims pierced, delights might know— Now, see we thee like to the fading flower, Which in the morning richest sweets disclose; Like to the queen of flowers, the mossy rose, Which sets herself to die at evening hour— Now see we thee when two fond hearts unite, For Joy or sorrow, weal or wo, felt here; And see we thee when woman sheds a tear Of sorrow over Him whose chief delight Was, erst, in tents of men He came to save— Love, Love for man lay also in the grave. W. A. * * * * * THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE NUN. BY J. POPHAM. “Pooh! pooh!” says the ‘strong-minded lady,’ “who ever believes in legends now-a-days?” and she turns over our pages to look for a more interesting article. “Legends! Fudge!” says the practical man, who may give a supercilious glance at the title, “I leave such nonsense for old women.” “The Legend of the White Nun!” reads the sentimental young miss, or the Byronic gent with curly hair, and a turned-down shirt-collar—“ah! a story with a very heart-rending finale, no doubt!” And then come the believers in Spirit-Knockings, and in Winking Madonnas—and they will observe, “Here again is, doubtless, something which will corroborate what the skeptical world is pleased to call superstitions!” I am not going now to answer these remarks in the negative or affirmative. I will not anticipate the _finale_, or inform you at once the character of the following tale. _That_ is opposed to all precedent. I merely ask for a perusal before judgment; and then, perhaps, the strong-minded lady, and the practical gentleman, and the sentimental miss, will all find themselves wrong in their conjectures. A story is, now-a-days, no more to be judged by its title, than a hypocrite by his appearance. With this preface, or apology, or left-handed explanation—or whatever else the reader is pleased to call it—I shall commence.