SONNET. My wandering feet have trod those paths to-day, Where I so late with thee in joyance went, And gladly thitherward my steps I bent, Turning me from the dust and din away, And tracing with a quiet joy each spot Hallowed by some remembrance dear to me, A smile, a tone that cannot be forgot— Places whose every charm was won from thee; And therefore do I love that grassy way, And every spot which thou hast wandered o’er, And as a miser counts his secret store When darkness has obscured the light of day, So in thy absence, which is my heart’s night, Thy treasured words and smiles tell I with deep delight. * * * * * THE STOLEN CHILD. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. “There’s a glory over the face of Youth— And Age as fair a light displays, When beautiful Love and spotless Truth Have guided all her ways! “But Sin is a hideous thing to see, His eyes are dulled before his prime, And each year leaveth the mark of three, For he hurries the hand of Time!” Thus spake the awaiting Angel Death, By a way-side beggar-crone, Who wrestled with the reluctant breath On a pillow of broken stone! ’Twas a fearful sight to see her gasp, And clutch the air in her sinewy palms As if forcing from a miser’s grasp The miserable alms! But a sight to bring the tear-drops down Was the little maiden pale and thin Who stood by her side in a tattered gown Which let the sharp air in! Hatless and shoeless she stood in the rain, And shivered like autumn’s leaf, Trembling with very hunger and pain, And weeping with fear, not grief! “What ails you, mother?” the maiden cried, “What makes you tremble and stare? Why do you look so angry-eyed As you strike the empty air? “I fear you mother! Your angry brow! Your wild and piercing eye! Oh, do not, do not hurt me now, There is no one to see me cry! “Oh, mother, why do you beat me so? And why do we walk all day, And rest at night, if it rain or snow, In cold, wet beds of hay? “Oh, why do the village children play And seem so very glad? And why are they dressed so clean and gay While I am so meanly clad? “Do not their parents beat them too, To make them moan and cry? Or are their mothers weaker than you, And the children stronger than I? “I’ve seen the parents kiss and hold Their little ones on the knee! I, mother, am well nigh ten years old, You never did so with me! “Why am not I as pretty and good As the little girls in the town? Are mine the meaner flesh and blood Because I am burnt so brown?