We parted; she to her worsted work and her $5000 a year, I to seek another refuge, or to pursue my hopeless pilgrimage over the world, in search of harmony—to mourn over my blighted hopes, and the perfidious voice of my Rosalie, and to sink at last into an untimely grave. Let my epitaph be, not “Died of a Broken Heart,” as the world might construe the fact, but simply “Died of a Discord!” * * * * * =NOT DEAD.= And thou art gone, the meek flowers wave In sadness o’er thine early grave; The wild-bird comes with mellow song, And balmy airs sweep lightly on; O’er all the rank and nodding grass The summer’s shadows gently pass, While children glad go softly by With timid step and tearful eye. Too well I know that thou art gone, Thy brow is cold, thy cheek is wan; Pale buds are in thy sunny hair, Thy chill hands clasp a lily fair, A shroud, with white and moveless fold, Lies on thy heart so still and cold; And yet not thus I think of thee— Thou art not dead, beloved, to me. ’Twas yesternight, when white-browed girls, With star-like eyes and golden curls, Came sadly in the twilight deep And bent above thy grave to weep; That I, too, came, with wild unrest, With yearnings for the grave’s sweet rest; But peace and hope, and trust in Heaven, Were to my sorrowing spirit given. Not dead! in what a blessed trance My spirit heard, through Heaven’s expanse, Those sweet words float; those words of life That calmed the bootless, bitter strife. Thine angel wings swept far away The mists that veiled a brighter day; And now Life’s path in hope I tread, Although its joyous light is fled. L. L. M. * * * * * =THE GAME OF THE MONTH.= =BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “FRANK FORESTER’S FIELD SPORTS,” “FISH AND FISHING,” ETC.= [Illustration: =THE SUMMER DUCK, OR WOOD DUCK. (_Anas Sponsa._)=]