In 1890 Mr. Thompson published “Bankers of Boonville” and the same year became a staff writer for the New York Independent. * * * * * CERES.¹ (THE GODDESS OF GRAIN.) THE wheat was flowing ankle-deep Across the field from side to side; And dipping in the emerald waves, The swallows flew in circles wide. The sun, a moment flaring red, Shot level rays athwart the world, Then quenched his fire behind the hills, With rosy vapors o’er him curled. A sweet, insinuating calm,―― A calm just one remove from sleep, Such as a tranquil watcher feels, Seeing mild stars at midnight sweep Through splendid purple deeps, and swing Their old, ripe clusters down the west To where, on undiscovered hills, The gods have gathered them to rest,―― A calm like that hung over all The dusky groves, and, filtered through The thorny hedges, touched the wheat Till every blade was bright with dew. Was it a dream? We call things dreams When we must needs do so, or own Belief in old, exploded myths, Whose very smoke has long since flown. Was it a dream? Mine own eyes saw, And Ceres came across the wheat That, like bright water, dimpled round The golden sandals of her feet. ¹ By permission of “Houghton, Mifflin & Co.” * * * * * DIANA.¹ (THE GODDESS OF THE CHASE.) SHE had a bow of yellow horn Like the old moon at early morn. She had three arrows strong and good, Steel set in feathered cornel wood. Like purest pearl her left breast shone Above her kirtle’s emerald zone; Her right was bound in silk well-knit, Lest her bow-string should sever it. Ripe lips she had, and clear gray eyes, And hair pure gold blown hoyden-wise. Across her face like shining mist That with dawn’s flush is faintly kissed. Her limbs! how matched and round and fine! How free like song! how strong like wine! And, timed to music wild and sweet, How swift her silver-sandalled feet! Single of heart and strong of hand, Wind-like she wandered through the land. No man (or king or lord or churl) Dared whisper love to that fair girl. And woe to him who came upon Her nude, at bath, like Acteon! So dire his fate, that one who heard The flutter of a bathing bird, What time he crossed a breezy wood, Felt sudden quickening of his blood; Cast one swift look, then ran away Far through the green, thick groves of May; Afeard, lest down the wind of spring He’d hear an arrow whispering! ¹ By permission of “Houghton, Mifflin & Co.” Illustration: (‡ decoration) THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.